THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ twenty-six ◘

I woke up with a start, immediately sensing that I wasn't in my bed.

My eyes opened to a decor I didn't quite recognize in the dark, but the gleam of metal and the mess of food on the floor brought my memories back.

I'm in the restaurant kitchen, still?

I didn't remember falling asleep. Barely remembered setting up this little corner of tablecloths used as blankets, and chair cushions bunched up to use as pillows. Barely remembered—

I wasn't alone when I fell asleep.

Zane was gone. The thick tablecloth he'd strewn over us was tussled up on his side, but he was no longer there. I sat up, sensing a shiver of cold seep through me; without his warmth to cuddle me through the night, I was lost, lonely.

And I didn't want Zane to make me feel that way, ever.

I wrapped the cloth around myself as I got to my feet, wobbly, blood rushing to my head as I squinted through the room. It was still fairly dark, meaning not quite morning, thank goodness.

Meaning Zane had snuck out before dawn and left me here to wake to this chaos.

Granted, I'd started it, but still.

I located my clothes haphazardly thrown all over the place, and dressed quickly. My staff would surely show up any minute; Francis came in early to start baking bread and desserts for the day.

I found my phone in my purse—it was four-thirty a.m., meaning I had half an hour to attempt to tidy up somewhat before people started popping in.

"Fuck."

I stood there in the middle of the room, surrounded by the globs of cream and drying cake, sticky tomato smears on the walls, nuts still spilled across the tile, threatening to trip me.

"Fuck, what is wrong with me?"

My knees quaked, and I almost fell to the floor but managed to skirt up to the counter first, to take hold of it to retain my balance.

I'd gotten shit-faced at my restaurant. Snuck into the kitchen after hours, fucked up all the hard work my chefs and staff put in—and had sex with Zane Rose. Again. Another round of heart-wrenching, physically numbing and exhausting sex that I'd be getting flashbacks of the more I sobered up.

"Fuck."

I didn't know what else to say. What else to think. He was my demise, my nemesis, but whenever he entered a room and we were alone, all bets were off. All clothes were off. And this destructive behavior of mine—of ours—needed to stop.

Halfway to the broom closet I gasped, slapping a hand to my chest.

Zane was gone. Gone. But what if he'd snapped pictures before he left? The dirty proof of our fucking—what if he laid it all out in another piece to expose me? "Béatrice Balzac has sex with chefs in the kitchen of her restaurants, how unsanitary is that?" or "She wastes the food her staff prepares by throwing it all over the place because she's not happy with it—and then fucks her enemies in the wake of her chaos."

I'd given him more leverage than ever to take me down. And the fact that he'd disappeared before I woke only showed me I was right to never trust him. Last night, for some stupid reason, I'd caved, I'd let him sweet-talk me, and here we were. Here I was. Cleaning up a mess we'd both made, but that I'd get blamed for.

As I swept the nuts and dryer foods out of the way, making a pile, I tried to convince myself I'd dreamed it all. Just an eerie, sexual nightmare where Zane followed me here, had a food fight with me, fucked me on the counter, then left me. It wasn't real, was it? It couldn't be.