THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ twenty-two ◘

I was loosened up—charged with wine and adrenaline from our under-the-table-touching—when the first dish arrived.

The sexual tension broke immediately.

"Really?" I glared down at the plate set before me, holding in a gag of revulsion. "Escargots?"

Zane shrugged and plucked his tiny pronged fork meant for eating escargots; snails. "A typical French dish, isn't it? You'd know," he leaned in with an evil smirk, "since you're French."

"That doesn't mean I eat French food," I said, sneering at him.

He dipped his fork into the viscous, slimy texture. "I mean," he plopped the morsel into his mouth, chewed, and sighed, "these are delicious. An absolute delight. Trust me."

"I don't trust you." I pushed my plate. "I didn't order this. Nor will I eat it."

We'd been doing so good. Heading away from our hatred, publicly flirting and growing aroused. I'd been envisioning us having a sultry night of sex as an additional means to bury the hatchet.

Now I wanted to bury a hatchet into his face.

"Well," he took another small morsel, "no, you didn't order it. They bring your meal to you, remember? It's all tailored for the evening. I'm sure you read about it. You know the chef." He winked, as if implying I knew the chef in the same way I knew Zane.

"You're disgusting," I said, shoving my plate even farther as the scent of rubbery skin and burnt butter infested my nostrils. I glared at him as he continued to eat, unaffected by my disgust. "I don't go around sleeping with every damn chef I know, for fucks' sake. Why did you do this?"

"Do what?" He sounded so innocent, so unaware of the effect he had on me. So focused on his snails and smacking his lips as he savored them. "Oh, and they don't like it when you pick at your food, here. They don't like it when you don't eat what's served. It's wasteful."

My fists clenched atop the table, on either side of my plate. "Oh, I'll show you wasteful, you piece of—"

He lifted his mini fork and wagged it at me. "I wouldn't." His eyes narrowed, inflamed with hatred. "The chef is also notorious for being rude to guests who don't abide by his rules."

That jab was so direct, it stabbed into my chest.

"You fucking asshole," I breathed, keeping my voice low, worried it'd spiral out as a scream if I didn't control myself.

Why did it sound like Zane was comparing me to this chef? Zane didn't abide by my rules on my show, and he concluded that I was a rude bitch who only saw things in one color—her color—and wouldn't admit she was wrong.

I wasn't wrong. Zane was wrong. He was the one who'd fucked up, not me.

But the worst part was, it was true, this comparison between us. Because Olivier—owner and chef of this reputed and intricate restaurant—was known for evicting patrons who wouldn't eat the food served. Or those who wouldn't broaden their horizons. Who wouldn't follow his rules.

It was why he'd always kept me away from his restaurant. He respected my pickiness, but not with his food. He knew I'd bicker and pick through my meal, and he didn't want to have to yell at me in public for it.

"I'd do it," he'd told me, over a glass of wine, a few months after the venue opened. "Friend or not, I'd throw you out. My restaurant, my rules."

And I'd understood that. For years, I'd avoided this place as he requested.

Now, thanks to Zane Rose, our friendship would be tested, and I'd make myself look like an idiot.