Yes, Chef! (Innocent Series Book 1) Read online

  Yes, Chef!

  Published by JT Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by Kendall Duke

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright holder.

  Printed in the USA by JT Publishing

  All material is intended for adult purchase and purview.

  Delilah

  I was late! I was late, I was late, I was late—“Margot, move!” I jumped over my cat—a maneuver that I instantly regretted as I skidded across the floor and flattened against the door, in spite of the adrenaline rush any normal person would get while leaping over a darting cat—and blasted outside before she could follow me--yowling as she was, and admittedly much faster. At least usually. Today, I took too long getting ready for the interview of a lifetime and got behind schedule and knew I needed to hurry as fast as I could—the hell with the subway, I was taking a cab—and I was busting ass. I was flying, and not even Margot could slow me down.

  I jumped into a cab and impatiently bounced in my seat as the driver, an older woman with what I guessed was a permanently sarcastic expression on her face, eyed me wearily in the rearview the entire time. She must’ve been worried about her shocks, because it couldn’t be what I was wearing; this was New York, damnit, and besides, I looked good. Pincurls, fresh hibiscus behind the ear, a perfect cat’s eye (for once!) and my favorite dress. When we pulled up in front of NCD’s studio I thanked her monetarily for her time, then burst out of the door. I flew into the lobby, then immediately skidded to a halt, forcing myself to pause the adrenaline racing through my system long enough to get through security, and snatched my badge before I darted towards the stairs. I only needed to get up to the third floor. I jogged the whole way, a thin tell-tale line of sweat slinking down my spine that I worried would be visible through the cotton dress I’d chosen so carefully, and erupted into the hallway. A page gave me a puzzled grin—a reaction I should be used to by now, probably—and pointed at the broad door to soundstage four… I ran up to it, threw it open, and then hit the brakes. He wasn’t here! Did I come too late? Damn it! I grabbed a PA and they carefully pulled their headphones off before raising their eyebrows at me.

  “I’m so sorry—I know you’re busy. But I had an interview with Marshall Grant this morning at ten, his assistant said he would be here—”

  The woman’s face cracked in a grin. “Uh, no. She wishes he was here, but he’s always late—don’t worry about it.” She seemed to realize immediately I was worried I’d squandered my chance to interview one of the most famous chefs in the world; my face probably looked like a mourner’s. She glanced at my hot pink flower and gave me an encouraging pat on the arm. “Chin up! He’s probably in his office. It’s on the top floor. And Millie’ll be up there too. He’s tough, but fair. You’ll be fine.” She gave me one more quick grin before looking me up and down. “Love the dress, by the way.”

  “Thank you!” I smiled back and tried to stroll at a more leisurely speed towards the elevators I’d barreled past on the way here. I was wearing my latest creation, and felt pretty damn proud of it; my style wasn’t for everyone, and that was okay. It worked for me. I’d found some vintage checked gingham and made a flared 1940s A-line dress with it, with a more modern twist… A sweetheart neckline, a touch of tulle. I found my shoes at a retro store, and in spite of the fact that they gave me a blister on my instep, they looked pretty damn cute. With my short dark hair styled with a massive flower and bright red lipstick, I looked like a cross between a rock-a-billy princess and the successful freelance haute-cuisine writer I aspired to be. And mostly succeeded at, if that wasn’t too bold to say; I’d been hired by Blue, New York’s latest culinary review, and they had a growing following that dwarfed my own. I hoped to make this interview a success and get hired again. And again.

  The two things I wanted most in life—besides an adoring boyfriend who loved Margot as much as I did—were to be able to spend my days making, eating, and selling gourmet cupcakes and to run the Let Them Eat Bread site seven days a week. If I could make this interview happen in a big way and get hired regularly by Blue, I could pull it all off. I crossed my fingers as I stepped into the elevator; Marshall Grant was a famously tricky interview, having yelled at more than a few reporters over the years and even punching one last May. To be fair, that wasn’t really a reporter; he called himself that in court, but everybody knew he was a paparazzo, and furthermore, he wasn’t asking about food, but a recent death in the family. In my favor, I was scheduled, I wasn’t lurking in a dark alley with my camera out, and I chose my questions very carefully. He didn’t like anything personal. A strictly business kind of guy.

