"And cut!"

Claps echoed around the room as I lifted from my cozy chaise and bowed, one hand on my heart. Blinding spotlights switched on overhead, showing glowing eyes and cheerful faces staring back at me. Camera operators slid off their stools and joined in on the applause. Producers and writers whooped enthusiastically, cheering me on.

"That's a wrap for the first episode of Food Me!"

More claps, more audience members rising and beaming at me as my cheeks flared up. I tried not to bounce on the balls of my feet.

My show. My TV show. And we'd finished the pilot.

I was guided off the stage—half lounge chairs and half kitchen—and waved at the guests who'd spent their afternoon watching me writhe in anticipation at what dish would be shared with me.

Food me! was all about the edge, the surprise. Chefs from around the world came to my stage to talk about their careers, then they had an hour to whip up something for me to eat. Something containing elements that I usually wouldn't put in my own dishes. As the pickiest chef in the country, I'd made it a goal for them to trick me into eating things I didn't like.

Today's episode—the first, airing live in a promotional stint—was stressful, confusing, filled with mistakes and missteps, but it was over. From the enthusiasm I'd received, I knew it succeeded. All the hoops my team and I had jumped through to get here had been worth it, when I heard the crowd applaud me. And they applauded the chef who'd managed to stash mushrooms—mushrooms, no thank you—into the Shepard's pie they'd confectioned. I'd eaten the dish, which meant the chef won twenty-thousand dollars to do with as they pleased.

I shed the cardigan the wardrobe department had begged me to wear over my see-through top—their error, not mine. I'd have been happy with a graphic t-shirt and jeans, but I had to dress up for my show. And since I wasn't the one cooking, I could afford to don outfits I ordinarily wouldn't.

As I hurried down the hallway—more applause there—towards my dressing room, the interviewer following me around all day to document this experience sidled up to me, notebook in hand.

"So, Béatrice Balzac," she said, pouting her pretty lips at me. The only reason I'd allowed her to cling to me for her online magazine was because she was hot. Tight suits, flowery perfume, light eyes that reminded me of galaxies, and a voice that sent me on a trip to another world.

Well, that, and my producers demanded that I permit one interviewer to capture my experience debuting my TV show. I'd had no alternative. I'd already refused too many things from them—a personal assistant, a bigger dressing room, information on what my guest chefs would cook ahead of time. I had to agree to something to appease them.

"Yes?" I tossed a few ginger curls from my face, where they'd plastered in my sweaty haste to lock myself up in my dressing room. I needed to take a breather. All these people, these faces, the swarm of emotions; it was a lot. Spending hours on a stage with them watching me really took its toll.

"You're a successful, world-renowned chef with several restaurants spread across dozens of countries. Millions of copies sold of your cookbooks and your non-fiction novels. You're a philanthropist, you're," the interviewer smirked, flushed, "incredibly beautiful. And now you have your own TV show. How do you feel?"

I sensed my cheeks overheating again at the woman's compliment. "Listing all my accomplishments, nice. Is this some form of meaningful flattery, or are you buttering me up for a thoughtful response for your interview?"

The interviewer looked down at her notes. "I wasn't reading anything I wrote down, if that says something."

I caught her vibe right away. I knew what she wanted. But another promise I'd made to my team was to not let things get messy. I might have been picky with my food, but I wasn't picky with people I chose to sleep with. Women, men, trans, nonbinary—if they said the right words and appealed to me physically, it wasn't hard to get me naked.

But that wasn't a fact that this lovely interviewer would have scribbled in her notebook. She knew, of course she did. It was a side of my reputation that remained hush-hush, thanks to my amazing agents who kept my image intact; but this woman had dug up a lot on me already.

It wasn't a bad thing that I had a libido, and it wasn't like my escapades weren't consensual. I always let my conquests come on to me first, to make sure they were doing this of their own accord. Then I had them sign an NDA, gave them what they wanted, and sent them on their way. For many, it was some groupie fantasy of hooking up with their favorite celebrity; for others it was about sharing a bed with a woman of many talents and secrets. If I was turned on, I didn't decline them. I was single, and had no intention of being in a relationship any time soon.

My relationship was my work, and I loved it.

"I'm sorry," I said to the woman as we neared my dressing room door. I set a hand on her wrist, gently, no pressure, and she peered up at me with eyes drowning in want. "You're absolutely my type, but I..." I gulped. "I can't. Not today, at least. It's been a rough one, and the higher-ups asked me not to do this," she knew exactly what I meant, "while we film the show."

