When I woke, I immediately knew I wasn't home. Something about the smell—not a bad smell, per se, but not the one I was used to—was off-putting. Something about the textured sheets scraping against my skin told me that the whole escapade with a hot chef last night hadn't been a dream.

I opened my eyes. The bed—ah, so we'd made it to a bed, then?—was spacious, with linens in shades of black, gray, beige. A covered window to the left let a few trickles of morning light in, spotlighting a dresser straight across from me, piles of books atop it. One of them, I noticed with a gulp, was mine.

The walls were decked with obscure artwork I struggled to identify. There was a door to my far right, partially open to show a closet, and beyond it what appeared to be a bathroom. Lights were on, but I heard no noise, no inkling that a person was inside.

I rolled out of bed, hoping to locate my clothes before remembering we'd stripped near a couch...which had to be in a living room of sorts. I grabbed a blanket from the floor, wrapped it around myself like a towel, and took a deep breath before slithering out of the room, via the large door by the dresser.

I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting—maybe he'd be making coffee and breakfast, since he was a chef. Maybe he'd be tidying up; something told me we'd made quite the mess last night. Or maybe he was in the bathroom, getting ready to shower off our antics, and waiting for me to join him.

"No," I whispered to myself as I tiptoed into the open-plan living room. "I don't think he's here at all."

High ceilings, lofty windows with a view on a balcony, art-deco style furniture all spread out—this place was nice. Smaller than my mansion, but tasteful and much cleaner than I'd have expected for a busy chef living alone. I'd imagined an obstacle course of dirty laundry and clutter as I initially entered the place last night; but it had been dark, and I was too drunk to be coherent or to make decorative observations.

Strange that I didn't have a throbbing headache as I navigated through his living room, unsure if I wanted to see him or not. A one-night-stand was just that—one night. We didn't need to see each other again.

And yet that tension between us, the hatred that fueled my desire...that had been sizzling. I didn't remember every aspect of our fucking, but from the condom wrappers on the floor, like a trail leading to his bedroom, I must have enjoyed it. I must have asked for more.

I found my underwear, my bra, and my phone, which must have slipped out of my jacket pocket. The message icon blinked with several unread texts, but I'd look at those later—they were probably from Elliot, checking up on me.

As I lowered between the coffee table and the orange-colored couch—how had I not seen that thing flashing in the dark?—I spotted another stack of books.

And a copy of one of my other best-sellers, with a bookmark protruding from its pages.

"Fuck." I shot up and hurried to put my layers back on, my heart racing in my chest.

When he'd said he knew who I was, he knew who I was. He owned both my books and was currently reading one of them. Had he seduced me on purpose? Was he some groupie who'd been fan-boying over me for years? Was this all planned, from the berating at his restaurant to accidentally stumbling upon me in the club?

Typical celebrity panic attack—I worried often about being followed, being stalked. It was the price to pay for fame; always being on display, having to be on your best behavior, sometimes even in your own home.

Not that I didn't have fun. One-night-stands weren't uncommon for me, but they were generally more premeditated. I had a standard NDA I asked my partners to sign before we did anything, to protect myself and my assets.

I had no doubt that in this drunken disaster, I hadn't requested this man to sign anything except to maybe draw his name on my ass with his tongue.

"Shit." I fell onto the couch and reached for my purse, which I'd dropped as we were busy undressing. I rummaged through it, searching for—what? Something missing? As if this guy would have stolen from me?

I was frantic, my breaths painful as they escaped my mouth. I set the purse on my lap, arched my back, sucked in a big gulp of air, and released.

"This is fine. It will be fine." I slid the purse strap over my shoulder and stood up, concluding that this man that I never got the name of wasn't here. There was no note, no trace of cooking in the kitchen—I checked—and I hadn't heard a single human noise except for my own ragged breathing.

He'd woken up and taken off, leaving me to wake on my own in his apartment, disoriented and hyperventilating? He clearly wasn't here. If he was, he'd have heard me, he'd have said something. Right?

Nice. Thanks.

Who did that? All my other conquests were respectful. They didn't necessarily cook me a gourmet breakfast, but they at least said goodbye before they kicked me out. (Since I never let anyone into my house, to keep my location as close to a secret as I could.)

But this guy? He bailed, abandoning me with no clue of what he was doing. I couldn't tell how old he was; most likely in his lower thirties, like me. My generation was certainly not raised to act like this.

Any memories of our tryst erased from my mind. Anger flared up in me instead. "Fine. Fuck you too, hot chef." I marched to the front door, spun for one last look at his loft, picturing his eyes roving over my body as we did shots at the bar. "Nope. No regrets, but never again."

As I exited, closing his door without caring whether it locked behind me—that was his problem, not mine—I pulled up my text messages and shot a quick "I'm okay, going home now" to Elliot, to appease them. I knew they'd keep texting until they started calling, and then they'd send my agents after me.

