A week passed.

A week of biting my nails, researching every restaurant in L.A. to figure out where he'd take me. I looked from the cheapest, easiest places where I'd presumably be able to eat something I liked, to the luxurious, elite-style venues where food was served and you ate what was there, or else.

I narrowed down my list by Thursday night—the night before the date—to three potential places he might take me.

The first was a French bistro venue that was booked months out, with an exclusive menu that changed daily. No one knew what was on it until they were presented with their food. It was out-there—the chef was French, a friend I'd collaborated with a few times—and unquestionably the type of place Zane would want to embarrass me at. Eating somewhere that served all the dishes of my heritage and that I hated? Perfect for him.

Zane wouldn't be able to get a table there, though. The chef and I were still on good terms, and I doubted he'd make any favors for someone dragging me down.

One other option was an Indian cuisine place—I notoriously disliked Indian food, so that'd be a great opportunity for Zane to mess with me.

And a spicy, up-and-coming sushi joint that was known for refusing to substitute or change any of the rolls on their menu.

I was maniacally pacing back and forth near my front door by the time Friday night came along. In his final email—pretty vague, but I took it seriously—Zane informed me to don something somewhat formal. So I opted to wear a knee-length cocktail dress and stilettos, and I put on casual but sophisticated makeup—approved by Elliott via text message.

I felt like my stomach was going to explode.

Not only because I had no idea where we were eating, which was its own source of anxiety; but because being seen with Zane, seeing Zane, was a big deal.

In his presence, I either lost my cool and blew up, or I hiked my skirts up and begged him to fuck me. There was no in between, no happy medium when he and I were together. We couldn't be friends, allies, cordial. And that notion scared me to the point of shaking.

I didn't want to do this. Realistically, I could still back out—but when Cole told me it was time to go, I sensed panic coiling up in my chest.

I had to do this, no matter how badly I dreaded it.

Cole knew where we were going and wouldn't tell me.

"You've been bribed," I said to him as he blindfolded me and helped me into the backseat. "I thought you were on my team."

"I am," he said, hopping into the front seat. "But I'm also on the team that wants you two to resolve this. It's been exhausting, Béa."

I tended to forget that Cole not only took me all over town, but he saw my breakdowns, he ran my errands, and he oversaw the protection of my estate. Several times in the past few months, he'd averted break-ins and he'd had stalkers arrested. He'd been on alert twenty-four seven whenever I received a mildly alarming post or tag on the internet.

He wasn't my driver; he was my bodyguard, my friend, and all this nonsense weighed on him, too. He dealt with the technical side of it all, and of course he was exhausted. Before this scandal, he only had minor issues to handle with me, because my public image was so positive. Now it was so mixed he likely didn't know how to decipher fake threats from real.

"Give me a hint," I said, clasping my hands and nearly losing my balance as the car took a sharp turn. "A tiny one."

"I can't," he said, sounding sincerely apologetic. "Luca called me and told me not to inform you of anything. It was a stipulation from Zane and his team. If you found out where you were going, you'd freak out and cancel the whole thing. And you need this, Béa. We all do."

I winced, yearning to itch at the fabric cloaking the upper part of my face. I'd lived in L.A. for a long time, and always thought I could make my way around with my eyes closed. But having my eyes closed in the back-seat of a car was too destabilizing.

When the vehicle finally stopped, and Cole let me out, I had a sense of where we were before he removed the blindfold. I heard the snap snap of cameras, the clamor of a crowd gathered nearby.

As I blinked my eyes open, I cringed.

It was the French restaurant, the one I'd convinced myself Zane would never get us into.

"Traitor," I whispered under my breath, thinking of my chef contact that I'd be having a word with later. If I survived this.

Lines of paparazzi had shown up. Who'd informed them? Zane's agent, mine? My staff? Zane's staff? The restaurant? All of the above?

I swallowed my angst. This was what I'd wanted—a public setting for Zane and I to hash out our differences. For us to be seen together, making an effort, and to dissuade all my haters from their cruel content.

And then, my gaze found him.

