THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ seven ◘

I dashed down the hallway, not stopping at my dressing room. Elliot would be in there, awaiting me with more apologies and excuses, and I couldn't handle that.

I needed air, real and raw, reeking of the pollution of Studio City, mingled with the freshness of the surrounding trees. I needed the sound of traffic, honks blaring in my head, masking all my woes. The flavor of L.A. to swarm over me and cloak me in its warm embrace, and protect me from—

"Hey!" Zane's deep voice followed me as I broke free of the studio and took in my first gasp of air.

I didn't turn around, kept accelerating my pace until I was in the middle of the parking lot, with golf carts flying by me, their occupants studying lines or half asleep holding their phones.

"Hey, Béatrice!"

Fuck—the way he said my name caught me off guard. The accent in the right spot, even a slight roll of his tongue to pronounce the r. Almost like he spoke French, like he knew exactly how to draw out the letters to make them seductive, spicy—

But I didn't want him to be seductive and spicy. I wanted him to be physically repulsive, stinky, abhorrent. I wanted him to disgust me. And above all I wanted him to leave me the fuck alone so I'd be able to move on from the trauma he'd caused me today.

Anytime he was near, anytime I smelled his musk and sensed those rippled muscles, I got lost in him, in myself, and that wouldn't do. It couldn't.

"Béatrice," he said again, and he was on my heels now, as I waded between buildings, hoping he'd give up if I didn't stop.

Why was he so stubborn? Why did he need to catch up to me? What more did he have to say to humiliate me, to infuriate me?

"Leave me alone!" I spat, not turning around to gauge his distance from me. To hear him calling my name was tempting enough, but if I sighted him in the effort of coming after me, a snarl on his face and arms bulging at his sides, I'd lose momentum. I'd break.

"No," he said, and something wrapped around my wrist, bringing me to an abrupt halt—his hand, large and squeezing.

He spun me to him, and his lightly rose-colored cheeks, his ruffled brows, his miffed-up demeanor—they melted me.

The rage I'd felt was still there, but mixed with it was a frustrating cluster of desire, of need.

Why did his annoyance turn me on? Why did he turn me on? He was an asshole. He'd used me for my money—wasn't the first time and wouldn't be the last that someone abused my position—but it somehow stung more with him. And he'd shamed me on my show, disobeying my rules.

"No, you," I yelled as I yanked free from his grip. "I told you to leave me alone."

"I can't do that." He wiggled his fingers, stretching them out of their stiffness. He kept in my space, his presence intoxicating, making me want to punch him, kick him, anything to get him farther from me. That mix of anger and lust in my gut made me nauseous.

"Why not?" I took a step back, heat spiraling up my core, my arms, my neck. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"I'm only asking to be paid accordingly!" His lips bunched, and for a second, I thought he might spit; but he shook his head and growled instead. "I put a lot of work and care into that dish, and you embarrassed me in front of them—"

I jammed a finger to his chest. "You embarrassed me! You come on my show, and you knew the rules, dammit; why didn't you follow them? Why did you have to go and fuck all that up?" My shoulders were so tight, they began to shake. "Are you trying to destroy your career? Mine? What the fuck have I ever done to you? You don't even know me."