Chapter 7
SEVEN
She had spent the last few hours in a whirlwind of strategy sessions with Carmen, her agent, who had been alternating between panic and plotting since learning about Melody's one-night stand with Nate.
"Remember," Carmen had said, her voice still echoing in Melody's head, "keep it professional. But if he steps out of line, we'll be ready."
"I'm the one who needs to worry about line-stepping," Melody grumbled, nearly slicing her finger as she thought about it.
"Watch those fingers," Hannah called from the station next to her. "Blood isn't part of tonight's marinara recipe."
Hannah, her best friend since their freshman year at the University of Washington, had been the one to drag Melody to these weekly cooking classes six months ago. "If you're going to stress-eat pasta at midnight while writing," she'd said, "you might as well learn to make it properly."
Their friendship, forged over bad rom-coms and cheap wine in their dorm room, had only strengthened over the years. Hannah had been there through every major life event, including the passing of Melody's mother three years ago. She'd dropped everything to help Melody navigate those darkest days.
Now, between her freelance graphic design work and graduate studies, Hannah still made time for their weekly cooking sessions.
It was their sacred space – three hours where they could chop, stir, and work through life's complications over simmering sauces and fresh pasta.
"So," Hannah said, expertly rolling pasta dough while eyeing Melody's distracted chopping, "are you going to tell me what happened, or do I need to break out the emergency tiramisu?"
Melody managed a weak smile. "How about both?"
"Chef Marco!" Hannah called out to their instructor, blonde strands of her slipping from her oversized bun. "We're having a crisis over here. Permission to crack open the tiramisu early?"
Marco, a silver-haired Italian who treated cooking disasters with the same gravity as emotional ones, took one look at Melody's face and nodded. "Certainly. Some problems can only be solved with mascarpone."
Marco brought over two plates of tiramisu and discreetly adjusted the heat under their simmering sauces. "Take your time, ladies. Sometimes the best recipes need space to breathe."
As he moved to help another student, Hannah pulled Melody toward their favorite corner of the industrial kitchen. The familiar scents of garlic and herbs wrapped around them like a comfort blanket.
"Okay, spill," Hannah said, handing Melody a fork. "And I mean the story, not the sauce."
Melody launched into the tale between bites of tiramisu, starting with the anonymous one-night stand and ending with Carmen's frantic strategizing.
Her voice nearly cracked when she described the meeting where Nate had suggested “economically sound” changes to her manuscript.
"Hold up," Hannah interrupted, nearly dropping her fork. "Your new editor is the hot one-night stand guy? And he's Nathaniel Carlisle? As in, publishing royalty?"
Melody pushed mascarpone around her plate. "The one and only."
"Jesus, Mel. When you land in a mess, you really go for the full five-course disaster."
"Tell me about it.” She scoffed, abandoning her dessert to check on her sauce. The rhythmic motion of stirring helped calm her nerves. "And the worst part? He wants to change my writing. Make it more 'commercially viable'."
Hannah returned to her pasta dough. "Ouch. That's like telling Marco to make his grandmother's marinara more like Ragu."
"Exactly!" Melody's voice carried across the kitchen, earning curious glances from their classmates. She lowered her volume. "I mean, I get it. They're a business. But my stories... they're like these recipes, you know? They're real. Authentic."
"Of course they are.” Hannah’s hands continued working the dough. "That's what makes them so good. Like Marco always says - you can taste the truth in every bite."
Melody looked up at her friend, feeling a surge of gratitude. "Thanks, Han. I just... I don't know how to work with him. It's like trying to collaborate on a recipe when one person wants farm-fresh ingredients and the other wants instant mix."
The blonde sprite beside her dusted flour off her hands. "Well, let's break this down like a recipe. What are the base ingredients of working with Nate? Ignoring the whole sexy-times situation."
"He... he actually seemed to have read my books. Like, really read them. He mentioned specific scenes, characters. That's more than most of the suits at Carlisle have done."
"Okay, that's a good start. And personally? I mean, besides the obvious physical attraction. What flavors are we working with here?"
Melody felt her cheeks heat up, and not from the stovetop. "He's... intriguing. Sharp. There's more to him than just a pretty face and a trust fund. But he's also frustrating as hell."
Hannah grinned. "Sounds like the perfect recipe for a Melody Archer novel, if you ask me. A little sweet, a little spicy..."
"Not helping, Han!" Melody flicked water at her friend.
