THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ twenty ◘

On the way back to L.A., after several days of getting lost in Parisian streets on purpose to delay my return, and keeping my head down, I thought. I thought a lot.

I rehashed all the events of the past month, everything leading up to now, to this. Everything that led me to Zane, that resulted in us on being on a warpath to destroy one another.

Well, he was on a warpath. I was in his way.

The not-so-coincidental gathering at his restaurant, where he shamed me. The drunken dancing and hate-fucking that same night. And him showing up days later on my show, to further embarrass me, but in front of a wider audience.

Then him writing a book bashing me, speaking on international TV shows about me, and continuing to insist that I was bringing him down.

I wasn't. I knew that, my friends and family knew that, my agents and producers knew that. But the world didn't know who to believe, who to side with. They shouldn't have to side with anyone, because we didn't need to compete with one another. I wished Zane could realize that.

I'd been silent for too long.

My silence only fueled Zane more, didn't it? It showed me as weak, as a coward. It showed me as accepting his demeaning behavior. It almost made all his bullshit seem true.

But if I lowered myself to his level, played his games, played by his rules, I could potentially get all the bad press away from me. I could resume my blissful life of cooking food for picky eaters like me, and Zane would be on his merry way. No more interruptions and cruelty from him.

I thought about bribing him—I certainly had the money to do so—or about asking to speak with him in private, to broker some kind of deal. But then, as I landed in L.A., I realized; whatever I did, it needed to be public. I needed to be seen making efforts to appease him. To be seen trying to smooth this whole blowout over.

So what if I surprised everyone by seeking a peace treaty between us? What if I, the scorned, supposedly rude, picky chef, buried the hatchet first?

It was brilliant. If I showed myself compromising, reaching out to Zane in an attempt to fix things between us, people would stop judging me for not trying his dish, for not giving him a chance. People would stop calling me snobby and difficult, and I wouldn't receive hateful comments on my social media simply for being me.

Because yes, the hate continued while I was off vacationing in France. I'd taken a vacation, but my haters hadn't.

The moment I arrived in L.A., my phone blew up, all my temporary blockages of my social media websites having timed out. I'd tuned everything out while I was gone, but now that I'd returned, reality returned with it.

I was Béatrice Balzac, the orange-haired witch who'd taken down another chef because she was too picky to eat his ratatouille. I was the rich bitch who wouldn't spare a bit more cash to a starving chef—that was a shitty lie, since I'd seen his quite luxurious apartment twice now—to help his career like I had others.

I didn't want that image anymore.

So upon making it home, I called Luca and pitched him my idea. A truce, I offered; for Zane and I to hash out some kind of deal, to meet on some neutral ground and devise a plan that worked for both of us, without us spitting out nonsense cruelties at one another through interviews and public appearances.

Though shocked, Luca loved the concept and promised to search for Zane's agent and discuss it with them.

I'd tolerate what Zane wrote about me, but only if he quit advertising it and focused on his career, his restaurant. If he stopped bashing me at every chance he got, and moved on with his life so I could move on with mine. We didn't have to like each other; we didn't have to see each other. But we could operate in the same city without bringing each other down. There had to be a way.