Zane stood at the door of the faded brick building, donning a giant, smug smile. The spotlights from the awning flashed over his face, making him glow. He wore dark slacks, a salmon-colored shirt, and a fancy diamond watch over his left wrist. Everything about him was handsome, distracting, and rich.

That motherfucker had definitely profited from my demise.

He was everything I remembered him to be; charmingly pompous, so evidently arrogant that one would hate him at first glance, but adore him once they'd heard him speak. I could smell his overpriced musk from where the car had left me, and tried not to suck in too many breaths while the cameras were watching.

Jerk. Hateful, spiteful asshole. Incredibly awful piece of—

Teeth gritted, I made my approach. He removed his hands from his pockets and straightened up as I arrived before him, posing with my hand on my hip—for dramatic effect.

"Well," he said, eyeing me from head to toe, keeping his mouth slightly open, his eyes glistening like he'd uncovered a jewel in a dark cove. "Maybe I should have asked you out before fucking you."

I narrowed my gaze, but didn't let the plastered smile budge from my face. "Already admitting your mistakes? I'm shocked."

"My only mistake was underestimating you," he said, still admiring me like I was his favorite dish.

He was so magnetic, so hard to despise when he stood before me looking so appealing, so goddamn perfect. Like a Greek god straight out of a movie, muscles poking out and his strong jawline reminding me of the force of his kisses.

Fuck you, Zane Rose.

As we sidled up to one another to allow the cameras a few fake candid pictures of us greeting one another, I sucked my lips in and squeezed my eyes shut.

How had I not jumped him at the conference? It was surprising that he hadn't found my hotel and pounded on my door to confront me. He'd have ended up pounding something else if he'd done that, but he hadn't. He'd left me alone.

Some angry sex after the conference might have been a relief, actually. And I never got it.

That closure I thought I'd gotten from him...it wasn't closure. It was another round because I'd wanted it, deep down.

I still wanted to fuck Zane Rose, and I loathed myself for it.

"A French restaurant?" We stood shoulder to shoulder with frowns on our faces, playing into our public personas of hating one another. Though I didn't believe it was much of a game for either of us. "When you know damn well I can't stomach French food. Nice tactic."

I wouldn't tell him this was my nightmare coming true. I wouldn't tell him it took all my energy to hide how my legs shook, how my belly grumbled, how my fingers were coated with sweat.

If he saw any opportunity to further ruin me, he'd use it. And tonight, I couldn't let him win.

"Who said it was a tactic? I like French food." His elbow jabbed me; purposely or not, I couldn't tell. "I figured you'd make do."

I snorted, pretending to playfully want to punch him; deep down, my urge was far from playful.

We allowed a few more snaps before Zane waved at the crowd and turned to the door. "Shall we?"

I hesitated. It was too long of a hesitation, because Zane arched an eyebrow, questioning me.

Are you in, or are you out?

I swallowed.

"Face your fears, Béa," said Mom's voice, echoing in my head.

It wouldn't be so bad. I'd had French food all my life and knew how to avoid the things I disliked. This was a luxury restaurant; the portions would be small, easy to wash down with some good wine. And they'd have good wine here, I had no doubt.

If I got a bit inebriated, maybe I'd be able to fool myself into doing this. Into proving Zane and everyone else wrong.

I didn't have to be picky.

He slipped his hand around my waist to gently urge me inside, before any more photographers got wind of my hesitation.

I almost thanked him, but as I twisted my neck to look at him and caught that immaculate, painted-on smile, I held my words back.

I wanted to smack him. Bite his face off. Bite his face. Bite his lips, his tongue, his—

I shook myself as the smells from inside wafted into my nose. I tightened my jaw and prepared myself for the worst.

Smells were one thing; tastes were another. I loved all kitchen smells—the spicy, the sour, the fragrant. That was how I cooked elements I disliked, by gauging their aroma. But taste? The notion of putting anything I disliked near my mouth, to even have my lips touch it, made me want to gag.

The aromas all blended so well in this Michelin four-star location of impeccable repute. I'd never stepped foot in here—believe it or not, my chef friend who owned it told me not to. Yet there I was, doing what he'd asked me not to do. He'd allowed it.

