Unpleasant wasn't a strong enough word for it all.

I glowered at Grace and Archie, catching the tail-end of their evil smirks as they sent Zane up to me.

Of course, they planned this.

I wouldn't have time to address this until later, but I intended to corner them both and give them a piece of my mind.

In the meantime, I shot up from my chair, clutching my stomach. "I'm sorry, but I..."

Fury frayed through me. I had to stand there and act like this kind of coup was okay? I had to pretend I didn't know this guy, that we hadn't hated each other at first glance, and fucked each other at our second?

Without saying another word, I descended from the stage and stormed to the opposite side of the studio, far from my conspiring producers.

Those faces...the sneer of satisfaction on Archie, the mild pleasure coming from Grace; they knew what they'd done.

They remembered how Zane had embarrassed me in the restaurant. But did they know about me sleeping with him? That, I wasn't certain about.

But they'd absolutely brought him here on purpose, based on our steamy—and not in a sexy way—interaction at his restaurant.

To my surprise, the camera and crew called "cut!"

Whispers blew through the spectators, who'd witnessed me stomping off to a secluded corner where I knew Elliot sometimes watched the taping.

They weren't there today.

Adding to my shock, Zane came after me; not Grace or Archie, or even Luca, whom I'd spotted at the bottom of the audience when I first made my entrance. As my agent, he wasn't required to be here every day, but he'd told me he enjoyed the show and liked to see chefs in action.

"Fuck you," I breathed, as Zane arrived within ear-range. "Fuck. You."

I expected him to curse right back, but he remained calm. Too calm. He raised his palms in surrender, his eyebrows sliding up his forehead. "I haven't cooked anything yet."

"Are you kidding me?" The urge to slap him was so intense, I wished this damn dress had pockets so I could shove my clenched fists inside. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

I thought my violent whispers were quiet, but a few audience members peeked over the railing of the raised podium where they sat.

I glared up at them with venom in my eyes. "Mind your business," I growled, flinching.

They startled away, and I cringed; that was not me. I never dared show any anger in front of fans, always held on to my temper.

But this? This was too much.

Zane got into my space; brave man, he was. I was small, but mighty, and could throw a good punch when threatened.

Zane threatened me.

His being there didn't make sense and rattled me beyond what I'd been prepared for today. Filming was always stressful; this was chaotic.

But of course, he smelled delicious, the closer he stood to me. That strawberry mint shampoo I'd gotten a whiff of the other night; the spicy musk that had shot into my nostrils when he berated me at his restaurant.

Why couldn't he stink? It would make my situation much easier.

"There's no need to cause a scene here," said Grace, her tart tone fluttering over as she approached us. She kept a distance—she knew better than to barrel into my space—and folded her arms as she stared between Zane and I, and the disrupted audience. "This isn't protocol, Béatrice."

I refrained from showing her the finger and waved her off instead. "I need a minute, Grace."

"You—"

"—I need a minute," I repeated, through gritted teeth, my voice nearing a growl.

She shook her head, arms throwing up in annoyance as she returned to the other side of the stage.

"She's right," said Zane, crossing his bulging arms, widening his stance in front of me, as if to block me from running off.

I wasn't running—at that point, I wanted him there, I wanted him up close, so I could kick him in the groin, where his delicious cock awaited—

Fuck.

He was delicious. I remembered getting a taste of him, confirmed by a sudden flash of me on my knees, sucking his shaft in the moonlight. He was well-endowed—of course he was—and I'd groped at his firm ass as I brought him to me, taking him in my mouth and lathering his member with my tongue.

He'd moaned. He'd loved it. And I—

"I can't fucking do this." I almost dragged a hand down my face, but if I ruined my makeup and delayed filming any longer, Grace and Archie would have my head.

Why was he there? To berate me again, but in front of my audience this time? Or to seduce me into loving his dish?

"I don't think you have a choice," said Zane, gesturing at all the seats filled with spectators who'd paid good money to be here, to watch my show. "And the more time you waste—"

"—what are you doing here?" I clasped my hands and anchored my feet to the ground, to stop myself from shoving into him. If I touched him, even a single, brief contact, it would flare up all my loathsome, dangerous passion for him. It'd rile up all the images of us tangled up in his sheets, our legs entwined on his couch.

His presence was toxic, drawing out all the memories from our torrid night, leaving me no room to breathe as they attacked me.

Just looking at him was enough to spiral chills down my back. His lips—they'd tasted like liquor and lime. His tongue had twirled around mine in ways that still made my legs shake. And then his tongue in my center, titillating my clit like no one ever had—

How and why was I remembering this so vividly, days later, and in a crucial moment in my career?

He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "Your producers were scouting for talent when they brought you to the restaurant." He smirked; he was called talent by my bosses, and his cheeks flushed a light red in pleasure. Cheeks I wanted to smack, to pinch, to bring closer to my face—

"When?" I set my fists on my hips. "I was with them all evening. I don't remember them talking to you aside from when you thundered out of your kitchen to chew me out."

He shrugged again. Those shoulders—so big, so sturdy, like he could lift me up and bring my pussy to his mouth and tongue-fuck me for days.

Béatrice, dammit!

"On your way out. You were outside already, halfway to tipsy; the woman...Grace, her name was?" His eyes twinkled for a moment when recalling her name, making me snarl. "Anyway, she came to find me, told me about the show, and asked me to come on."

"You hate my guts," I snapped, squinting at him. "You made that perfectly clear when you recognized me at your restaurant. So why did you accept?"

"I don't hate your guts," he said, lips pursing. "I hate your food, and your approach to cooking it. Your pickiness. It's stupid, and it bugs the crap out of me. But you're right, I said yes, because I wanted to prove a point."

