THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ one ◘

"And cut!"

Claps echoed around the room as I lifted from my cozy chaise and bowed, one hand on my heart. Blinding spotlights switched on overhead, showing glowing eyes and cheerful faces staring back at me. Camera operators slid off their stools and joined in on the applause. Producers and writers whooped enthusiastically, cheering me on.

"That's a wrap for the first episode of Food Me!"

More claps, more audience members rising and beaming at me as my cheeks flared up. I tried not to bounce on the balls of my feet.

My show. My TV show. And we'd finished the pilot.

I was guided off the stage—half lounge chairs and half kitchen—and waved at the guests who'd spent their afternoon watching me writhe in anticipation at what dish would be shared with me.

Food me! was all about the edge, the surprise. Chefs from around the world came to my stage to talk about their careers, then they had an hour to whip up something for me to eat. Something containing elements that I usually wouldn't put in my own dishes. As the pickiest chef in the country, I'd made it a goal for them to trick me into eating things I didn't like.

Today's episode—the first, airing live in a promotional stint—was stressful, confusing, filled with mistakes and missteps, but it was over. From the enthusiasm I'd received, I knew it succeeded. All the hoops my team and I had jumped through to get here had been worth it, when I heard the crowd applaud me. And they applauded the chef who'd managed to stash mushrooms—mushrooms, no thank you—into the Shepard's pie they'd confectioned. I'd eaten the dish, which meant the chef won twenty-thousand dollars to do with as they pleased.

I shed the cardigan the wardrobe department had begged me to wear over my see-through top—their error, not mine. I'd have been happy with a graphic t-shirt and jeans, but I had to dress up for my show. And since I wasn't the one cooking, I could afford to don outfits I ordinarily wouldn't.

As I hurried down the hallway—more applause there—towards my dressing room, the interviewer following me around all day to document this experience sidled up to me, notebook in hand.

"So, Béatrice Balzac," she said, pouting her pretty lips at me. The only reason I'd allowed her to cling to me for her online magazine was because she was hot. Tight suits, flowery perfume, light eyes that reminded me of galaxies, and a voice that sent me on a trip to another world.

Well, that, and my producers demanded that I permit one interviewer to capture my experience debuting my TV show. I'd had no alternative. I'd already refused too many things from them—a personal assistant, a bigger dressing room, information on what my guest chefs would cook ahead of time. I had to agree to something to appease them.

"Yes?" I tossed a few ginger curls from my face, where they'd plastered in my sweaty haste to lock myself up in my dressing room. I needed to take a breather. All these people, these faces, the swarm of emotions; it was a lot. Spending hours on a stage with them watching me really took its toll.

"You're a successful, world-renowned chef with several restaurants spread across dozens of countries. Millions of copies sold of your cookbooks and your non-fiction novels. You're a philanthropist, you're," the interviewer smirked, flushed, "incredibly beautiful. And now you have your own TV show. How do you feel?"

I sensed my cheeks overheating again at the woman's compliment. "Listing all my accomplishments, nice. Is this some form of meaningful flattery, or are you buttering me up for a thoughtful response for your interview?"

The interviewer looked down at her notes. "I wasn't reading anything I wrote down, if that says something."

I caught her vibe right away. I knew what she wanted. But another promise I'd made to my team was to not let things get messy. I might have been picky with my food, but I wasn't picky with people I chose to sleep with. Women, men, trans, nonbinary—if they said the right words and appealed to me physically, it wasn't hard to get me naked.