And why was I not fucking satisfied at all?
I flopped against my pillow and screamed into it.
Chapter Fourteen
Hawthorne
Paris, France
That bitch.
I was not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’d gotten to me. I stood, clenching and unclenching my fists, alternating between wanting to report her behavior to production to get her fired and bending her over to teach her a lesson myself.
After an angry call to the concierge about giving out my room key, I asked for a set of Hermès ties to be immediately delivered and hopped in the shower.
It wasn’t until I got out that I realized the towels were gone. Of course, she’d taken them. I rifled through the drawers naked and dripping wet. All I found was a washcloth. Then I glanced up at the mirror and saw her secret note illuminated by the steam.
This looked about your size- XOXO
I slammed my fist on the counter. She was going to fucking pay for this. I ran through my options for revenge. Most included handcuffs and my bed.
Then it clicked.
The chefs had the rest of the day for themselves, but we were scheduled to do a segment in a chocolate shop this evening. And from the noises drifting out her door last night when I passed by, I had the perfect idea. We’d keep this secret war between us.
There was the slight other problem I knew I’d have to deal with eventually. My ex-girlfriend Emma was a contestant. That had to break some sort of rule. Did production even know? The cynic in me said yes, absolutely, and that they did this on purpose.
We’d broken up a year ago. She didn’t like my travel schedule or my sudden coldness, which I couldn’t blame her for. It was brutal, but I did it to myself. I think Emma took it a little too personally. Maybe it was personal. I needed some space.
I dressed and slipped into makeup for a quick powder before meeting Sophia downstairs. My mind rolled through the delicious things I was going to put her through tonight.
“Nice tie,” Sophia said, the air between us sparkling with electricity.
“Thanks. I like to set trends. First came the skinny tie, now the chopped tie.”
“It suits you.”
I think she meant it to come out bitchy, but I got the opposite impression. She was turned on.
We got into the car, the intensity hardly dissipating. I alternated between rage and respect. Sophia was an impressive and worthy opponent.
I noticed every movement she made, every toe tap and twitch of her finger as she smoothed her little black dress, her head turned away from to me to watch the Parisian lights twinkle.
We arrived at a picturesque, Parisian chocolate shop set over cobblestones. Camera, sound, and lighting teams were already set up and waiting for us. They began rolling as we entered the shop for a staged, second time and re-introduced ourselves to the owner.
Sophia spread her arms, showing off the goods. “This is world-renowned chocolatier Jacques Vorres at his shop Maison du Jacques. Jacques has consistently ranked with the top chocolatiers in the world, and he was named one of the most influential people by Time magazine. Last year, he was awarded The Chevalier de la Legion d’Honneur, which is the highest honor in France.”
Jacques nodded in thanks. He looked the part—like a caricature of a French cook. He wore a crisply ironed, double-breasted white chef’s jacket, complete with a tall, white, paper hat with a hundred pleats. Everything in his shop was perfectly arranged and mouthwateringly decadent. There was enough chocolate and bonbons to give a sweet tooth an ache. The rows upon rows of various flavors behind the cases numbered over a thousand from the looks of it.
I continued the spiel. “Monsieur Vorres specializes in bean to bar chocolates, going so far as to source the beans himself. He’s going to show us how he roasts them in his custom-made kitchen.” I turned to Jacques. “Lead the way, Monsieur!”
After another thirty minutes of demonstrations and plenty of hot chocolate cascading down spoons into our mouths, we walked back to the deliciously decorated front of the shop. The last bit of this B-roll segment was tasting. Time to shine.
“And tell me a little bit more about this one,” I asked, examining a creamy white bonbon with delicate gold leaf swept across the top.
Jacques pulled the tray out and motioned for me to take one. “This is one of my best sellers. Please, indulge.”
God, I loved the French with all of their indulging. And no shit it was a best seller. It looked like a breast with an exquisite, gold wrapped, erect nipple. I couldn’t wait to bite into it.