"Oh, did you?" I perked up, my spine tingling with a mix of loathing and lust that made it hard for me to stand up. "Wait—" I narrowed my gaze on him, my fingers curving into my hips. "So that night, at the bar...you already knew you'd be on the show, and still got drunk and slept with me?"

There was that smirk again; so nefarious, but so sexy. I wanted to bite his mouth off. Or kiss it. I couldn't tell.

He was infuriating, and I needed air. And a drink.

"Thought it'd up my odds of winning." He licked his lips, and my stomach clenched. "I could really use the money, because opening Gastrognome screwed me over, financially."

"You used me." It wasn't a question, and I didn't want him to bother answering, anyway. Was he a chef, or an actor? I'd eaten his food, and despite having to strip it of many components, I did enjoy eating it.

But he wasn't here for that—he wanted the cash prize that came with managing to trick me on the show.

That night—was it all a game for him? The anger and hostility had been real, there was no denying that. But the desire, the moaning, the panting as we came together; was any of that real?

I kept seeing him naked in my head, his godly body towering over me as he stroked his cock, getting ready to enter me. Then my hands pressed to his hard pectorals as I straddled him, riding him until we exploded.

I hadn't imagined any of that—but had he taken any pleasure in it?

It was premeditated. He'd followed me to the bar to ensnare me, thinking I'd recognize him here, today, and throw money at him to get him off my show. Or that I'd melt at his yumminess and open my legs for him again.

"No." I lifted my hand towards his mouth, preventing him from giving me some half-assed reply. "This is...I'm floored that you'd do this, that you'd be here."

He tipped sideways, bypassing my hand, and opened his mouth to speak; but Grace appeared in my peripheral again, frowning.

"Béatrice," she scowled at her watch, "are you done? We're on a schedule, and thanks to this brief interlude, we're running behind."

I turned my glare to Zane. "You're not leaving until you've proven your point, are you?"

He licked his lips again—damn him, the asshole, using his assets against me. "Nope."

I shoved past him, rolling my shoulders as I traveled back to my chair. I snapped at him to follow, and indicated the chair opposite mine, where he was to sit so I could have a mini-interview with him before the cooking began.

"Let's get this over with," I said, sitting as straight and prettily as I could muster.

"We're rolling!"

I affixed the fakest smile on my face and turned to Zane, proceeding with the standard questions I asked all guest chefs.

"Where did you grow up?"

"When did you find out you wanted to cook?"

"What was the best thing you learned in culinary school?"

"Any tips for rising chefs?"

All the stuff I didn't want to know about him, because I didn't want to know him.

Whenever he spoke, whenever he shifted his gorgeous body in the chair and smiled at me, at the audience, our night continued to flash through me.

His tanned skin in the dark, with neon lights filtering through the windows, showing the flawless curves of his hips, his ass, his cock. Reminding me of the screams of arousal echoing out of me every time he touched me, entered me. And how he felt, so full, so hard, so perfect. How he tipsily pleasured me—

Then I wondered if he was as drunk as me, and all the flashes turned off, returning to the part of my brain I needed them to remain in. A faraway, dusty cabinet labeled Zane Rose, the asshole of a chef who seduced me.

There was still so much tension between us, our bodies. As if they recognized one another and were magnets, attracted and impossible to break apart. We were resisting; or at least, I was. I wouldn't melt for him, wouldn't give in.

But any time I leaned away from Zane, he leaned closer. Any time I tried to change the subject, he came back to an idea he hadn't finished, and stared straight in my eyes as he did so.

It was toxic. Annoying. One of the most frustrating days of my life.

And unfortunately...it was also hot. He was hot. The more he sat before me, the more I envisioned myself in his lap. Or him bent between my legs.

I hated my kink, I hated myself, and I hated him.

If he was so preoccupied with getting onto this show and winning, why had he left me alone in his apartment the next morning, after we fucked into the sunrise? Why had he bailed, with no note, not even a phone number to reach to thank him for a sexy, good time? Not that I would have texted him, but if he was that desperate for money, wouldn't he have put in more effort?

Sitting near him grew increasingly difficult. I glanced at the prompter, begging it to show the last sentence I had to utter to Zane, for the next hour, at least. The phrase that would send him off to the kitchen, and I could finally breathe without him observing my every move. Without me reenacting our sex in my head, remembering how good of a kisser he was, the flavor of his tongue, of the sweat drizzling down his chiseled arms as I bit down, releasing my desire.

Ah, and there it was—the sentence I'd been praying for.

I internally thanked the prompter as if it were a real person who'd read my mind and granted my one and only wish.

To get away from Zane Rose.

"On that note, it's time for the main event! Let's see if this guy can fool me," I said, rubbing my hands together as I stood up.

"Yes, let's," said Zane as he stood as well, his mouth hanging open from the sentence he'd been in the middle of saying as I cut him off.

"You have one hour to concoct a dish that will hide ingredients that I'm notorious for disliking, and fool me into thinking they aren't there. The more I like the dish, the fewer ingredients I spot in there, the more money you'll win! And if I spot them all and don't like the dish, you still get to go home with five-thousand dollars, so hey, it's a win-win!"

Zane offered me one last glance loaded with some emotion I couldn't read before he scuttled behind the metallic curtain, rolling his sleeves up.

I didn't return to my chair to wait for him, like I normally would. For the first time since we started filming, I needed to get out of there. Off the stage, away from all the eyes, away from Grace and Archie and their fucked-up tactics.

I didn't advise them of where I was going, nor did I ask for permission as I exited the spotlight, turning down the corridor that led to my dressing room.

I bumped right into Elliot—who startled, then scrunched their nose, then grimaced as they lowered their gaze.

I knew exactly why they'd been off that morning, so I grabbed their arm to haul them into my dressing room for explanations.

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