I could have sworn her features drooped for a second before she fixed her lips into a tight smile. "I understand, Miss Balzac. So then, tell me this: how do you feel? Your empire is growing, but you're still so down-to-earth and relaxed."

I snorted. "I look relaxed right now?"

The woman shrugged one shoulder, batting her eyelashes. "I'm sure you could be more relaxed, but yes. Compared to other celebrities I've interviewed, you're definitely not as tense. So, how do you do it?"

I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again. Explaining my process to her would take too long, and I wouldn't stand out in the hallway to do it. And if I invited her into my dressing room, I had no doubt what would happen. The best de-stressor for me was sex, and the producers had implored me to wait until I was off the studio's premises for that.

"I unwind alone in my dressing room, have a glass of wine on my porch, read a good book, and get eight hours of sleep." It wasn't untrue; normally, that was my process. Often it involved another person there with me, but if I gave this woman even a glimpse of hope, she'd cling on and twist my arm. Next I knew, she'd be stripping in front of me.

"And that's what you'll do tonight?" She glanced at me, her chin slightly lowered, her chest poking forward, taunting me.

I swallowed, nodded. "Sure." I didn't tell her about the part where I'd most likely be thinking of her between the wine and the book parts. And probably slithering my fingers between my legs to relieve my tension.

She jotted a few notes, thanked me, and went on her way. I watched her leave, biting my tongue, and entered my dressing room—

To find producer number one, Grace Gallagher, seated in my chair, swiveling from the mirror to face me.

"Good job," she said, tousling her dark, curly hair as she leaned forward and smirked at me. "I was prepared to startle you and that poor interviewer, to make sure you didn't fuck her."

I rolled my eyes once I'd caught my breath from the surprise, and closed my door. "She was consenting, though you seem to think I undress people without asking first."

Grace waved a hand. "It's not about what I think. It's about image, Béa." I sneered at her, daring to use the shortened version of my name; she disregarded my reaction. "Her article can make or break this show. You were polite when you let her down, I hope?"

I urged her out of my seat, and watched as she adjusted her loose-fitting pink suit before settling against the counter. The spotlights around the mirror sprayed her in a heavenly glow, but I knew better than to look at her like an angel.

Grace was the younger of my duo of producers. Earlier in the process of creating this show, I'd thought that meant she'd be on my side. That she'd let me be more creative, give me more input, and accept my feedback. In truth, she was almost stricter than her counterpart, the older, macho-man Archie Perkins. She kept me on a leash and hardly allowed me any say in the production of my own show. My agents told me to let it go, to let her have it her way for now. I white-knuckled through the entire undertaking knowing that, in the end, this benefited me, not her.

"I was polite," I said, searching for a wipe to scrub the layers of makeup from my skin. The mounds of red blush to amplify my pale face made me look like a doll, and I cringed at my reflection. Only my dark chestnut eyes were done the way I liked them; because that was the one thing my makeup artist and I agreed on.

"Whoa," Grace tipped closer and snatched the wipe from my hands, "what are you doing?"

"Uh, taking my makeup off?" I squinted at her, struggling to see her as the lights poured around her, blurring her silhouette. "Am I not allowed to do that, either?"

"Not tonight, you're not." She tossed the wipe into the trash bin, though I hadn't even swiped it over my skin. It could have been reused, could have been put back into its container—but I gritted my teeth and saved my energy. No point arguing with her over this. "We're going out to celebrate."

"Out?" I leaned into my chair and folded my arms. "I'm exhausted. Can't we celebrate another night?"

Grace shook her head. "You'll be filming all week, and this is the only night we could bypass the line at Gastrognome."

I gasped. Gastrognome was a brand new restaurant in L.A., known for its trendy Californian Fusion food, and its insanely lengthy waitlist to get a table. It had opened a few weeks ago, and while I'd been intrigued by it—the chef was a mystery, no one knew his name or where he came from—I'd refrained from attempting to get in. I hated using my fame to get ahead of others, and would rather wait my turn, like other consumers.

My producers didn't give a shit about my ethics, because they'd went and scored us a table anyway, likely using my name against my will. How long had they been planning this, I wondered?

"There's a month-long waitlist to get in." It was true; the place was so hyped, their phone lines were always busy and their website impossible to use.

