THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ twenty-three ◘

We were halfway home when I realized I didn't want to be home.

Home was where I'd curl up in a ball on my bed, rocking back and forth, as I rewatched old cooking shows to find some semblance of motivation to keep going. Home was where I'd be alone, surrounded by my trophies, my luxuries, everything Zane claimed I didn't deserve.

I couldn't go home.

"Turn around," I said hoarsely, not recognizing my own voice. "Cole, turn around. Take me to..." I gulped. "Take me to Rose Rouge."

Rose Rouge was my L.A.-based location, and not far from where we were.

Cole slowed the car but didn't turn it. He parked along the street, then turned the engine off and twisted in his seat to face me. "Béatrice," he said, sounding strangely like my father. "What's going on?"

I didn't want to talk about it, and least of all to Cole. Not that he wouldn't understand, but he wouldn't understand. He loved my cooking—he'd told me so himself—and would defend me at any given opportunity. I didn't need defense right then; I needed the truth.

"Tonight is just...it's not a good night, and I don't want to be at home. I'd rather be...in my area. In my atmosphere. In a place where I created something I think is great."

Bland, bland, bland—Zane's words echoed in my head, shooting pain into my temples.

"Please," I squeezed Cole's arm, begging him to quit interrogating me, "get me to Rose Rouge. It's where I need to be right now."

I wanted to be surrounded by my creations, embraced by the place I loved, where I'd put so much attention and care. It was my first ever restaurant; it held my heart in a different way than Béa or my other restaurants across the globe did.

Without another word, Cole reignited the engine and drove me across town to Rose Rouge. Once we arrived, he parked, squinted at me, and opened his arms for a hug; but I declined.

He wouldn't be offended. He knew that I wasn't always the most physically affectionate person, less so when I was about to have a panic attack. So instead of hugging me, he used a tissue to swipe under my eyes and fix my running mascara. "Do you need me to wait out here? How long do you think you'll be?"

I shook my head. "I have no idea, so go on home. If I need to leave, I'll...I'll figure something out."

Cole conceded, but I saw the worry in his gaze as the parking lot's lights filtered into the car and splashed over his face. "Fine, but I beg you not to get drunk and call me the next morning from some random asshole's apartment in Downtown L.A., okay?"

I chuckled, then swallowed the visions of me escaping Zane's apartment, walk-of-shaming it down to the street where Cole picked me up and raced me home to safety.

Home wasn't safety tonight.

Rose Rouge was packed. Hopping, as the younger folk would say. There was a line outside, an hour-long wait to get seated. I walked by people playing games on their phones as they waited. By some miracle, no one paid me any attention. I skirted past the hostess who gave me a nod of acknowledgment and let me in.

Warmth flooded my cheeks and neck as I entered. The mom-and-pop style decor seemed to smile at me, welcoming me home. My real home. It manifested positivity with its mismatched tables and chairs, and the cool candles and bouquets from local florists. The glass table-tops with post-it notes underneath always made me smile, showing random reviews from the first round of patrons when the restaurant opened years ago. The varied lighting—bright spotlights near the kitchens, dimmed lamps around the diners—reminded me of my indecision, and how I'd had a hard time choosing anything for this place.