  Once upon a time, Marshall Grant ran a very famous restaurant in London, then abandoned England altogether and developed a chain based out of New York—upscale, but approachable, mostly American classics but with a French twist. He wasn’t a British chef, exactly, having ping-ponged between expensive boarding schools in England as a New Jersey native; he never lived here growing up, though, and spoke with a British accent. He had no escape from the limelight, not even as a child, because he was the product of an ill-fated love match between British superstar Rick Tone, and a wide-eyed Jersey girl named Maria Grant who happened to go to the same party one night. Rick Tone was married at the time, so the story was an instant scandal on both sides of the Atlantic. And Marshall Grant became the bristly, no-nonsense, burly chef we know and love today, perfectly capable of punching a paparazzo in the face for stalking his mother’s funeral. He was a reality television star—that really helped his chain restaurants take off—notorious for humiliating contestants on his show. I really, really hoped that wasn’t a technique he used with interviewers, because ew. But I was prepared for anything; after all my research, I knew I had to be. The only thing obvious about Marshall Grant’s notoriously private life was his willingness to be cruel to protect it from the public eye.

  And as much as I loved the thought of running Blue’s Instagram account from the relative safety of my Bronx apartment, I had zero interest in indulging his temper tantrums to do it.

  Steeling myself, I threw my shoulders back and marched out of the elevator when the steel doors opened, heading over to the wall to find his name. Hooking a right, I went down the long corridor and opened the door to his office, a blonde woman blinking up at me from the desk. She gave me a once-over and a curt nod; she was on the phone, and clearly didn’t want to talk. Instead, she rolled her eyes at me and pointed towards the heavy mahogany door across the lobby. I steadied myself again, opened it, and strode inside.

  His office was absolutely massive. We weren’t on the top floor, but because he was the executive producer of his own show and several knock-offs, I guess he got the executive treatment. I couldn’t help but blink at the gigantic wall of windows that faced the intimidating New York skyline; we were high enough that we peered over the rooves of several giant skyscrapers, the whole world framed in blue. I stared at it in awe for a second, the vast space otherwise only furnished with a comparatively bland white leather couch and loveseat combo, as if someone had parked a living room set inside of the huge office. Everything was steel or gold. And everything echoed. It was disconcerting.

  Particularly when I registered the sounds moving toward me as footsteps—rapid, heavy, somehow masculine footsteps—

  And then, a broad hand was wrapping around my waist, another one sliding up the back of my thigh—“Oh my—”

  And then kissing.

  Heated, deep, tongue lashing. My whole body bloomed in the space of a second, his hand gripping my ass and
then rearing back to plant what I knew would be a perfectly red hand-print on my ass.

  And then, in the next second, I abruptly jerked back and stared at the man responsible for the delicious ripple edging through my entire nervous system. “What the hell?” Bam! He wasn’t the only one that knew how to land a palm on skin; I smacked that stupidly handsome face and took another step away, my cheeks so hot they scalded.

  Marshall Grant stared at me, his gaze suddenly solidifying into one I recognized from television, when he was facing down an unworthy opponent. Somebody that burned the bisque, for example, or used margarine instead of butter.

  Uh-oh, I thought, and then, I got ready to fight.

  Marshall Grant

  She was much, much prettier than her picture.

  That was my first thought—she looked like something created out of day-dreams and confectionary, a delicious rounded bottom hinted at by the flare of her skirt, dainty features painted dangerous colors, a hint of innocence mixed with wicked humor. I wanted to eat her. Every inch of her.

  I’d forgotten how it felt to want a woman like that—to see someone like this, a perfect combination of fragility and strength, and get hard instantly. To know in my soul what she needed to erupt like spring, for her body to be lost to sensation.