Sophia picked up the sweet and inhaled. “I smell the deep, caramelized quality of roasted white chocolate and something else,” she said, sniffing again.
“Quite,” Jacques agreed. “The soft center is laced with absinthe and ground fennel.”
Sophia gave a tight smile, but I knew she was embarrassed she hadn’t smelled the anise flavor of absinthe. Good, she was already flustered. This was going to be too easy.
I lifted the absinthe white truffle and bit down. Softly, I began to moan in appreciation. I let it escalate in volume as the chocolate swirled on my tongue. Soon, it was obvious I was way beyond enjoying the candy. I let my eyes roll back in my head.
“My God, this is wonderful.” I finally opened my eyes and met her horrified gaze before smiling at the chocolatier. “Jacques, it really is quite extraordinary. You could almost call it a divine experience, as if a saint in ecstasy.”
She surprised me. Instead of being embarrassed, she exclaimed, “I’ll have what he’s having!”
She gave a convincing enough grin for the cameras, but I could see the grimace beneath it. Funny, how I was already picking up on all her little quirks.
The ice queen ruled again. I was going to have to get really creative with this one. I picked up a truffle and bit seductively into its velvety center. I offered her the other half.
“Mm, you won’t believe the cognac flavor they’ve infused in this one, Chef,” I said. When she reached out gamely to take my half-bitten morsel, I wagged a finger at her. “Oh no, you deserve to be treated to decadence. Open wide.”
Her eyes narrowed a millimeter, but slowly, she parted those plump, pink lips and slightly extended her tongue. I skillfully angled my hardening dick away from the camera lens as I bent over and carefully placed the truffle on her tongue. I was close enough to smell her chocolate and Chanel scent. What was the alcohol content of these things? Was it the absinthe making me horny or the intoxicating smell of this woman who hated everything I had become? In her words, “not a real chef.”
Sophia gracefully swallowed and made an unconvincing noise of appreciation. Even though she stayed regally composed for the cameras, I could tell she was livid. Her discomfort was the best damn thing I’d seen in a month, and I’d fucked three models in Milan during Fashion Week. At the same time.
After one more taste of a dark chocolate and cardamom truffle, we thanked Jacques. He presented us each with a bagful of truffles to share with the crew, and we hopped back in the car. At that point, Sophia was beyond caring what the driver did or didn’t hear.
“Was that some fucked up reverse version of When Harry Met Sally?” she demanded. “Because I didn’t care for the original, and I certainly didn’t enjoy the remake.”
“So, you recognized your own little production?” I quipped.
“What are you talking about? I wasn’t the one moaning like an idiot in there.”
“I’m not talking about the chocolate shop.” I smiled. Unlike in front of the cameras, Sophia didn’t bite, so I continued. “After hearing the first act last night, I was hoping for an encore tonight. They really don’t make hotel walls like they used to. Although hearing my name was a nice touch. Made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”
Her jaw dropped open, and I had the distinct urge to throw her against the leather seat and grind my cock into that pink O-shaped mouth of hers.
She found her forked tongue
. “You wouldn’t know commitment to a craft unless it was jacking off.”
“It is a certain art form, I must admit. Perfect pacing, pressure, and patience. But don’t discount yourself. From what I’ve heard between the walls, you’re a master at it.”
She gritted her teeth and I was surprised they didn’t chip off.
“Thank you,” she said, scarily sweet. “And for your information, I was picturing you getting fired. It was quite the turn on.”
I grinned. This was the best foreplay I’d had in a long time. Unfortunately, Sophia didn’t seem to agree. The remaining car ride was frosty as her personality, which meant only one thing. I needed to stay in fucking control. I didn’t lose my patience for anyone. That only led to heartache and madness.
Chapter Fifteen
Sophia
Paris, France
“Why am I getting angry calls from producers about your face?”
