Anxiety continued its deafening roar inside my brain throughout the night and didn't dissipate by the time I woke up the next day.

I had a message icon on my phone. For a moment my heart thrummed, thinking it'd be Melinda—but it was Lynn, asking if I could come in to help with some clerical tasks for the day.

Lynn: You'll get time and a half, of course, plus a little bonus. We're understaffed and could really use some help.

I couldn't say no to some extra cash—what with Dad breathing down my neck for my upcoming rent dues—so I hurried to get ready and out the door.

As I pulled into the academy's parking lot, I half expected a committee to wait for me there to escort me right back out. Melinda should have woken up—it was nine o'clock—and must have seen my note; she'd be livid. She'd surely communicated with Lynn, and Lynn would have been asked to dismiss me in person.

But the area was mostly vacant. A few parked cars belonged to students who'd come to practice skills over the weekend—the school was never closed, except at night. There were others I didn't recognize.

I shouldered my purse, took a sip from my travel mug of coffee, and entered the academy, bracing for the worst.

The worst ended up being tons of paperwork Lynn needed filed and typed up in a software program to keep track of expenses and school fees.

"I'm sorry, I know I'm dumping a lot on you, but I'm desperate," she said, after depositing the piles of papers onto my desk.

"You have no help for this other than me?" The task seemed daunting, and I doubted I'd be out of the office until later that afternoon.

Not that I had any plans, but I was supposed to have weekends off. After what had happened the day before, with Melinda...I needed that time away, that rest period.

"I'm not the hiring manager," Lynn said, puffing out a breath through her teeth. "I hired you, yes, but ultimately, it's the big boss' decision. She hasn't given me the funds needed to bring in someone for this type of work. You know how to use all these programs, right?"

She'd set up different software items onto my computer; thankfully, I had dealt with them before.

"I'll be a bit slow at using them because it's been a while, but yes," I said, mentally drained already.

"Good." Lynn issued a curt smile. "I'm sorry again for asking this of you but know that it's appreciated."

"By whom?" I quirked an eyebrow. "Is the boss even here today?" This was my sly way of figuring out if Melinda was on the premises—if so, I'd have to be extra cautious about stepping away from my desk. I couldn't risk bumping into her.

Lynn scoffed. "Oh, she's here, all right. And," she cupped a hand around her mouth and whispered, "in a mood, believe it or not. Stick to your work and keep your chin down if she wanders out here."

In a mood. My entire body clenched with fear. "Noted."

I dug into the first pile, but not without gritting my teeth at the way my stomach rumbled. I hadn't had time to eat breakfast, but maybe that was for the best. I didn't think I'd be able to keep anything down with this anxiety running through me.

If Melinda saw me, she'd fire me. Or report me to the cops. Or both.

Would she remember what happened last night, drunk as she'd been? Maybe she'd recall bits and pieces and assume that she hadn't consented to what we'd done. And of course, I didn't think to document that—I didn't think to get her signature on anything to cover my ass.

I'd been too busy licking some chocolate sexiness off a spoon and trying not to drool as she watched me.

"Dammit," I hissed under my breath, struggling to focus on the computer screen.

I kept checking the corridor leading to her kitchen-office, expecting her to storm out, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed on me. For her to summon me to her office and scream at me; or worse, to vent all her feelings here, in the lobby, where anyone could hear.

There weren't many students on the property. A handful had walked by, none acknowledging me except for Zia, who strolled in looking chipper and wide awake as always.

So if Melinda did opt to berate me in public, I might not be too embarrassed. Enough to want to hide in a hole for the rest of my life. Which would allow me to avoid the Archie situation, too.

Perhaps Melinda's yelling would be a blessing in disguise.

When noon rolled around, not a peep from Melinda. No texts, no emails, and no appearances.

Zia swung by and invited me to lunch—and by invite, she meant cook for me in one of the spare kitchens she'd been practicing in.

"There's this puff pastry dish I've been working on, and I need a test subject," she said, directing me towards her work-zone with a hand covered in flour. "It's a mix of French ideas and southern cuisine. I figured you'd be hungry anyway, what with everything Lynn's got you doing..."

"Is that normal?" I squinted at her as we turned a corner and arrived before a small, windowed door. She led me through it and into a narrow, industrial-style kitchen. It was similar to the one Melinda had worked in the night before, but with less equipment, less space.

"What, me mixing French and southern styles? I mean," she chuckled, rubbing a hand over the back of her head, "not necessarily. But Chef Monroe told me to explore my options more, so..."

"No," I winced, "I meant Lynn calling in front desk people to do clerical work for her."

"Ah." Zia shrugged, but I could tell by her flinch that something I'd said affected her. "Not only front desk people, actually. But...yes, it happens."

"Not only the front desk?" I leaned against the counter farthest from all the dirty pots and pans. The entire place was littered with trays of pastries in various forms of progression, along with sullied utensils and plates and measuring cups. "Who else does she call in?"

