After four straight days of filming two shows every day, I was pretty beat. But it was thrilling to see so many people in the audience, all so enthused with the program.

Some days they cheered for me to be picky, for me to make funny faces as I ate the dishes presented to me. And some days they encouraged the guest chef, wanting them to succeed.

In those four days, I consumed a lot of elements I rarely, if ever, did. Mushrooms disguised as meat—that one didn't work on me—or spices chopped up and mixed in a way that masked most of the spiciness. Vegetables pureed and baked and sauteed into meals I'd have occasionally been fooled into eating. Spaghetti, sandwiches, hell, one chef even made a full-on pizza, fully cooked in the small amount of time allotted.

I spent most evenings at home, nursing a glass of wine, rehashing all the shows, the people I'd met. These chefs weren't successful yet, but they were on the right path, and I told them as much after every cut! We weren't enemies—I believed chefs should support each other, and so I wanted to support these folk by inviting them on my show, giving them exposure.

But while I had some say in who we invited to participate, ultimately, Grace and Archie made the big decisions.

As such, I was often not informed of the day's guests until that morning, in the makeup chair. There'd been one individual I'd heard bad rumors about, and upon seeing their name on the call-sheet, I'd almost stormed out of my dressing room to demand an explanation.

Grace and Archie both knew of my preferences. I'd given them lists of things not to do, such as surprise me with a guest chef that I didn't particularly like, or one who had a reputation for a bad attitude. It was nothing personal; some people I simply didn't wish to work with.

Grace and Archie obviously didn't care about my preferences, but they sure pretended to when they took note of my list. I imagined it had gone through a shredder and was now in pieces somewhere in a trash bin.

I was picky, and not only with my food.

The food pickiness was...something else. Some saw it as a flaw, some considered it an asset in my cooking.

I couldn't say when it started, but while growing up in France—French father, American mother—I developed difficulties with eating everything on my plate. Certain textures bothered my tongue, certain tastes made me gag. Certain smells made my stomach churn, and certain foods made me upset only by looking at them. I had no allergies, but my dislikes grew, becoming more and more random, to the point where I had to accommodate wherever I went, as everyone around me had more open palates than me.

It was a constant struggle, and those who criticized me by saying it was all an act—I hated them. My distastes were real, and they were an issue I dealt with regularly. I didn't do this for fun.

But the cooking aspect of it all, sharing my aversions and how to work around them, was my passion. There were others like me out there—some even worse—and it was my duty to tell them we the picky eaters can eat too!

On my way to Studio City, exactly a week after the first taping, I was quiet in the car. Most days I chatted with Cole about what had happened at work, or we'd discuss a TV show we both enjoyed watching. It was seldom so silent in the SUV, but that day, it was.

I was too exhausted to speak, my throat starting to swell at the notion of having to talk and talk and talk to the cameras and to the audience. While the show was cut and edited to fit into an hour time-slot, each filming actually took several hours, and most of them were spent in the public eye. I didn't run back into my dressing room while the chef worked, as some might have expected me to. A huge metallic curtain separated us, and all I could do was sit there and let my nose pick up on scents while they chopped, emulsified, mixed, baked.

Next week we'd be taking a break, but I wouldn't get much time to rest. I had to finish up my upcoming book, It's Me, That Picky Chef, Again. My publishing agent was waiting for a few new chapters to submit to my editor.

And I had to call Mom and Dad soon, as I'd promised to work in a trip to France despite my busy schedule. I regretted having to plan trips like that, much as I wanted to go home; but I had no time whatsoever to take a proper break. There was too much to do, and I was stretched thin, and didn't know how to say no.

My parents were supportive, of course. I was an only child, and they never stopped me from pursuing my dreams. They raised me in France, teaching me French and English—I was fluent—and most days, I considered Paris my true home. I missed it.

What I didn't miss were those who'd mocked me for not liking local dishes and refusing to try things that didn't look appetizing to me. So after I was done with culinary school, I begged my parents to let me go to L.A.—where my mother was from—and start fresh. They only had so much money saved up, though Dad was a successful pastry chef himself, but they wished me well and sent me on my way.