But that wasn't my main concern. I'd actually gotten a peek at the menu, and knew there was next to nothing I could order there without having to remove elements from my dish. How embarrassing would that be? To show up at a brand new restaurant and pull apart the meals because I was too picky and unwilling to try them as is?

"Well," Grace flashed me one of her fake smiles, "we got in."

By we, she meant I got in. My name was what carried weight, and she'd taken advantage of that.

"And we're going. You, me, Archie. Luca said he'd meet us there. Harry, the lead writer, will be joining us, and I figured you might want Elliot there, too."

Luca Kerr was my showbiz agent, and Elliot Black was my best friend and also my makeup artist.

I snickered at Grace. "I wish you would have run this by me sooner. Seriously, I'm beat."

"We all are," said Grace, pointing at my hanging wardrobe on the other side of the spacious room. "Get changed, and we'll head out in about an hour. Gastrognome doesn't fuck around with time slots."

I huffed, puffed, sniffled a little—then adjusted my attire. But not without frowning the entire way through.

***

Gastrognome was packed outside, but quiet inside. Eager foodies cramped in front of the sturdy off-white facade covered in rose vines, waiting their turn to enter, or attempting to barter with the security staff—yes, security staff—to get in.

The place was such an unanticipated success that the owner had had no choice but to employ guards to protect the doors and to check exclusive tickets sent via encrypted emails.

Never in any of my restaurants had such an ordeal happened. People reserved, waited their turn, didn't try to trick the maître D to get in. I wasn't sure if it was because those who frequented my restaurants were more laid back, or if there'd been so much publicity for Gastrognome that it had drawn consumers far and wide to come sample the exquisite menu.

I, on the other hand, wasn't looking forward to the experience. If I wrinkled my nostrils as we passed the threshold, I hoped no one noticed. It wasn't related to style—the restaurant was perfectly set up—but my moodiness.

I did not want to be there.

We were led into a dimmed area of convivial round tables and cushioned chairs. Most were filled up already, with waiters wandering between them to pour wine or water and take orders. Light music played in the background, and the scents wafting over to me from passing dishes ruffled my feathers. Everything smelled delicious, but I wouldn't eat most of it.

Our table was in a far corner, away from most patrons, to give us privacy. I didn't care, but Grace and Archie liked isolation. Luca would of course go with whatever they asked for; he tended to be a bit of a pushover.

Elliot and I grimaced as we followed our host, then sat next to each other in the corner, affording us the best view of the place.

I set my napkin in my lap and tried not to wince as I opened the menu, already aware of what awaited me. The only thing I wouldn't complain about was the wine—all the vintages were from France or Italy, which were my favorite.

So as Grace and Archie rehashed events of the day, and Luca and Elliot conversed about some of the audience reactions, I ogled the rich red wine I'd ordered, begging my stomach to stop growling. Of course I was hungry—the chef's dish on the show had left my mouth watering, but I'd refused to take another bite when I found out his secret ingredient were mushrooms.

Gastrognome's menu was so...overpriced. So exclusive, with fancy imported ingredients from Italy, some from France and Spain. There were guarantees at the bottom of every page, promises that each dish was crafted with devotion to recipes invented by the chef's grandmother.

Grandmother, goodness. Whoever this chef was, they were sentimental, meaning they wouldn't take kindly to me pulling apart their dishes.

I was starving. From what I'd discerned on this menu, there were three, maybe four dishes I could order and get away with removing a few items.

But I hated being watched while making such requests.

Everyone knew me as the Picky Chef, but that didn't mean I enjoyed my pickiness. It didn't mean I was proud of it. I habitually dined solo, because I disliked having all eyes on me as I I ordered my modified meals.

Tonight, I was put on the spot. And naturally, everyone listened eagerly as I whispered no onions, no tomatoes, no mushrooms, no parmesan.

"No parmesan?" The waiter's expression tightened, his eyebrows elevating. "Did you want a different cheese instead? The dish is meant to be...cheesy. With parmesan cheese, precisely."

I bit my lower lip. Grace was trying so hard not to laugh, and Archie was studying his wrinkly knuckles with disgust. Elliot was the only one not judging me, sniffing at their beverage while peering askance.

"Perhaps, but I would prefer Swiss or Gruyère, if you have it." I slammed the menu closed and shoved it into the waiter's hands. "Thank you."

The waiter gave a quick nod, though I caught him muttering to himself as he flurried off towards the kitchens.