Zia took two pastries from the platter nearest the oven and plopped them onto two clean plates. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and handed me one plate. "Me. I've been called in before. But only because I've always told Lynn and Chef Monroe that I was available to help out when needed. My expertise doesn't stop at cooking or baking."

"Zia," I said, voice lowered as I accepted the proffered plate. A whiff of the pastry filtered into my nose; flaky, brown layers with a fruity cheese and a sweet scent of ham. "Okay, pause on that discussion for one second—what is this?"

Zia flushed as she whipped out a knife and fork from a drawer and passed them to me. "It doesn't have a name. It's, uh...some biscuit recipe that I tampered with, and added some Gruyère and ham to."

It was odd to see someone so confident and imposing blushing. Zia was outspoken and funny, never so timid about anything, at least not with me.

But then again, I'd never been offered any of her cooking before.

I set the plate down and cut myself a piece. Steam wafted from the cut pastry as I brought the fork to my mouth, a gesture reminiscent of last night.

Hopefully this wasn't some aphrodisiac test like what Melinda had asked for. Zia had already warned me she wasn't into women, and I didn't need her seeing me melt over food.

"Wow," I said, as flavors exploded in my mouth; thank goodness, none of them turning me on. "This is delicious, Zia."

"You mean that?" She raised her eyebrows, hands clasped in front of her as she observed me while I chewed.

"Seriously. It has the flakiness of the biscuit, and I recognize some typical spices in there, too. But then the Gruyère..." I swallowed. "How'd you know that's my favorite cheese?"

She beamed at me, all her shyness evaporated. "I didn't. Lucky guess! You think it's good enough to submit to Melinda?"

"Submit?" I took another bite, discovering more aromas that pleased my tongue. "What do you mean?"

She picked up her own pastry with her fingers and bit into it. "She has this little contest going on," she said after chewing and swallowing. "Some of us veteran students might be considered to audition for a cooking show happening next year. Chef Monroe will sponsor one of us, but we have to truly wow her."

"Is that why Lynn can't hire other people?" I put my plate down. "Because Chef Monroe is too busy spending money on sponsorships and playing around with experiments at night in her kitchen?"

Zia's enthusiasm faded. "Grace, don't go there." She nibbled from her pastry. "The school's finances aren't involved with Chef Monroe's contest. Her nightly experiments are on her own dime, not the school's."

"Okay, so then why is Lynn calling in favors to help with clerical work? Or is she too lazy to bother doing it herself?"

Delicious as the pastry was, I'd lost my appetite.

Something wasn't right around here. Melinda getting drunk on the premises after hours, her students finding her passed out and not being surprised, secret contests, and the HR manager having to beg for help from employees—what was it about this school and its weird way of running?

Did it stem from a lack of funding, or was Melinda not geared towards operating a cooking academy?

"I know I've been around for a while, but Chef Monroe and I...we don't kick it that way, Grace." Zia finished her plate and put it in the sink, atop a pile of other dirty plates. "She encourages me and keeps accepting my return to learn more about cooking, but that's it. We're not friends, and I don't know about her private life or why she runs the school the way she does. And," she gestured at my plate, "I have no clue why Lynn is so overwhelmed and behind on paperwork. I don't ask those kinds of questions."

"You should," I said, resuming eating my food though my heart wasn't in it. "And she should pick you to audition for that show because you're the most level-headed and talented person here."

Her cheeks reddened and a hint of a smile traced over her lips. "You've never tried anything other students have cooked, though."

No, but I've tried Melinda's lust-inducing chocolate and didn't like its side effects.

"I don't need to. If it means anything, you have my vote." I devoured the rest of the pastry and wiped my hands on a towel near me. "Where is Chef Monroe, anyway? Since she slept here last night, I expected to bump into her at some point."

Zia straightened up, her face serious. "You wouldn't have bumped into her. She usually sneaks out the back door after nights like that. Kind of her own version of a walk of shame, minus the sex part." She chuckled.

You have no idea, I refrained from saying.

"So she's not here, right now?" I crossed my arms, scrunching my nose, hoping Zia wouldn't see or hear my disappointment.

Much as I'd wanted to avoid Melinda, I'd also wanted to confront her about everything. What happened last night...she had pushed it, and I wanted to make that clear between us. I wanted to save myself before she pointed fingers and fired me.

Did she prefer to pretend like it had never happened? Or was she so pissed off that she needed to cool down before addressing me?

"Hey," said Zia, approaching me and rubbing my shoulder. "You okay? You seem more tense than usual."

I realized then that I'd fisted my hands at my sides. "Oh." I shook my hands out. "I'm fine, just...stressed. Confused. All the paperwork and this mystery surrounding why Chef Monroe can't hire enough help..."

"Let it go," said Zia, her voice maternal, stern. "It's not worth working yourself up over, all right? It's extra pay, and anyway, Lynn only asks for that type of help like once a month. It's not as common as I made it sound. Relax."

"I know, but—"

"But it's not your responsibility, Grace, so you need to butt out of it." She cringed. "Sorry if that came out abruptly, but you need to watch out around here, okay? Chef Monroe is the authority. The big boss. The master. Lynn...she does what she's told. And we do what she and Chef Monroe tells us without question. That's how it works here, got it?"