I then pressed the speed-dial number for my car service, and Cole, my driver slash bodyguard, answered at once.

"Where are you?" His voice was subtly panicked, as if he was trying to be calm but struggling to contain the shaking fear in his tone.

I'd employed Cole for years, and he was the most loyal member of my entourage. Never out of line, never rude, always reading my body language to know when I needed help, or when I needed to be left alone.

He'd been kept out of the loop last night—thank you, Grace, for not giving a shit about my security. And while I had no doubt Elliot had warned him of what was going on, he'd be disappointed to not have heard it from me.

"Uh," I peered around as I found a window in the corridor, "hm, let's see if I can recognize it."

"You don't know where you are? Béatrice—"

"—hang on, Cole, I'm looking out the window in the building's hallway. Ah!" I spotted busy streets, facades painted with artsy graffiti, brick buildings with strings of light. There were towering skyscrapers in the near distance, sun reflecting on their mirrored surfaces.

Damn, it was a beautiful view from here.

Cole's annoyance burst into my ear, reminding me I was on the phone. "Could you turn on your location on your phone? I've been driving around for hours—"

"—oh, duh." I put him on speaker as I browsed through my cell, pulling up my maps app. "Oh, okay. I'm in Downtown L.A. Looks like..." I zoomed in, squinting at the screen. "Arts District."

"On my way. I see your location now. Don't get out of the building until I tell you to."

"Bossy," I said as I ended our call.

I kept near the window, as it had a view on the main street below. It didn't take long for Cole's sleek black SUV to pull up and park, and for his bulky frame to climb out and hurry to the bottom of the building I was in. I was up two, three floors; but seconds after I'd seen him, he appeared at the top of a stairwell, hardly even breaking a sweat.

"Let's go," he said, his hazel eyes twinkling with all sorts of emotions I'd have to unpack later, once we were in the car. We were friends—never slept together, never wanted to—and I knew him almost as well as I knew myself. He was a big guy—all muscle—and always so serious, but I was able to get a smile from him more often than anyone else. That wouldn't be happening today, though; from the way he scowled at me, I knew I was in trouble. "Car's running, and I don't like the look of this place."

I narrowed my gaze on him as I accepted his hand when he tipped it towards me, urging me on. "The Arts District is fine, Cole."

"You're the boss, but this is my domain, Béa." He almost pushed me down the stairs, in his haste to get me into the car. "And if I don't like it, then I overrule you."

It was an agreement from long ago. Cole was born and raised in L.A., and knew all its ins and outs, its nooks and crannies, its good areas and not so good. I was a French native, having lived in Paris, and I was no innocent damsel; but Cole refused to hear it. When it came to security, I left him in charge of making decisions.

Last night...was a bad decision.

As I crept into the backseat and buckled in, Cole slipped in front and got us moving. "Home, I presume?"

I nodded. "I have to shower and drink boatloads of coffee before going back to the studio. More episodes to film."

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "Who was he?"

I arched an eyebrow, catching his gaze in the mirror. "Who said it was a he?"

"Elliot." He swerved down a small alley; a short-cut to avoid traffic. We weren't in a hurry, but if Cole could save time by employing his street-knowledge, he would.

"Naturally," I rolled my eyes, "they can't help reporting all my comings and goings to you. But they don't know about my comings—"

Cole gagged and raised a hand to stop me. "I don't want to know. You were safe?" I nodded. "And did he sign an NDA?"

I froze, remembering that tiny detail. "We, uh...we were too trashed."

Cole let out a heavy breath. "But you know who he is? You could find him and have him sign something after the fact, if needed?"

"He's a chef." I scratched my forehead, then remembered I hadn't even checked my reflection before leaving the chef's place. I'd been in such a hurry to get my clothes on and get out that I hadn't made sure I didn't look like a chaotic tangle of ginger tresses and melting makeup.

I fetched a compact mirror from my purse and sighed in relief. My cheeks were a bit blotchy, and my lipstick had smeared, but no running mascara, and my hair wasn't as wound up as it could be.

"I know where he works."

And that...was it. No name, no number, no further information aside from him reading my books and knowing who I was and loathing my methods. There were many chefs in the L.A. scene, so the odds of seeing him again were slim, unless I ventured to his restaurant.

This had been a one-night-stand, anyway; I wasn't on the market for a relationship, and evidently neither was he.

This was a good thing, and still, something bubbled in me. Something resembling discomfort, confusion. But I couldn't fully pinpoint what it was, so I assumed it was my body reacting to all the booze. I needed caffeine, a scalding shower, and a quick yoga session.

"Fine." Cole's shoulders relaxed, only a smidgen. "Then let's get you home."

