THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ twenty-one ◘

A week passed.

A week of biting my nails, researching every restaurant in L.A. to figure out where he'd take me. I looked from the cheapest, easiest places where I'd presumably be able to eat something I liked, to the luxurious, elite-style venues where food was served and you ate what was there, or else.

I narrowed down my list by Thursday night—the night before the date—to three potential places he might take me.

The first was a French bistro venue that was booked months out, with an exclusive menu that changed daily. No one knew what was on it until they were presented with their food. It was out-there—the chef was French, a friend I'd collaborated with a few times—and unquestionably the type of place Zane would want to embarrass me at. Eating somewhere that served all the dishes of my heritage and that I hated? Perfect for him.

Zane wouldn't be able to get a table there, though. The chef and I were still on good terms, and I doubted he'd make any favors for someone dragging me down.

One other option was an Indian cuisine place—I notoriously disliked Indian food, so that'd be a great opportunity for Zane to mess with me.

And a spicy, up-and-coming sushi joint that was known for refusing to substitute or change any of the rolls on their menu.

I was maniacally pacing back and forth near my front door by the time Friday night came along. In his final email—pretty vague, but I took it seriously—Zane informed me to don something somewhat formal. So I opted to wear a knee-length cocktail dress and stilettos, and I put on casual but sophisticated makeup—approved by Elliott via text message.

I felt like my stomach was going to explode.

Not only because I had no idea where we were eating, which was its own source of anxiety; but because being seen with Zane, seeing Zane, was a big deal.

In his presence, I either lost my cool and blew up, or I hiked my skirts up and begged him to fuck me. There was no in between, no happy medium when he and I were together. We couldn't be friends, allies, cordial. And that notion scared me to the point of shaking.

I didn't want to do this. Realistically, I could still back out—but when Cole told me it was time to go, I sensed panic coiling up in my chest.

I had to do this, no matter how badly I dreaded it.

Cole knew where we were going and wouldn't tell me.

"You've been bribed," I said to him as he blindfolded me and helped me into the backseat. "I thought you were on my team."

"I am," he said, hopping into the front seat. "But I'm also on the team that wants you two to resolve this. It's been exhausting, Béa."

I tended to forget that Cole not only took me all over town, but he saw my breakdowns, he ran my errands, and he oversaw the protection of my estate. Several times in the past few months, he'd averted break-ins and he'd had stalkers arrested. He'd been on alert twenty-four seven whenever I received a mildly alarming post or tag on the internet.

He wasn't my driver; he was my bodyguard, my friend, and all this nonsense weighed on him, too. He dealt with the technical side of it all, and of course he was exhausted. Before this scandal, he only had minor issues to handle with me, because my public image was so positive. Now it was so mixed he likely didn't know how to decipher fake threats from real.

"Give me a hint," I said, clasping my hands and nearly losing my balance as the car took a sharp turn. "A tiny one."

"I can't," he said, sounding sincerely apologetic. "Luca called me and told me not to inform you of anything. It was a stipulation from Zane and his team. If you found out where you were going, you'd freak out and cancel the whole thing. And you need this, Béa. We all do."