Chapter 6
CLAUDIA
The pretty, stylish girl seated across from me leaned in a little like we were about to share secrets. Her eyes gleamed almost as brightly as her smile when she asked, “Really, what is it like to work with Sebastian Kennedy?”
Talk about a loaded question, but then the thirty minutes we’d spent together so far had been filled to bursting with innuendo and attempts at getting me to badmouth my fellow competitors.
Eight months after the competition’s end, people were still stuck on whether I kept in touch with anyone or if things were ever as strained as they appeared on camera—more drama manufactured by the producers.
There wasn’t much a clever editor couldn’t pull off.
Now, the conversation was turning from the generalities of adjusting to so-called normal life to the specifics of working with my braindead boss. The angel and devil on my shoulders fought for dominance, both filling my head with what I should say. Things like…
“There’s a reason Sebastian Kennedy has made it as far as he has. It’s an honor and a privilege to share a kitchen with him and learn all he has to teach. He is also distractingly hot.”
“Sebastian Kennedy is a self-important, self-righteous, talentless pain in the ass. Oh, and he’s gorgeous too.”
It’s funny how they both wanted me to comment on how distractingly attractive he was.
Boy, would it feel good to unburden myself and share exactly what I’d been through the past couple of weeks.
I’d bitten my tongue so many times it was a miracle the thing was still attached and functional.
I had come to crave the peace of him being away from the restaurant, busy with plans for his upcoming opening.
We were still two months away, but there were meetings, phone calls, and plans to be approved.
I couldn’t wait for the time when he would have to split the hours between one location and the other.
I flat-out looked forward to it and hoped he spent the bulk of his time over there on the other end of the Strip, far away from me.
But sharing something like that wouldn’t make for good press, and good press was what I was looking to drum up.
If not for his sake, definitely for mine.
“It has been a real learning experience,” I explained, using the words I’d practiced countless times in preparation for this interview with a local food writer.
“This is my first time working in a large, thriving kitchen like the one Sebastian runs at Home. I love the pace, I love the energy, and the people are fantastic.”
I knew when her eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second that I was cooked. “But what about Sebastian himself?”
“What about him?” I asked with a soft laugh, which I hoped wouldn’t betray my nerves.
Was this for real? I was doing my best to get out of this without insulting anyone, but she wanted her ‘gotcha’ moment.
I seriously regretted ever agreeing to this piece, but it was all about squeezing every last drop out of my short-lived fame.
“He’s notoriously inflexible.” She offered a tiny wince like she felt sorry for me. “What does that mean for an up-and-coming chef who wants to make a name for herself? Isn’t it frustrating being held back?”
What had started as suspicion was beginning to turn into certainty.
Folding my hands in my lap, I asked, “Why does it seem like you’re trying to corner me into saying something I don’t intend to say?
I didn’t come here to have words inserted into my mouth,” I reminded her as gently as I could while inside, I was beginning to seethe.
“With due respect, I would prefer sticking to the questions your editor forwarded to me before our meeting.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Somebody needed to tell the girl that when she said she was sorry, she should at least try to look or sound that way. “I didn’t mean to offend you. You know how it is… people have certain expectations. I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of that in the follow-up from your success.”
I had seen a lot of things in the follow-up from my success.
For instance, how fleeting it could be. How fickle people were.
How, in a world where reality competitions were being filmed and produced all the time, there was no longevity.
There would always be somebody new around the corner, waiting to claim their few minutes of fame.
There was no such thing as resting. Breathing.
I’d zigzagged across the country in the weeks after my victory, capitalizing on the freshness of my success.
But by the time the offers had dried up, once my name no longer stopped people in their tracks and I wasn’t being mentioned on morning talk shows anymore, it was clear my time had passed.
I couldn’t even get my own show, the way my agent was so sure I would in the aftermath.
Not that I wanted my own show—that had never been on the horizon for me.
But it went to show how easy it was for the public to turn away and forget.