I tilted my head skyward, as if the world was on my shoulders. First, I had to deal with Hawthorne and now Rigid Rie? Lord, take the wheel.
“What’s wrong with my face today?” I asked, exasperation lacing my voice.
Rie glared through the screen at me, and I was suddenly glad for the ocean between us. “Your RBF has got to go.”
“Clearly I’m not up on the cool kids’ lingo,” I said dryly.
“Resting Bitch Face. You’re coming across as nitpicky, condescending, and rude. Consider a sexy smile right to the camera every once in a while.”
I sat up, indignant. “If a man kept his face straight, they’d be praising his astuteness.”
“Last time I checked, you didn’t have a dick.”
I pouted. “This is Hawthorne’s fault. He’s baiting me.”
“Suck it up, Buttercup. The energy between you two is great for ratings. Which reminds me…” Rie leaned forward, and I unconsciously leaned away from the phone, as if she could reach through the screen and shake me senseless. “Don’t you even think about fucking him.”
“What…?” I stammered.
“I knew it,” Rie swore at me. “I’m sending you a chastity belt and a new dildo. Didn’t you break Harry Tickler?”
I shook my head. “I think we share too much.”
Rie ignored this. “Charlotte sent me a few clips of your interactions with a not-so-subtle warning to keep you in line. I think she wants to fuck him as badly as you do.”
I snorted. She really did, and I couldn’t bring myself to blame her. Last night at the chocolate shop… I sighed, remembering the look on Hawthorne’s face as he pretended to come at the taste of silky chocolate truffles. I imagined seeing that look as I rode out all of my frustrations on top of him. No compromise. I needed to hate fuck that man like nothing else. My fingers were not doing the trick anymore. I secretly hoped Rie sent that dildo express air.
“Earth to Sophia,” my sister was saying. “Stop picturing him naked. When you two work together, it’s magic. Ratings will go through the roof. Once you fuck, the chemistry is gone. Don’t screw this up.”
“I am not picturing him naked!” I protested.
“You’re not even selling that bullshit to me. Remember, chemistry is good. Fucking is bad. You know why? This show is selling you as a professional at the top of her game. Women can’t afford to be a seductresses if they want to succeed. But a little bit of sexiness is on brand. Keep on brand. Keep it in your pants.”
She threw me one more pointed look before hanging up. Clearly, we needed better boundaries.
Two hours later, I was standing in front of the cameras with the man I loathed. We’d been mobbed again leaving our hotel by a horde of women waving the latest People Magazine cover at him and shouting for love.
As if he knew it would happen no matter what country we were in, Hawthorne smirked and pulled out a black permanent marker as I stalked to the car.
This time, he didn’t have a tie at all and left the top three buttons of his shirt undone. His hard pecs were already making some of the female contestants drool, including the redhead, Emma.
“Come on in, Chefs,” Hawthorne announced. “We had some wardrobe malfunctions, so I hope you won’t be too distracted. You’ve got baking to do.”
Touché, jackass. So I took some of his lines. “I’m sure you’d all like to know who will be cooking in today’s elimination round.”
Hawthorne gave me a devious glance that the cameras ate up, but he let me continue.
“Please step forward.” I paused. “Ava, Ben, and… Clara.”
A look of fear passed through each of them, and I felt a twinge of empathy. It must have been torture, waiting around another twenty-four hours to be called out for sucking in front of your peers. I bet the camera crews got plenty of footage for post-production of the little rivalries and squabbles that inevitably developed due to stress.
Jackson absolutely let the cockiness of securing the first round go to his head. He had walked by me, brushing his hand across the small of my back and letting it drop lower. I’d twirled away and shot him a look. Even now he was staring at me in a predatory way that would make a lesser woman prickle with uncomfortableness. It just made me want to judo chop his ass.
