THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ five ◘ 🔥

Unpleasant wasn't a strong enough word for it all.

I glowered at Grace and Archie, catching the tail-end of their evil smirks as they sent Zane up to me.

Of course, they planned this.

I wouldn't have time to address this until later, but I intended to corner them both and give them a piece of my mind.

In the meantime, I shot up from my chair, clutching my stomach. "I'm sorry, but I..."

Fury frayed through me. I had to stand there and act like this kind of coup was okay? I had to pretend I didn't know this guy, that we hadn't hated each other at first glance, and fucked each other at our second?

Without saying another word, I descended from the stage and stormed to the opposite side of the studio, far from my conspiring producers.

Those faces...the sneer of satisfaction on Archie, the mild pleasure coming from Grace; they knew what they'd done.

They remembered how Zane had embarrassed me in the restaurant. But did they know about me sleeping with him? That, I wasn't certain about.

But they'd absolutely brought him here on purpose, based on our steamy—and not in a sexy way—interaction at his restaurant.

To my surprise, the camera and crew called "cut!"

Whispers blew through the spectators, who'd witnessed me stomping off to a secluded corner where I knew Elliot sometimes watched the taping.

They weren't there today.

Adding to my shock, Zane came after me; not Grace or Archie, or even Luca, whom I'd spotted at the bottom of the audience when I first made my entrance. As my agent, he wasn't required to be here every day, but he'd told me he enjoyed the show and liked to see chefs in action.

"Fuck you," I breathed, as Zane arrived within ear-range. "Fuck. You."

I expected him to curse right back, but he remained calm. Too calm. He raised his palms in surrender, his eyebrows sliding up his forehead. "I haven't cooked anything yet."

"Are you kidding me?" The urge to slap him was so intense, I wished this damn dress had pockets so I could shove my clenched fists inside. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

I thought my violent whispers were quiet, but a few audience members peeked over the railing of the raised podium where they sat.

I glared up at them with venom in my eyes. "Mind your business," I growled, flinching.

They startled away, and I cringed; that was not me. I never dared show any anger in front of fans, always held on to my temper.

But this? This was too much.

Zane got into my space; brave man, he was. I was small, but mighty, and could throw a good punch when threatened.

Zane threatened me.

His being there didn't make sense and rattled me beyond what I'd been prepared for today. Filming was always stressful; this was chaotic.

But of course, he smelled delicious, the closer he stood to me. That strawberry mint shampoo I'd gotten a whiff of the other night; the spicy musk that had shot into my nostrils when he berated me at his restaurant.

Why couldn't he stink? It would make my situation much easier.

"There's no need to cause a scene here," said Grace, her tart tone fluttering over as she approached us. She kept a distance—she knew better than to barrel into my space—and folded her arms as she stared between Zane and I, and the disrupted audience. "This isn't protocol, Béatrice."