  But then she slapped me. “What the hell?” Her sputtered defiance was painfully adorable, but her reaction was… Unexpected, to say the least.

  “What do you mean, what the hell?” I glared at her, then narrowed my eyes. “Is this some kind of role-play? You didn’t mention that in your message.”

  “No,” she snapped, staring up at me as if I were barking mad.

  “Then I’m hardly the one needing to explain themselves,” I growled, and when her eyes widened I wondered if she really were goading me, if this was some kind foreplay. American women, I’ll never understand them—fancy them, of course. But understand? Never. I reached out a hand and quickly snagged her wrist, yanking her back to me so that I could wrap my other hand around her waist. Sure enough, her eyelashes fluttered; her cheek was pink, a blush rising beneath the skin that looked… Luscious. That’s the word. That’s what she was. Lush. I hadn’t gotten a hint of this from her picture—nor had she mentioned role-play—but for a taste of this creature I was willing to be a little more… Flexible. I’m not normally a man anyone would describe with such a word. I leaned in, softer this time, and kissed her again; her mouth was sweet. Her lips ripe, her skin was scented with peach… I would take her on the couch—hell, I might take her right here, against the door—

  She broke the kiss and abruptly backed up again, but I didn’t let go of her wrist, taking care not to hold it too tightly. “Alright, damnit,” I said, shaking my head, “I know you said ‘fun and games,’ but really, I must insist—I’m late already—”

  “Listen,” she said, blinking up at me, “I don’t know who the hell you think I am, but ‘fun and games’ is not my tagline, buddy, okay?” Her voice, tinged by a strong Jersey accent, rang around the office. I dropped my hold on her and she defiantly stared up at me, those magnificent lips drawing down in a firm, disapproving line.

  “You said, and I quote, ‘fun and games, discretion guaranteed…’” A sudden horrifying thought occurred to me just as my assistant burst into the room. The beauty and I automatically took a step back from one another; Millie was trailed by a pretty dark-haired woman with a garish dress, and both of them stared at the pair of us suspiciously.

  “This is… Rosie,” Millie said, her eyes running over the lovely I’d been so enjoying a moment ago. “She says you have an appointment?”

  “Yes, my ten o’clock,” I said, and Millie gritted her teeth.

  “Ten o’clock was the interviewer from Blue,” she practically growled, and I looked back at the woman I’d kissed. She raised her eyebrows at me and cocked her head, her hands finding her hips in a perfectly sassy stance. Meanwhile this new character, Rosie… Rosie smiled at me in a voracious way, and I hissed out a sharp breath. “Delilah March.”

  “So you are Delilah, and you are a…A Rosie?”

  “Oh yes,” Rosie said, shoving past Millie, who just heaved a sigh in exasperation, rolling her eyes towards the heavens. “Yes, I’m so excited—”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, declining my head in what I hoped would pass for a gentlemanly gesture. “I’ve double-booked myself, it seems. I apologize, Rosie. Millie, would you give Rosie a table at the Times restaurant on me?” The little woman looked unsure of whether to jump on the coupon or not; I knew her type, though, and it only took her a second to spin around and grin at Millie.

  “Sounds great,” she called over her shoulder, and they quickly left the office, my beleaguered assistant glaring at me as she closed the door behind them. I shrugged back. I knew that Rosie was about to take her entire extended family out to lunch on me, drinks included; I just hoped she remembered to tip her server. I’d have to ask Millie to check.

  “I met her on…” I pulled my phone out and showed it to the interviewer, who was still quietly watching everything I did with a glower. She stood two feet away and inspected the screen from a careful distance, as if she expected me to spank her again. “Sinder, is it? I asked her to come by for… An appointment prior to filming. She was petite, dark-haired, pretty—said her style was ‘floral.’ I apologize,” I told her, sincerely, “in short, for mistaking you for someone else.”

  “Someone who came here to… To…” She waved her hand in the air; her innocent air wasn’t feigned. In spite of the heat in her kisses, her cheeks were still blooming with red; I smiled at her, and this time it was my turn to be vulpine.

