THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ seventeen ◘

We got word about Food Me! being renewed hours before I sent off an email requesting some time off. Grace was ecstatic, Archie nonplussed, as always. Nicholas was sipping on some strange cocktail near his pool when we had a Zoom call to discuss the news.

It took some strings and some begging, but they agreed to push the filming of season two for a few weeks. I credited Elliot, who'd undoubtedly spoken to Grace, to allow me some cool-off time. Those were Grace's words, using exaggerated quotation marks. Archie added that I should refresh before we got deep into business.

"This new season needs to bump up the drama," said Grace, fluffing her curls as she stared at something off-camera.

I now knew without a doubt that any time she'd been unfocused or seemed uncaring, it was because Elliot was there with her. They were probably lounging naked on her bed and waiting for her to come ravish them.

I gagged, but did my best to hide it. "No more one-night-stands who then go on to write a book about me, please?"

Archie laughed, loosening his tie. "We'll see about that. You're lucky your list of conquests is private." He sounded like he was joking, but I knew he wasn't. If he could access any information about who I'd slept with and whether they could be guests on the show, he'd do it, without scruple.

Asshole.

I didn't really wait for them to approve my time off. The day after my meet-up with Elliott, I spoke with the charter company I used for private jets, and arranged for a trip to Paris. We scheduled it for after the Zoom meeting with the producers and director—a nice fuck you, I'll do whatever I want to them.

So as soon as we all logged off the call, I returned to packing my bags and mentally preparing for a complete change of tune and atmosphere.

The instant my foot touched the ground in Charles de Gaulle Airport, I sucked in a deep, dizzying breath of air. There was something different about Europe in general, but more so about France. A purity, an untainted space that never ceased to amaze me, and always relaxed me. At least, before I came head to head with anyone who recognized me and asked me too many questions.

Luckily, the area where my jet landed was secluded. A car service picked me up and rushed me to my penthouse in Paris—a luxurious condo overlooking the Seine river, with a view of the Eiffel Tower worthy of a magazine shoot.

I was privileged, I realized, as I opened my balcony windows to get some fresh air into the stuffy space. I hadn't been here in a while, and though I typically rented it out, I hadn't had anyone inside for months.

The Parisian-polluted yet slightly less frustrating than L.A. atmosphere filtered in, filling my lungs. It felt good to be here, good to oxygenate myself, rid myself of the toxicity from L.A. and all the jerks who'd been hounding me online. All the criticism and negativity melted.

I hadn't understood how badly I needed this.

After a shower and a quick nap—I wasn't immune to jet-lag—I dressed and called my parents to let them know I was in town, and would swing by sometime this week to visit. They lived in the suburbs, near the city of Melun, which was south of Paris. Their countryside home surrounded by fields and trees was a paradise of its own, but before I ended up stuck over there—Mom would coax me into staying longer—I had affairs to attend to here.

I didn't call ahead to warn anyone, but I planned on visiting my Paris restaurant, Béa. Yes, I named it after myself, big deal. I needed to see if business had died down or was affected by all the buzz surrounding me recently.