Some days, I wished they'd have held me back. I wished they'd have forced me to eat those foods, taught me how to appreciate the flavors that made my nose wrinkle. But they were so lenient, so gracious with me, that they accepted my differences and never chided me for them.

We arrived at the studio, breaking off my reminiscing. Cole dropped me off, wishing me a good day, as always.

As I settled in my makeup chair, relaxing at the memory that this was the last day of filming—for now—I noticed Elliot was...shaky. Clumsier than usual in their movements, messing up my eye-shadow, speaking in choppy sentences that they didn't finish.

"What the fuck is going on?" I asked them, grabbing their loose sleeve before they applied a wobbly mascara to my lashes. "You're acting weird."

"No, I'm not. It's nothing." They sucked their lips in and took a deep, meditative breath. "Stressed."

"You?" I eyed them from head to toe, from their shiny Mary-Janes to their sparkly headband. "You're never stressed."

"Yeah, well, there's a first time for everything." Their normally chipper voice was darker, lower in their throat. "Can you sit still and let me finish?"

"Moody," I said, complying with their request. In my lap was the call-sheet for the day, and I was supposed to be reading it, but Elliot's behavior distracted me.

I peered down at the names, seeing the chefs set to join us today. My eyes were drawn to the second guest, Gloria U., a woman with eclectic tastes that I'd always been a bit wary of but found friendly. Then I glanced up at the first guest—a man named Zane Rose.

"Zane Rose..." I patted my chin, ignoring Elliot's groan of displeasure as I almost made them mess up again. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

Elliot shrugged, putting away the mascara. "I don't know chefs, I'm just best friends with one."

"Rose...Rose...Rose, dammit, I swear I've heard that name before." I tossed the sheet aside and pouted my lips for Elliot to swipe on some lipstick. "That's so weird, I thought I knew everyone in L.A.—"

"—will you quit fidgeting?" Elliot's frown was real, and not playful as it was most days when I refused to make it easy for them to put makeup on me. I didn't do it on purpose, but Elliot wasn't so impatient.

"What is your problem?" As they backed away, giving me a once-over, I cocked my head. "Seriously, did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?"

It was unusual for them to be so short with me. In the ten or so years we'd known each other, they'd never lost their temper with me like that.

"I'm sorry, I'm just..."

"Stressed," I snickered, "yeah, you said that already."

"Rough night." They leaned against the counter, crossing their arms as they looked down. "I didn't sleep well, and coffee isn't doing the trick."

I stood up and flared out the flowery dress wardrobe had assigned me. It gave me 1950s housewife vibes, which I hated, but it was a comfortable outfit and very peppy. Quite vibrant, especially compared to Elliot's moodiness. "Then take a nap or something, while we film. I can fix my own makeup between takes."

Their eyebrows joined as they shook their head. "You know Grace would kill me for that."

Moments later, I walked out on set to loud applause, and waved at the audience.

"Hey, we're not even filming yet; keep that energy for the cameras, yeah?"

They laughed, and I checked the set, making sure the kitchen's equipment functioned, that all utensils were there. I noticed a few machines I didn't remember inspecting before—some I didn't even recognize as cooking-related. I assumed the guest chef requested something specific. My team was advised to give them whatever they needed for the confection of their dish.

Grace and Archie arrived in their pressed suits and took their seats on the far-right edge of the platform. They nodded at me once, indicating they were ready. They attended every filming, and though they never interrupted or gave any stage notes, I always knew if they were pissed off at me or satisfied.

Today they looked...neither. Tired, stressed, the same kind of fidgety energy as Elliot. Restless was perhaps a better way to describe how they glanced around themselves nervously, leaning in to whisper to one another while sending fleeting looks in my direction, turning away when I caught them.

What the fuck is going on?

Something was wrong, that I knew. But with the camera crew counting down my official entrance, I wouldn't have time to address this until after this episode was over.

To another, louder round of applause, I made my real arrival on the stage, waving at the audience. "Welcome to Food Me!, the show where a chef has to fool me, another chef, into eating food that I don't usually eat."