  “To have an orgasm,” I said bluntly, delighting in the rush of pink that stained her collarbones. Intoxicating. “She likes to be spanked,” I said, pushing the moment further; I could hardly stop myself, when she was so intoxicatingly lovely to shock. “And I like spanking pretty women.” Delilah March stared at me for a moment before coughing into her hand and abruptly spinning to gaze at the view—the pose I found so fetching when she first came in. I managed to keep myself at a careful distance as I continued to speak. “I do hope you will respect the necessary privacy for this… Event. Miss March.”

  “I’m a writer,” she said, raising her eyebrow as she forced herself to look at me again. “This would make a hell of an opener.”

  I found myself smiling reluctantly. “Please. As these things go… It was an honest mistake. And I… I rather hate being at the center of the press’s attention.”

  “Do you often meet women on… Sinder?”

  “Are you asking as a reporter, or as the woman I just kissed?”

  She stared at me, completely taken aback. I started to walk over to the couch in the center of my office and indicated she join me with a wave of my hand. “I… I’m just curious—”

  “The centerpiece of every journalistic impulse, I’m sure,” I said, not bothering to hide the contempt in my voice. She caught it, and as she sat down across from me her eyes narrowed sharply. Beautiful eyes, just like the rest of her. “In my experience, journalists devote an obscene amount of attention to the tawdry, even the vicious.”

  “Well, it is our duty to show people—”

  “That I enjoy consensual spanking?” I watched her redden again. “Yes, I’m sure that’s very important for people to know.”

  “You grabbed me—”

  “Perhaps I haven’t apologized properly for that,” I said, and I did regret it, and let my feeling be heard in my voice. “I am sorry. I can’t imagine that was… Particularly pleasant, actually—being grabbed by a stranger with a reputation as a bedeviled maniac. I meant no disrespect; I simply thought you were someone else. Someone who came here specifically for that.”

  “Well, I wish you would look at your schedule a little more often,” she bit out, and I nodded, hoping I appeared chastened. I wasn’t sorry to have tasted her for my own sake—I would do just about anything, I realized, to taste her again, includin
g this. I wasn’t good at apologizing. But she deserved it, and I was swept with regret that our introduction was so… Bungled. It put her off. And I wanted… I wanted to turn her on.

  Badly.

  “What can I do to make this right?” I’m pretty sure I’ve never said that before. It took… A great deal of energy. I sat up straighter, put my hands behind my back, and looked her in the eye.

  She seemed to register the sincerity of my feelings, and relaxed in front of me, some of that lovely blush disappearing from her cheeks—I’d have to dream about it later, and enjoy the fact that she hadn’t marched right out the door. She’d be more than able to file a suit, probably; I’d just fucking spanked her. A complete stranger, who had no reason to give me a second chance.

  And all I wanted was to take her to dinner.

  And then take her to bed.

  I swallowed, trying hard to make sure I didn’t ruin a sincere apology with a stupid hard-on, and offered my hand to shake. “Would you do me the honor of accepting my apology, and beginning again?”

  She considered for a minute, then took my hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “I want to do this interview, Mr. Grant. And then I’d like you to get rid of your Sinder account.”

  I nodded. I didn’t mention that I didn’t need it anyway, now that I’d met her.

  Delilah

  So… There was another reason I’d worked so hard on my appearance this morning, and it might have to do with my general vanity, but… The bigger reason—the biggest reason—was my overwhelming crush on Marshall Grant.

  I’m not alone in thinking he’s one of the most handsome men in the world—he’s been listed as one of People’s Fifty Most Beautiful People for a decade. And I was so excited about this interview for all of the practical reasons I knew I should focus on, but also because this was the closest thing I’d had to a date for almost a year and a half. And sure, most of the time I was very happy dedicating my time to Bread and to cupcakes and writing in all its glorious forms—at least as long as those forms were confectionary in some shape—but it would’ve been very nice to spend a half hour sitting across from such glorious manliness.