I ignored it as best as I could and continued with my lines. “For today’s challenge, we’d like you to bake us two dozen macarons. Don’t be fooled. Under-whip your egg whites and you’ll never get the proper rise and ‘feet.’ Over-whip your egg whites and they’ll be pancake shaped. Overcooking and undercooking will come down to a matter of seconds. Watch your temperatures, too, for a proper rise. There are no special requests, but we would like one dozen in one flavor and one dozen in a completely new flavor, fillings included.”
Hawthorne set up the timer. “You’ll only have one hour, and it starts now!”
Clara shot through the cluster of chefs on her way to the kitchen. That mouse could move when she needed to.
I followed Hawthorn to the nearest table, where the chefs were whipping their egg whites to stiff peaks. He bent over to watch one of the chef’s work, exposing his perfect ass, but I barely noticed. In fact, every time my mind wandered from macarons to cockarons, I pictured Rie’s face.
Hawthorne moaning my name? Rie screaming my name.
Hawthorne sucking my nipples? Rie punching me in the boob.
Hawthorne circling my clit? Rie and her snarky face as she gave me a chastity belt.
I never said it was a perfect method.
It worked until Hawthorne got too close. He leaned in to whisper in my ear about someone’s fucking meringue technique. He was seriously being this professional as his breath swirled the tiny hairs along my neck?
I barely nodded as I cursed myself for not wearing cotton panties. These silk ones were slick as an ice ramp as my wetness seeped at the thought of his hot mouth whispering into my nether regions instead of my ear.
For the rest of the segment, I kept my distance, mmhmming at the appropriate places. What the hell? He had tried to make a fool out of me last night on camera. He’d heard me screaming his name as I played with myself. He had all the power. And goddamn if that didn’t make it even sexier.
Who the fuck was I turning into? This was not my usual jam. Perhaps I should seriously consider a quick side trip to Amsterdam’s Red Light District. There had to be female-friendly areas where I could work out my frustrations. Hawthorne was turning me into a wild sex fiend, and if I didn’t stop it, he might succeed. I don’t think I’d touched myself in the last six months as much as I had in the last six days. And each night, new dirty thoughts were surfacing faster than I could deal with them.
Two eternities later, I called time on the chefs and let the camera crews get to work. It’s incredible how long it takes between the end of the timer to when the judges actually get to taste the food. Post-production needed plenty of shots of the finished plate, which meant the food had long gone cold and gummy. Ice cream has melted and meats have over-rested. At least with macarons, they were still perfect at room temperature a
n hour later.
We took a bite out of each morsel, looking for the raised feet, a crunchy top, and a chewy interior. Macrons could take years to perfect, but Ava and Clara did fairly well. Not Ben, and he knew it.
“Ben, I’m sorry, but Paris is the last stamp on your passport,” I said, wincing at the cheesy lines Charlotte had written for the script.
Ben took it like a champ. He nodded and embraced his fellow competitors. Going out first was never fun, especially if you were a good cook. Ben probably was, but not everyone was made for the mental games involved in a competition like this.
He came up and shook our hands before saluting us on his way out of the kitchen. The rest of the chefs looked a little dazed at how fast it had turned real. The speed would only increase along with the pressure to succeed. They were in for a bumpy ride.
“Our next stop around the world is known for their many wursts, schnitzel, and sauerkraut, so keep that in mind on your travels,” Hawthorne told them. “Auf wiedersehen!”
I barely glanced at Hawthorne as the crew packed up and left for the day.
It was the only way to keep my sanity. That, and a lot of time at the gym.
Chapter Sixteen
Hawthorne
Kaiserslautern, Germany
I sat back in the chair in my suite. Today we were in Kaiserslautern, Germany, land of beer, brats, and boobs. But more important than barmaids with their tits hanging out was my phone interview with a gossip magazine in the States.
I’d called in a request to talk about the production of the show and to create a little extra buzz. And I knew exactly who I wanted to discuss. Oh, my ice queen. If this didn’t ignite her cold heart, nothing would.
Melted (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 1) Page 7