We raised our glasses for a toast. "To Food Me and its indisputable success," said Grace, her sharp voice rising above the noise in the room. "To our incomparable picky chef and her picky ways; may she keep us in business for many more years to come!" She winked at me, and I scrunched my nose.

I'd taken one sip from my drink when I heard the kitchen doors burst open. The racket around us lessened, as I noticed a man dressed in all black standing in the threshold, glaring about the room.

He was tall, sleeves rolled up to reveal bulky, tattooed arms. Handsome, I'd have guessed from afar. He then removed his black chef's hat, and messy but short dark hair tumbled out, confirming my initial thoughts.

But his face was red—from the kitchens or from anger, I couldn't tell—and he glowered at my table as he stormed up to us.

Up close, I noticed his eyes were a light caramel flecked with green, but flaring red. Glowing, almost, with rage. The same enraged red that dotted his tanned cheeks. The scruff along his chin was decorated with perspiration, and his lips bared to display a row of straight, white teeth. From the way he snarled, I wondered if his canines were pointed like a vampire's.

He was, all things considered, hot. And not just temperature-wise—he stopped nearest me and heat radiated off him in waves. There was something about his anger that was appealing. The way he scrutinized each guest at my table made me wonder how he'd gotten so easily flustered.

"Who," he said, his voice coming out rougher, raspier than I'd expected it, "ordered the special without onions, tomatoes, mushrooms, or parmesan?"

Everyone's gaze switched to me. I fought the urge to curl up in my seat. This happened occasionally—a chef would stomp out of their lair to check on the mental health of the person who'd selected a dish with little to no toppings or spices on it.

But this guy was pissed, more so than I'd seen any other chef in a long time. Worse than those who protested my book about endorsing picky eating. Worse than those who wrote bad press about me, claiming my pickiness was for show.

And he was pissed at me.

I didn't need to—they'd all singled me out, anyway—but I raised my hand, smiling. "That was me."

He narrowed his gaze, angling backwards as he took in my appearance, from my ginger curls to my decolleté to my hands clasped and fidgety atop the table. "Béatrice Balzac?"

The way he pronounced my name—with the proper French accent in the right place—made me shudder. He spoke in a lilted, Californian tune, like a west coast native.

And I'd thought he was hot? I'd expected a sexy Italian accent, not this.

"Yes?" I fluttered my lashes at him. "And you are?" I eyed him up and down, assessing him. "The sous-chef?"

"The chef," he said, almost cutting me off. "And the owner. And while I admire your cooking skills, I don't appreciate a chef of your caliber barging into my restaurant by throwing your name around, pushing past others who waited for this privilege, and then removing all the best parts of my food from your order."

He knew who I was, and though he'd said admire, I didn't get that from him at all. No, he was one of those chefs who believed I was talented, but I wasted it on meals made for children without taste. He admired my marketing tactics, my wealth; not me, not what I did for other picky eaters like me.

"I appreciate the compliment," I responded with a placating smile. "But I didn't barge in. My crew took me here, you see. My name had nothing to do with it."

He was the chef and the owner? Gastrognome kept its chef's name a secret, and he'd just outed himself.

My nose picked up on the scent of herbs and juicy meat on his gloves, mixed with the stench of latex.

He removed said gloves when he caught me staring, and bunched in his hands. "Still, you're here critiquing my food, and I don't remember being informed of any critics coming in tonight." He towered over me, his eyes glistening, still flashing red.

I displayed a taunting smile. "Were you expecting me to apologize?"

Did he expect me to beg him to fix my dish the way it was supposed to be? The nerve.

He scoffed, taking a step backwards. "I expected you to eat the dish as it's intended."

I scoffed right back, knowing full well I sounded like a petulant child, but I didn't care. His turf or not, I wouldn't let him tell me how to eat my food. "I don't like onions or tomatoes or mushrooms or parmesan." I shrugged, picking up my wine glass. There'd be no groveling from me. I stood by my decisions, always. "But this is delicious, so thank you."

His mouth popped open, but no sound came out. His thick eyebrows furrowed, lifted, then furrowed even farther down before he spun away and marched right back to the kitchen. The doors smacked shut behind him, leaving the atmosphere thick with silence and tension.

I stared around myself, the hot-cold spell between the chef and I broken. But we'd made quite the spectacle. Patrons had quit eating, observing us. Some were taking pictures, others filming.

I downed my entire glass and shook it in the air, desperate for more booze. "So I guess we'll be on social media tonight, a little sooner than planned."

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