"We start now," Melinda said, getting up and marching around the desk. She extended her hand to me, to help me up. "And we cover this up by saying we've been hanging out since you moved here, and I'm the one who got you the job. I'll talk to Lynn about that so she can corroborate."

I frowned, accepting her assistance, but her hand was cold. "Won't that make me look shittier than I already do?"

"Don't worry too much about it," she said, sliding her arm under mine, guiding me to the kitchen. "There will be some jealousy and some backlash, but if I issue an order for everyone to shut the fuck up, they will." I caught her smirking from the corner of my eye. "I'm the owner, after all. The master behind this place. If they don't listen, they know their education here is at stake, if not their entire career." She stopped and spun to me, leaning against a counter. "I have a great deal of sway in this industry."

I gulped. She'd bargained with me, promised to fix my reputation. Not that I mistrusted her, but that was a huge task to take on. Even once I was exonerated—when the lawyers allowed me to speak up about my innocence—I doubted I'd draw in any sympathy from the general public.

But Melinda claimed she could make that happen.

"I won't question you, but I'm worried," I said, scrunching my nose.

Melinda got into character immediately, pulling me closer, against her, weaving her arms around my waist. "You'll be working directly with me, from now on. That grants you some protection." She sucked in her lips, hesitant, at first; then leaned forward and kissed me.

We had no witnesses, and she didn't need to practice kissing me—we'd kissed before, and she hadn't been disgusted, as far as I could tell.

Maybe she needed to warm herself up, make herself believe in this, believe in us, so she could act better once we had an audience.

Unlike her hands, her lips were hot, sizzling with the passion I knew she hid inside. The same lightly flavored softness held me in a trance, and though she teased me with her tongue, she didn't slip it into my mouth, to my dismay.

"What was that for?" I struggled to hide my smirk as she pulled away, not making the grossed-out face I'd have expected after kissing me.

"Getting situated," she said, hurriedly fixing her expression into a grimace, but I didn't buy it. She'd liked the kiss, quick and sensual as it had been. "Now, let me brief you a bit on how the private lessons work. Show you around the kitchen, where things are, etcetera. You'll need to look like you've been assisting me for weeks."

I swallowed, and watched, taking mental notes as she ran through the regular tasks and her planned course for the upcoming lesson.

***

I had a few days of alone time with Melinda, to learn the basics. I was smart enough to pick up on some things quickly, and while Melinda said I didn't have the innate talent for cooking, I obeyed instructions and reacted correctly when she requested my help.

"In any case, you won't be full-on cooking," she'd said, the day before her ex was set to come in. "You'll taste things, fetch utensils, wash dishes, keep an eye on the students to make sure they're doing as they're told."

"Students, plural?" I'd been stirring a sauce that she'd watched me confection from start to finish. "I thought I was only helping out with your ex?"

"Blair, that's his name," she said, flinching. "He signed up for a private session, but also for some of the small group sessions. To maintain the ruse, you'll have to be there for all the lessons. If you only show up for his, he'll know something is up, and so will the regular students."

I gritted my teeth. The regular students had been giving me the stink-eye when bumping into me. Since I was basically shadowing Melinda, I was there during her normal classes, and several people snickered at me when she revealed to them that I was her girlfriend, and we'd been dating in secret, but we'd been caught so we decided to quit hiding.

"You're to respect her as you respect me," she'd said, her voice stern—which turned me on, and I fought to hide it. "No bullying or being dicks—I'm aware you've been acting that way, as of late. I hear and see all, don't forget."

She addressed them sometimes like they were children, yet I'd encountered these people outside of classes and couldn't disagree. They did act like children, petty and whining and starting stupid rumors out of boredom.

It was interesting to witness Melinda at work, scolding them, then resuming her teachings as they admired her, in absolute awe of her skills.

Later that day, Zia caught me on my way out.

"Grace," she said, as I slung my purse over my shoulder, passing the front door's threshold.

"Zia," I said, smiling weakly. She and I hadn't talked since the night I'd gotten drunk, and she'd driven me home. The way she stared at me, clearly searching for words to express herself, told me she was upset. "Are you okay?"