I was beyond relieved when the interview ended, and I was free to leave the café.
Initially, I had planned on going home to catch up on some sleep afterward.
I only got one day off a week, and sleep had sort of fallen pretty far down my priorities.
I was too wired for sleep, though, and not only due to the iced latte I drank during the interview.
It was so obvious that the so-called reporter was trying to trick me into saying something inflammatory.
And while Sebastian Kennedy irked me in just about every conceivable way, I wasn’t trying to put him on blast in front of all of Las Vegas and anyone else who happened to read that article. All I needed was for word to spread that I enjoyed biting the hand that fed me.
Wouldn’t it have been nice, though? Telling her exactly what I thought?
The idea brought a grim smile, which was the only kind of smile I could muster upon entering my almost pitifully small apartment.
It was a hole in the wall, but all I could afford at the moment with my savings dwindling.
Yes, my award came with a hefty cash prize, but along with that came hefty taxes, not to mention the money that went to my agent each time she booked me an appearance on one television show or another.
Las Vegas wasn’t exactly known for its low cost of living, either.
Yet another reason to despise Brandon for what he did to me and for hating Shelby, thanks to her part in the betrayal.
Somebody who was supposed to be a friend, a supporter, a collaborator once we started working together.
To think, they had the nerve to act like it was an accident.
Like he had laid down in my bed, butt naked, and she had accidentally fallen on his dick. Whoopsie.
They had worked together to destroy my life, crush my spirit, and force me to drive all the way out here to the desert where Sebastian Kennedy could finish the job.
The thought of him made me ball up my sundress once I’d pulled it off, then throw it across the room in a pitiful attempt to vent my anger.
The prick went out of his way to glare coldly at me whenever our paths crossed.
He wouldn’t come out and call me a bitch or threaten my job.
It was much more fun for him to glower at me and keep me guessing.
I knew when he told me to leave the kitchen the night of his family dinner that the war was by no means over.
He had retreated, but only briefly to regroup.
Once I was dressed in my typical tee and shorts, I considered what to do with the rest of the day.
Rather than flop down on the double bed in the living room, which also served as my bedroom, I turned to the tiny kitchen area.
Really, it was nothing more than a corner of the single room that served as my home, aside from a bathroom too small to fit more than one person at a time unless one of them was in the tub.
I could spend the day fighting for any tiny bit of counter space here, or I could go to the restaurant and work on a few new recipes while it was closed as usual on a Monday.
No matter what the so-called great Sebastian wanted to believe, he needed new dishes for the new restaurant.
He probably only thought he understood what his diners wanted, like he thought the concept of pairing bread with a complimentary dipping oil was too avant-garde to be believed.
As usual, a woman would have to convince a man of what was best for him, but I’d have to take the long route around his ego. And his was bigger than most.
Thinking about the size of his hands, I had to wonder if certain other parts of him were also big. Stop it! As if I needed to blur the line of professionalism any worse than we already had.
The short drive passed quickly, my thoughts on what I wanted to do once I reached the kitchen.
I’d been toying with the idea of a deconstructed cobbler lately, or maybe a play on tiramisu.
Something that wouldn’t deviate too far from Sebastian’s original concept.
I could fill dessert cups with the mascarpone mixture, add ladyfingers on top, maybe pour an espresso and amaretto syrup over the top…
Few things could slow me down on my way through the locked door behind the restaurant’s kitchen, but a call from my best friend was one of them. I paused beside a stack of empty milk crates and answered, “Hadley, my love,” I sighed, searching for the right key on the heavy ring I carried.
“Claudia, my love,” she chirped. Her cheerful voice reminded me of everything I’d left behind by fleeing the East Coast. “How did your interview go?”
“Ugh.” I settled for leaving it there while unlocking the back door, deactivating the alarm, and flipping on the lights. Nothing compares to a sparkling, quiet kitchen. It felt as calming as stepping into a spa.