I peered around the area as the hostess led us to our isolated table. All tables were isolated, in fact; circular booths surrounded by high, bushy fences that made it look like we were dining out in a garden. Flowers decorated the tops of these hedges, and sat in artsy vases on the polished wooden surfaces.

All tables were spaced out, but still had views on other patrons dining near them. So a few of those patrons saw us arrive, watched as we were seated. They didn't wave, didn't speak; they gawked in our direction as we set our burgundy napkins in our laps and tried to get comfortable.

They probably wondered what the fuck I was doing there.

Yeah, me too, guys.

We sat across from one another, and the table was small enough that if we moved our legs at the same time, they'd touch. I made sure to keep mine to the side, away from his. I refused to give him any opening to seduce me again.

A waiter brought out a bottle of the restaurant's finest vintage, a deep Chianti red that I'd once seen in a magazine as being one of the most overpriced wines.

I wouldn't decline a glass or two—or fifteen. The more buzzed I was, the more relaxed this whole ordeal would be. And the less I would be able to taste the food I dreaded eating.

"Compliments of the chef," said the waiter in a thick, near-fake French accent.

I glowered up at the poor man. "Tell your chef," I wrinkled my nostrils, "that I'd love to have a chat with him later."

Zane waved the waiter off. "Leave the man alone," he said under his breath, sounding irritated though I noticed a hint of a smile.

He was enjoying this. He knew my affinities with this restaurant's chef and he'd likely used them to my disadvantage.

"Prick," I said, not bothering to lower my voice.

He grinned at me, lifting his glass. "To pricks, then," he clicked his tongue, "and not just the one between my legs."

"Oh, you little..." I clenched my leg muscles to keep my feet from launching right at that space between his legs. "You think you're funny, do you?"

"I think I'm hysterical." Our glasses touched, our eyes met, and we both pulled away before any sort of sparks could fly between us. "Especially when I'm not being dragged in the media."

"Who's dragging who?" I sipped and tried not to melt into my seat from the delightful full-bodied flavor on my tongue. "God, this is fantastic."

His expression grew more serious as he inclined his head. "I don't get everything wrong," he muttered, after taking a sip from his glass. "I wouldn't make you go through with this without a delicious wine to accompany it."

This made me nervous; what he referred to was the specialty of the night, which I was unaware of. Something told me he knew exactly what it was, and he couldn't wait to delight in my disgust, to snap pictures of my grimace, and to throw them all over the internet for everyone to mock.

"It's going to be awhile," he said, setting his glass down. "They might bring out appetizers, but I do think we should talk business before we're too busy eating."

I took one more guzzle before depositing my glass and joining my hands atop the table. "Talk, then."

What I meant was, apologize, but I doubted asking him upfront would lead to anything good.

"You want me to talk? You started this. You," he gestures at me, "and your TV show got me roped up into all this crap."

"Excuse me? You're the one who agreed to come on despite having slept with me." My fingers stiffened. "You should have known what you were stepping into. Fame isn't suited for everyone."

"I don't care about the fame." His leg grazed mine, and I cursed in my head. Hadn't I kept myself far away from him? Why was he so close? "I care about how you embarrassed me. How you wouldn't try, just a tiny little bite to make me..."

"To validate you." I lifted a finger, then pressed it to the table. "You expected to come onto my show and have me sing your praises, right?" He nodded once. "Wrong. That wasn't the point. It was about fooling me, showing your skills through your ability to trick me into eating. Not presenting me with your favorite dish and demanding that I try it and compliment your style."

"One bite." He leaned forward, and I smelled his sexy musk again, and the hint of wine in his breath. "One tiny fucking bite, Béatrice."

I shuddered. Why did he have to say my name that way? So sensually, like every letter was a smooth syrup that he wanted to slurp up and revel in?

"Why did you lie about our fucking?" I sensed his leg against mine again, and I gritted my teeth. He was most definitely rubbing up on me on purpose.