"Confused, is all." We exited the building and stopped halfway down the steps into the courtyard. "Why didn't you tell me about you and Melinda?"

I cringed. "I...uh..." I hadn't discussed this with Melinda. Nor had I told Melinda that Zia and I were friends, and that I'd likely have to explain myself to her. "She asked me not to. Something about propriety and professionalism and shit..." I rubbed the back of my neck. "I didn't know you well enough, at first. Wasn't sure you'd keep our secret."

She puffed her lower lip. "You don't trust me?"

"Well, I do now, obviously, but...well, I didn't think the news should come from me. I can't tell you how many times I wanted to tell you, but she made me swear to keep quiet." I racked my brain for something to say that would solidify my lie. "Oh, and that night you found her asleep in the kitchen? And I was there? Fuck, that was the worst night."

"Not that big of a deal," Zia said, shaking her head, grinning. "She does that a lot."

"Yeah, well, that night..." I chewed the insides of my cheeks and released an exaggerated sigh. "We'd been...you know...kind of...um...busy..."

Zia narrowed her gaze, then her eyebrows twitched up. "Oh. Oh, shit...you were," she lowered her voice, "fucking?"

I nodded, perhaps a touch too vigorously, but it got my point across.

Zia's eyes widened. "And she fell asleep while you were...? Damn, that stings."

I chuckled. "She's apologized profusely since then, but yeah. I was so embarrassed, when you and that other guy came in, I panicked, so..."

"Tate. Right." She folded her arms, studying me. "You covered up and pretended to have found her that way. Makes sense."

I let out a relieved breath; not because she believed me, but because finally, I wasn't lying to her anymore.

"But one thing doesn't make sense." Zia scratched her chin. "You say Chef Monroe profusely apologized? That's weird. She never apologizes, but if you're her girlfriend...maybe that changes things."

My mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water. "She...I mean..."

"I'm not mad at you," Zia said, squeezing my shoulder. "It's odd, is all. She doesn't have a type, or anything, but you..." Her entire face seemed to scrunch up. "Well, Béatrice Balzac is a good friend of hers. It was a significant effort for Chef Monroe to keep you employed here, but now you're dating? It's hard to swallow. Hard to believe."

My mind raced with excuses, confessions, but none spilled out.

"Also, she's never dated a staff-member, as far as I'm aware. Or a student." She ran her fingers over her mouth, peering over my shoulder at something. "I've never known her to mix business and pleasure, ever."

I hoped she couldn't hear my heart thudding in my chest. "You...know her that well, huh? But you said you weren't friends."

I trusted Zia. If she did figure out our ruse, I was sure she'd keep the secret and play along. But I didn't think Melinda wanted anyone in on the truth; that she hated me and was using me against her will, and that we had slept together, and it had furthered her hatred towards me.

"We're not, but I've been a student here for three years, Grace. So I kind of do know her, and this is unlike her. But it's okay," she patted me on the back, "I won't question it. If you both say it's so, I'll believe you."

Something about her shifting voice, the feeble but still noticeable crack in her normally bright demeanor, told me she didn't believe me, and she'd remain suspicious.

Which meant I'd have to be extra careful around her.

***

On the day of Blair's first lesson, before its beginning, Melinda showed me a picture of him and briefed me on a few facts about him. He was rich, handsome, off-standish appearing though deep down he was mostly kind. I wanted to ask her the circumstances behind their break-up, but she hadn't volunteered them, and I didn't want to push.

We started with one of the smaller groups; five students, including Blair. They entered the kitchen, lining up side-by-side as they stared at Melinda, and me, standing beside her.

"Welcome to Ducklings," she said, her voice elevated, slightly forced. "I'm Melinda Monroe, and you can call me Chef Monroe during your time in the kitchen. This," she grabbed my arm and pulled me nearer, "is my assistant, Grace, who also happens to be my girlfriend."

I already knew which one of the students was Blair, but had I not been sure, I'd have identified him by the way he winced when Melinda said girlfriend.

He stood on the far left of the group; a tall, well-built man with tanned skin and chocolate-colored eyes. He'd been smiling at Melinda, at first, but the instant she drew me near, his expression switched to something darker, something I couldn't identify. Jealousy, possibly rage.