I gulped. I wanted to argue, wanted to dig deeper—but if Melinda remembered last night and was angry about it, that meant I was already on thin ice. I didn't need to put myself in an even more unstable position.

"Fine," I said, rolling my eyes. "I should get back to work."

"Hey," Zia caught my wrist as I spun away, "come out for drinks tonight."

"What?" I snorted. "Me? Drinks with the students who hate me?"

Zia pinched her lips. "They don't hate you. Well, not all of them. If you're there as my guest they'll have to be polite, at least. Come on, Grace."

The idea of getting a drink after this day—and last night—was appealing, I had to admit. "Um..."

"It'll help you unwind," she added, with a wink. "The bar we're going to is notorious for hook-ups and single hotties of all...uh...flavors." She winked again, with more exaggeration. "So if you're looking for something fun..."

I chortled at her implications and brushed her off. "Weird that you would know that I like that sort of fun after a busy day at work."

"I know a lot," she said, amusement filtering from her voice. Like she was on to me, on to Chef Monroe, on to our secret affair that wasn't supposed to be an affair. But then she smirked and gently nudged me out, any airs of suspicion drained from her demeanor. "About how people like to unwind, that is. You come off as the type to want...uh...a rumble in the sheets?" She giggled at herself. "Anyway, I'll come by the front desk later and take you there, okay?"

I huffed, knowing there was no point trying to get out of this. "Okay. I definitely could use a drink."

***

One drink turned into two, which turned into three, which became shots, which became more shots.

The bar—in truth swinger's bar, which I didn't think Zia was aware of—was located a few miles from the academy. Most of the students frequented the place on Fridays and Saturdays, according to the bartender.

Many of them were there that night, some glaring at me from across the room. Others, like Zia had said, had gotten over whatever their issues were and spoke to me like I was a regular human being, at last.

"You suck at being a producer," one of them said, slurring their words. "But you're a decent secretary. My schedule has never looked so pristine." They stumbled on the word pristine, causing me to laugh. "A regular, flawed, fucked-up human being like us all."

Like us all. No, we weren't all human beings.

Melinda Monroe had ascended far beyond us. The drunker I got, the more I thought of her; how she smelled, tasted, felt. How she looked when she flirted with me, how she sounded when she egged me on, toyed with me.

It took all my might not to retreat to the bathroom to touch myself while thinking of her. Fuck, I wanted to; she'd left me hanging the night before. I'd needed more of her, and she'd fallen asleep. That had likely been the last time I'd ever get a chance to fuck her again.

As Zia bought me more drinks—she'd designated herself the driver, so she was drinking soda—more flashes of Melinda wandered into my mind. Her lips, puckered, pressed against mine. Her tongue delving between my folds and finding all my sensitive spots despite her inebriation.

Those fingers, deftly driving me delirious with their rhythm as they entered me, tickled me, pleased me.

"Shit," I said, struggling to swallow another gulp of my beer. The froth lingered over my lips, and I imagined Melinda coming up behind me, spinning my stool, and swiping her tongue over the foam, lapping it up.

"You okay?" Zia's face was blurry to me, but I thought she might have been smiling.

"I, uh..." I burped. "No, I'm not. I need...air."

"Want me to come with you?" Zia leaned in closer. "Hold your hair, or something?"

I vigorously shook my head. "No, not like that, I'm...drunk overthinking stuff, you know."

She nodded, understanding my meaning. "Got it. I'll be out there in ten minutes if I don't see you, okay?"

I waded past other trashed students who cheered, suddenly loving me. I cheered back but was only half conscious as I pushed the bar's door open and a whoosh of humid air smacked over my cheeks.

"Ugh," I said, sitting on a bench near the parking lot.

A couple was angled against a car, sloppily making out. Normally, such a sight would have disgusted me, but here, it only made me think of Melinda.

Melinda.

"Melinda," I said, whispering, as if to summon her to me.

My center swelled with need, pulsating against the seam of my jeans.

Realistically, I could have slipped my hand past my waistband and touched myself. No one was out there—only the couple, but they were too busy to notice. I had ample time before Zia planned to come looking for me.

One tiny touch of my wetness...a few flicks and I'd send myself over the edge. It wouldn't take much...it wouldn't be bad...

My phone vibrated in my pocket, yanking me out of my dangerous reverie. I strained my eyes onto the screen—an email, I believed, but my eyesight was too foggy to read it.

On some strange and likely stupid instinct, I managed to pull up my texts. I created a new message, scrolled through my contact list, and stopped at the letter M.

I didn't remember getting her number, but I had it—right there, in my list, was Chef Melinda Monroe. Maybe it was on a contact list Lynn had given me for emergencies; maybe Melinda had put it in my phone the night of our first tryst together.

But it was there, and something told me this was fate, so my fingers swept across the screen, forming sentences I'd regret the next day.

Of course, once I finished composing my text, I gasped as I hit send.

Oh, shit.

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