THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ three ◘

When I woke, I immediately knew I wasn't home. Something about the smell—not a bad smell, per se, but not the one I was used to—was off-putting. Something about the textured sheets scraping against my skin told me that the whole escapade with a hot chef last night hadn't been a dream.

I opened my eyes. The bed—ah, so we'd made it to a bed, then?—was spacious, with linens in shades of black, gray, beige. A covered window to the left let a few trickles of morning light in, spotlighting a dresser straight across from me, piles of books atop it. One of them, I noticed with a gulp, was mine.

The walls were decked with obscure artwork I struggled to identify. There was a door to my far right, partially open to show a closet, and beyond it what appeared to be a bathroom. Lights were on, but I heard no noise, no inkling that a person was inside.

I rolled out of bed, hoping to locate my clothes before remembering we'd stripped near a couch...which had to be in a living room of sorts. I grabbed a blanket from the floor, wrapped it around myself like a towel, and took a deep breath before slithering out of the room, via the large door by the dresser.

I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting—maybe he'd be making coffee and breakfast, since he was a chef. Maybe he'd be tidying up; something told me we'd made quite the mess last night. Or maybe he was in the bathroom, getting ready to shower off our antics, and waiting for me to join him.

"No," I whispered to myself as I tiptoed into the open-plan living room. "I don't think he's here at all."

High ceilings, lofty windows with a view on a balcony, art-deco style furniture all spread out—this place was nice. Smaller than my mansion, but tasteful and much cleaner than I'd have expected for a busy chef living alone. I'd imagined an obstacle course of dirty laundry and clutter as I initially entered the place last night; but it had been dark, and I was too drunk to be coherent or to make decorative observations.

Strange that I didn't have a throbbing headache as I navigated through his living room, unsure if I wanted to see him or not. A one-night-stand was just that—one night. We didn't need to see each other again.

And yet that tension between us, the hatred that fueled my desire...that had been sizzling. I didn't remember every aspect of our fucking, but from the condom wrappers on the floor, like a trail leading to his bedroom, I must have enjoyed it. I must have asked for more.

I found my underwear, my bra, and my phone, which must have slipped out of my jacket pocket. The message icon blinked with several unread texts, but I'd look at those later—they were probably from Elliot, checking up on me.

As I lowered between the coffee table and the orange-colored couch—how had I not seen that thing flashing in the dark?—I spotted another stack of books.

And a copy of one of my other best-sellers, with a bookmark protruding from its pages.

"Fuck." I shot up and hurried to put my layers back on, my heart racing in my chest.

When he'd said he knew who I was, he knew who I was. He owned both my books and was currently reading one of them. Had he seduced me on purpose? Was he some groupie who'd been fan-boying over me for years? Was this all planned, from the berating at his restaurant to accidentally stumbling upon me in the club?

Typical celebrity panic attack—I worried often about being followed, being stalked. It was the price to pay for fame; always being on display, having to be on your best behavior, sometimes even in your own home.

Not that I didn't have fun. One-night-stands weren't uncommon for me, but they were generally more premeditated. I had a standard NDA I asked my partners to sign before we did anything, to protect myself and my assets.