THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ eight ◘

A few days passed, but no matter how much steam I blew off, the memory of Zane gyrated in my head. His glower, his lips, his sturdy shoulders. His words, the way he framed me as just another celebrity chef who had tons of money to throw out and didn't care.

And his actual disappointment at me not eating his dish. Yes, he'd wanted the cash, he'd insisted because he thought his ratatouille was worth ten thousand dollars—and I applauded that kind of confidence—but he'd almost seemed sad because I didn't like ratatouille. The dejection in his features, mingling with his flaring rage, was nearly endearing.

And of course, I couldn't get our one-night-stand out of my mind, either. It haunted me no matter what I was doing—when I cooked breakfast, when I took my morning jog, when I tried to focus on a TV show. For several days I resisted the urge to masturbate—which would normally get someone triggering out of my brain—but I ended up caving and gave myself some of the biggest orgasms I'd ever had. In a row.

A week had passed, and it was about time to resume filming, but my nerves were on edge. I loved the show I'd created, but I was still so enraged at what Zane had done, at how he'd potentially ruined my TV career. Not that I needed that income; but I enjoyed the concept, thrived in seeing other chefs try to trick me. It was fun and lighthearted, but Zane had darkened it all.

I worried about going back on set, about how the crew would receive me. The second taping after Zane's stunt was...low energy. The new spectators had gotten wind of what had happened, and they sat there expectant, hungry for another scandal. The second guest chef didn't deliver that, and as a result, the audience poll upon exiting the building was...different. Not bad, per se, but not what I'd hoped it would be.

I didn't do the show for the ratings. I did it for the thrill, for the opportunity to discover new chefs, new partners. And learning new recipes, new creative ways to conceal elements I didn't like was enriching. I hoped to educate other picky eaters like me, and to make them aware they weren't alone.

And it wasn't for the money—I made enough of that through my cookbooks, my non-fiction novels, merchandise with my name on it, and my restaurants. The show was a side-gig, something I'd been wanting to do for years.

And Zane Rose might have fucked that up for me.

The producers and other TV show team members had a Zoom call scheduled for the day before filming resumed. As I sat at my desk, waiting for the link and the password to join the meeting, I gritted my teeth.

While I was pissed at Zane, I was also furious with Grace and Archie, with the director, Nicholas, and with the writers—none of which had thought it necessary for me to be aware of what they'd done. Per Elliot, who'd finally come clean with the full truth, they'd all rooted for this episode to happen, and they'd all met to discuss it behind my back.

I never expected to be included in all the behind-the-scenes processes in the making of this show—but I was an executive producer. I was the star, for fucks' sake! To be ignored like that bruised my ego, but also triggered me into almost saying fuck it to all this and quitting altogether.

But I wouldn't. Food Me! was my baby—though I had no say in the name—and I refused to let anyone else host it.

The Zoom call sound rang through my office. I sat up straight, affixing the sternest air on my features as I could muster. There was a mirror behind my screen, so I could see my face—and I gave myself a nod of encouragement.

Hold your ground, scold them, and move on.

"Béa," said Grace, her wide smile taking up her entire square of her section of the Zoom call.