"Ladies," Marco called out, "less playing, more cooking. The sauce won't reduce itself."
They returned to their stations, but Hannah wasn't finished. "Seriously though, Mel. Maybe you should give him a chance. Professionally, I mean. If he's actually read your work and engaged with it, that's like finding a critic who appreciates authentic Italian over Olive Garden."
Melody sighed, testing her sauce. "I know. But what if he tries to change everything? What if he wants me to write those cookie-cutter romances where everyone's perfect and problems are solved with a kiss?"
Hannah adjusted the heat under her sauce. "Anyone who's read your books knows that's not your style. From what you've said, it sounds like Nate gets that. Like he understands the difference between processed and authentic."
"Maybe.” Melody reached for more basil. "But I've worked so hard to maintain my voice, my vision. Remember what happened with my first publisher?"
"God, how could I forget? That guy tried to turn your beautiful, complex story into 'Fifty Shades of Beige'. But Mel," Hannah paused to taste her sauce, "not every editor is going to water down your recipe."
Melody nodded, memories of that first disastrous publishing experience flooding back. The editor who'd wanted to strip away everything unique about her writing, who saw her characters as cardboard cutouts rather than living, breathing people. It had nearly made her quit writing altogether.
"Ladies," Marco interrupted, appearing between them. "Your sauces are reducing nicely, but remember - like good stories, they need attention. Stir, please."
As they returned to their respective pots, Hannah continued. "You know what your mom would say about this situation?"
Melody's hand stilled on the spoon.
Even three years later, mentions of her mother could still catch her off guard. "She'd probably say something wise about how the best recipes can handle adjustments without losing their soul."
"Exactly. And she'd tell you to trust your instincts. You always know when something's not right for your stories, just like you know when a sauce needs more garlic."
"Speaking of which," Marco said, suddenly materializing beside Melody's station again. He tasted her sauce and raised an eyebrow. "Two more cloves, I think. And perhaps a pinch more courage to trust your own palate?"
Melody laughed with a resounding snort. "Is this about the sauce or my life, Marco?"
"In my experience," he said with a knowing smile, "they are often the same thing." He moved on to inspect another student's work, leaving Melody to ponder his words.
"You know," Hannah started plating her finished pasta, "maybe this whole situation is like one of Marco's fusion recipes. Traditional elements meeting modern techniques. Sometimes the unexpected combinations create something amazing."
Melody looked at her—unblinking. “Just how many cooking metaphors are you going to throw at me tonight?"
"As many as it takes until you stop catastrophizing and start seeing the possibilities.
" Hannah brought her plate over to Melody's station.
"Think about it, Mel. You've always said you wanted to write a story that really challenges the romance genre.
Well, here you are, living it. A successful author, forced to work with her one-night stand who happens to be her new editor and the heir to a publishing empire.
It's got all the ingredients of a bestseller! "
"You're certifiably insane,” Melody said, but she was smiling.
"Maybe, but I'm also right. And I make better pasta than you."
As they finished plating their dishes for Marco's inspection, Melody felt some of her anxiety easing. The familiar routine of cooking, combined with Hannah's unwavering support and practical wisdom, had helped clear her head.
"So," Hannah said as they cleaned their stations, "what's your game plan for handling the next meeting with Publishing's Hottest Bachelor?"
"God, don't call him that," Melody groaned, but she was thinking it through. "I guess... I show up prepared. Know my non-negotiables. But maybe also... stay open to suggestions that might enhance the recipe without changing its essence?"
“Yesssss. Now you're getting it. And if he tries to push too far?"
"Then I channel my inner Marco and tell him to respect the traditional methods?"
They both glanced at their instructor, who was currently lecturing a student about the proper way to tear basil leaves. His passionate gestures and serious expression made them burst into giggles.
"Exactly," Hannah said. "Just maybe with less Italian hand gestures."
As they packed up their leftovers, Melody felt lighter than she had all day. The situation with Nate was still complicated, still potentially disastrous, but somehow it felt more manageable now. Like a complex recipe broken down into manageable steps.
"Same time next week?" Hannah asked as they headed for their cars.
"Wouldn't miss it," Melody replied. "Though maybe next time we stick to cooking and leave the life crises at home?"
“Are you screwing with me? Hell, half the reason I come to these classes is for the therapy.” Hannah threw a wink as she slipped behind the wheel. “The pasta is just a bonus."