The worst part was...I didn't hate it. He needed to stop, but I didn't want him to. I liked feeling him, liked knowing he was having a hard time resisting me as I struggled to not think of him naked.

I slowly ran my finger up and down the stem of my wine glass, maintaining eye-contact as I waited for his response.

"Lie?" He blinked, gulped, blinked again. "You mean, in the book?"

"You insinuated the sex with me wasn't all that good, but had I paid you for that damn ratatouille, you wouldn't have mentioned it." I angled over the table, pressing my breasts to the edge. Pushing them up and bringing Zane's focus to them, almost immediately. "Was that true? Because you certainly didn't sound like you were bored when I had your cock in my—"

"—Béatrice," he put a finger over his mouth, shushing me, "watch out." His cheeks reddened, but I caught a smirk, a twitch of his eyebrows when I'd said the word cock. "Of course I wasn't bored."

"Then why did you lie?" I pulled away and shrugged a few fingers through my messy mane of red hair, batting my lashes at him, pouting my lips. "You upset me. I thought we had a good time, despite our hatred. You came, I came—it was pretty fun, wasn't it?"

His jaw grew rigid, and cords went rigid in his neck. "It was fun. I did like it, but I...had to say something to..."

We switched gears. I took control. My words put him off, as I confronted him about the sex we knew damn well he'd enjoyed.

Now I was caressing his leg with my foot; I'd let my shoe fall off and trailed my toes along his tight pants, keeping to his calf, at first. And when he opened his mouth to finish his sentence, I moved up to his outer thigh.

"Béatrice," he warned, though he didn't stop me, didn't frown. There was lust growing in those obscure eyes of his, and I kept catching him peeping at my decolleté with hunger, his lips parted to show his dancing tongue.

He'd brought me here to fool me. But I wouldn't back out without playing my own game. He'd seduced me at that bar, the night of our one-night-stand, right? Well, it was my turn.

I drifted my foot to his inner thigh, and instantly felt something hard and pulsating between his legs.

Oh, he was turned on.

I didn't hide my pleasant surprise, instead showing him a radiant smile. "Hello, there."

I expected him to move aside, to stand up and break the contact between my toes and his erection; but he stayed put. His eyes were insistent, almost daring me. "Hi." He jutted forward, cramming my foot harder against his girth. "What are you up to?"

"Testing you," I said, slitting my eyes, extending my leg as far as I could to continue toying with him under the table. "Making sure you weren't lying about liking what I did with you on both occasions we were alone and naked together." I kept my voice leveled, low enough for only him to hear.

Waiters came and went, refilling our glass, delivering freshly baked bread and butter. No one saw what happened under the table, because thankfully, the tablecloth draped over the side and hid our action from view.

I felt watched, on display; but I had to do this. I had to get him to a point where he was close to losing it, and that was when he'd talk. He'd spill the beans and explain to me why he really hated me so much, and how I could fix it.

I bit into a buttered piece of bread, allowing crumbs to fall between my breasts, on purpose. I stuck a finger under the dress fabric and removed the crumb, never once disconnecting my gaze from his.

"The hot woman I slept with in France said I was excellent." I blushed, not on purpose. Thinking of that night with Clara raised my body temperature in delirious ways.

Plus, if hearing of me sleeping with someone else made him jealous in any way...that'd be quite satisfying.

"Oh, so one night stands are a thing for you?" He ran his tongue over his lips, thrusting forward and backward to ensure his cock rubbed up against my foot.

"Well," I said, emboldened by the wine, by the power I held over him with my body. "My sexual appetite is much deeper than my appetite for food."

He loved it. He thrived on his dick being touched, on the attention being focused on that and not on the food, the cooking, the busy careers.

For a second, his facade dropped. I thought I glimpsed the man beneath the game—kind-hearted, accepting, and enthralled by sex with me.

For a second, I wondered if I'd been wrong to expect the worst of him. Maybe he regretted it all. Maybe he wanted to bury the hatchet, too. And maybe he and I didn't have to loathe one another so much.

So maybe after tonight, we'd find a new professional relationship that only involved yelling while we were naked and rolling in the sheets.

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