But whatever he felt, he said nothing, containing himself and hurrying to acknowledge me with a nod.

Melinda asked the students to introduce themselves briefly. When it was his turn, the ex introduced himself as Blair Umbridge, businessman, and friend to Melinda, which shocked the rest of the group.

"Friend is a loose term, isn't it?" she said, evidently flustered by him saying such a thing in front of everyone.

"Well, the truth is I'm your ex, but I wasn't sure if your new girlfriend here knew about that." His tone was dry, but the smile over his lips was quite intense. Quite fake.

Fuck. He hates me. He's pissed at her. Was this what she wanted?

Two of the students gasped, peeping between him and Melinda with raised eyebrows.

"Yes, well, now that that awkwardness is out of the way..." Melinda moved to stand behind a counter, dragging me along with her. "Shall we get started? You all informed me of your cooking levels on your applications, so I tailored tonight's first lesson to accommodate that. In your private lessons, we'll do more one-on-one exercises that test your specific skill."

Blair cleared his throat, interrupting her. "And when, pray tell, do the private lessons start?"

She squeezed my arm as she issued him a curt smile. "Soon. You signed up for the group and the private, Blair, so you'll have to follow the schedule as everyone else."

"No special favors?" He winked at me, specifically; I swallowed a growl.

No, Melinda wasn't my girlfriend, but she'd sure put me in a position to loathe her ex as if I were. He was hot, with his tight shirt wrapped around his large muscles, and his pants that molded to his muscular legs. But he was an uptight ass, and totally rude.

I could almost read Melinda's thoughts though I wasn't looking at her—fuck off, jackass. Yet she kept her composure and laughed at him.

"Well, you're my ex, Blair; don't you supposed that'd give you less favor than anyone else?"

The others chuckled, and Blair did, too, though his jaw was clenched.

The entire class continued that way; Melinda attempting to stay serious and instruct her students, and Blair interjecting with personal comments, things bringing up his past relationship with Melinda.

"Why did he sign up?" I whispered at her, after she'd asked me to hold a bowl for her while she poured liquid nitrogen into it. "He's here to pester you, not learn."

"I know," she whispered back, focusing on her task. "He's not usually this much of a jerk, I swear. He's a douche, and can't filter his words, but I thought he'd behave more with you here."

"So the plan backfired, is what you're saying?" I helped her blow away some of the smoke.

"No, it means we need to make more effort," she said, teeth gritted, as she grabbed me by the ass and twirled me to face her, then slammed me into her. "Hm," she raised her voice on purpose, "Grace you little minx!"

I played along, giggling, but my eyes bore into hers, questions charging up in my mind.

"Go with it," she mouthed, then shoved her lips onto mine in a passionate, very much not safe for work sort of kiss.

My entire body melted under her touch. If no one else was there, I'd have pushed her against the counter and dipped my hands under her shirt to tease her, tickle her.

I assumed that was her intention—to get me so hot and bothered that no one would question our fake relationship.

Sure enough, when we broke the kiss and turned to the students, most of them were gawking at us.

"Gosh," she said, fanning her face. "That liquid nitrogen smoke always does something to me. Sorry, folks! That won't happen again."

One woman swooned, beaming at us and at what she must have presumed was the beginning of love. The others shrugged and returned to their tasks, but Blair glowered, mumbling under his breath.

"What was that, Blair?" I asked, speaking to him directly for the first time.

"...not right...inappropriate," I heard him say before he refocused on his assigned task.

God, I wanted to punch him. Why did he come here? If he was trying to win Melinda back, why wouldn't he call her, text her, ask to meet with her outside of work? He was the inappropriate one, not us.

After that stunt, all he did was alternate between scowling at us, or ignoring us altogether.

"He won't come back," Melinda said, as we stood together, waving at the students leaving their first lesson.

"You think?" I asked, lips locked in a nervous smile.

"For sure." She pinched my arm. "You won't have to fake-date me for much longer."

Blair did show up the next day for his individual lesson, and that threw Melinda's entire plan off.

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