Home was in Brentwood Heights, north of Brentwood Park. A large, white mansion, with rounded windows and high, trimmed bushes, and a fancy, state-of-the-art security system to get past. The stone courtyard led to a set of white double doors, beyond which were marble floors spread out into an entryway, two living rooms, and a generous kitchen. Up the white-wood stairs were rooms, an office, and the most exquisite walk-in closet loaded with anything from cocktail dresses to designer bathing suits that I never wore.

I didn't take any of it for granted. I was rich, very much so, but I'd worked my ass off to get here. Culinary school, bartending, table-waiting, dish-washing—I'd done all of it until I finally scraped together enough money to do something about myself.

I self-published a cookbook geared towards picky eaters.

The rest was history, and that history lined the off-white walls of my decadent house. That history was contained in sleek black frames: the first contracts, first signatures, pictures of the first restaurant, first televised interview, first book signing. Pictures of me at a stove, tossing ingredients into a pan. Pictures of me serving up a masterpiece to a harsh reviewer—who'd given me five stars after eating my meal.

As I removed my shoes in the hallway leading to my bedroom, I passed my fingers over the picture of me raising a glass of champagne, a giant smile on my face. That was the day I'd been declared a best-seller. I was no writer, but I'd enjoyed committing all my tips and tricks to paper, compiling them all into a book. My agent and I had opted not to use a ghost-writer to rewrite my originally self-published debut, and it had paid off.

I opened my French doors, took a whiff of the lingering fruit and vanilla scent, and let my facade fall. Béatrice, the normal, picky, but still food-loving woman, was home.

***

Later, Cole drove me into Studio City, where Food Me! was filmed.

In the mirror, he kept looking at me differently. Like he was worried, unsure about leaving me here at my place of work.

It wasn't like he'd never picked me up after a one-night-stand, but he usually knew about them beforehand, because I always warned him. For the first time in years, I'd been too inebriated to bother calling him. Surely he was disappointed in me, not because I slept around, but because I hadn't given him the heads up like I habitually did.

In my dressing room, Elliot was waiting. They'd tied their medium length brown curls into a ponytail and removed their hands from their loose jeans at the sight of me.

"The walk of shame!" They laughed and patted at the makeup chair. "Our fearless chef has returned."

I pursed my lips at them as I threw my purse on the couch and fell into the chair. "Don't start."

"Okay, but I have to know," they said, unfastening my wet bun of hair, running their lengthy, thin fingers through the strands. "How was it?"

Elliot and I had been best friends for as long as I could remember. When I moved to L.A., lost in the crowd of rising celebrities, a newbie to most aspects of American life, Elliot had been a dishwasher at the diner where I got my first job.

We bonded over so many things at once and ended up hooking up occasionally over the years. But it had been eons since we'd last felt the need to see each other naked, and we kept our friendship simple now. They did my hair and makeup while I gossiped about my life; most of which they already knew about.

"Béaaaa," they said, swirling around me to do who-knew-what with my hair. They always had requirements from the production and writing team; themes to match for my outfit, or to go with the guest chef's dish, which everyone except for me knew ahead of time. "Come on, spill. How was he? You two looked ready to eat each other, and I don't mean in a sexual way."

"I wanted to bite his head off," I said, trying not to snarl as they applied moisturizer to my needy skin. "The way he embarrassed me at the restaurant—"

"—wait." Elliot paused in front of me, their baby-blue eyes widening on me, scanning my face for immediate answers. "That guy at the club...that was the chef from Gastrognome? The same guy? Stop."

I waved at them to quit ogling me. "Yeah, you didn't know?"

"I mean he looked familiar, but..." Elliot bit their lip, leaving teeth marks in their aubergine lip-stain. "I guess I had too much to drink because I didn't put two and two together. Like, at all."

"Oh, I'd never forget that face." I imagined it now; those eyes dark as the night, that hair smelling of roses and mint, those lips, so plump and juicy I'd expected some syrupy texture to escape them as we kissed.

Damn, I didn't expect to remember him so well.

Fuck, everything about him was so infuriatingly hot. As I recounted some of the moments I remembered to Elliot, I could tell they fought against the redness spreading over their cheeks.

They were pansexual, like me, and knowing our common tastes, I was sure they'd found this chef incredibly sexy, too. More so when he was brooding and cruel to me.

He was irritating. Pompous. Stuck in his ways. He was everything I loathed, and yet...

There'd been something about his deep voice, the rumble of rage roaring out of him, that had flipped so many switches in me that I'd been unable to resist.

That hadn't happened to me in a long time. If ever.

And Elliot knew that, too. They flinched a few times while I spoke of this mystery chef, and I assumed they worried I might want seconds. I might want to hunt this guy down to get another round—a more sober one.

But I wouldn't. I had too much going on with the show, and no time to waste with angry chefs who turned me on.

◘