The enthusiasm died down enough for me to sit on my puffy chair, folding my hands in my lap and smiling towards the teleprompter.

"Today's guest is up-and-coming L.A. local chef, Zane Rose." A few claps—ah, so this guy was well-known? I hid my surprise and kept reading. "He's a prodigy chef who hails from the Culinary Institute of America, New York City campus." I whistled, acknowledging the prestige of the school. "And he has been brewing behind the scenes in the culinary world for years."

I typically asked to study the prompts before the show, but I'd been so taken aback by Elliot's demeanor earlier that I'd forgotten. As I read, I was also discovering this man's resume, and I was impressed by what I saw.

I wasn't supposed to go off-script, though I had a few times this week, to the audience's delight. Grace and Archie hadn't reprimanded me yet, but I wasn't sure how far I could take things, so I tried to stick to what displayed on the screen.

"Zane just opened his own restaurant, and right here in LA. Gastrognome." I paused, doing a double take on the name of the restaurant. "Gastrognome? Hm." The prompter flashed at me; I'd been caught off guard and was going off-script, but my trembling hands wouldn't allow me to fix that mistake. "Oh, and I...uh, this thing is saying I recently ate there. Uh," I side-glanced at Grace, who was grimacing, "well, that's true, I ate there last Friday."

The audience, unaware of what was going on, laughed at my riffing off the teleprompter. I tried to chuckle my nerves away, but the more I paid attention to the words I was being asked to say, the more I tensed. My teeth gritted, my spine tingled with a mix of fear and rage and confusion.

Gastrognome. Chef Zane Rose.

That was why his name was so familiar. Patrons of the restaurant weren't supposed to know the chef's name, and though he'd berated me that night, I'd never asked.

Months ago, I'd browsed the internet for more information on Gastrognome, after the inauguration that I hadn't gone to. And I had spotted the smallest, vaguest of articles that had mentioned a Z.Rose somewhere in its paragraphs.

I never made the connection until now.

Z. Rose.

Zane Rose.

Chef of Gastrognome.

And...my one-night-stand.

It had to be him; who else could it have been? He wouldn't call himself the chef if he wasn't. Unless he was a scheming, lying asshole that the real chef had sent out to scream at me in his place.

I sensed panic bubbling in my gut. He'd walk out here any second, and I'd get confirmation.

Was he the man who'd thundered out of the kitchen and declared himself the chef and owner? The man I'd done shots with at the club, danced with, shared a couch and a goddamned bed with?

Was this the same person?

I'd seen him naked, up close and personal. Now he was...the guest on my show?

No. No way. I was dreaming, I had to be.

I pinched myself, muttering under my breath, which caused more laughter in the audience. They thought this was funny, that I was playing this, that something about this chef perturbed me.

Yes, something did perturb me. There was a high probability that I'd slept with this man, and now he was coming on my show to cook for me.

My belly clenched. The coffee I'd rushed down my throat fifteen minutes prior threatened to swirl back up and out.

Grace snapped at me, urging me to keep things moving. "Announce him!" she whisper-yelled, prompting me to snap out of my stupor and stand up from my chair.

"Sorry, folks, I'm not okay, apparently," more laughs, "so please welcome Zane Rose!"

I froze as I saw him appear near Grace and Archie's chairs. Dressed in black slacks, an olive-green chef's jacket, hands in his pockets as he walked out, bowing to the audience, then staring straight at me.

Oh, that was him, all right. Drunk as I'd been that night, I had met him at the restaurant first, and I'd never forget how dashingly handsome he was. Those dark eyes, narrowed and flickering with hot, angry jolts—how would I forget those? The heat from his body, the intimidation as he towered over me, furious at my decision to modify his dish to my tastes.

Then devouring me as we fucked on his couch.

There'd be no devouring today, because there was no mistaking those furrowed brows, the steam of hatred wafting from him.

Zane Rose, my angry-sex one-night-stand, was here, on my show.

I hurried to understand how unpleasant today's episode would be.

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