“S-S-Serafina, Chef,” Sera stuttered, oblivious to both the envious glares of her classmates and Mindy’s alarmed gaze.
“Sera-fucking-fina. Bloody brilliant. Well, Serafina”—he drew her name out like he was licking it off the spoon he still held—“they’re going to be begging for you at my new restaurant. So what do you say, girl? Are you in?”
And in a quavering voice, Sera had said she was.
She’d said the same when he’d asked if she was game for a quickie.
Somehow, she hadn’t said no to anything since.
She’d signed a contract to be Blake’s executive pastry chef, and her life had never been the same. Her career had taken off, her name and fame spreading throughout Manhattan’s culinary circles. When he’d suggested branching out into socialite weddings and celebrity events, she’d been one hundred percent on board—not so much because she liked rubbing elbows with the rich and famous but because those were the people who had the disposable income to pay for the kind of fantastically elaborate cakes and pastries she most loved to craft. With his knack for knowing what the fickle foodie community craved and her timeless confectionary brilliance, Blake had assured her, they would have the A-list beating down their door. She’d believed him, and he hadn’t been wrong.
Sera wasn’t quite sure she’d loved Blake Austin exactly. But he’d easily engulfed her whole world.
Getting to the top of the heap in New York City’s exclusive culinary circles was like being the lead singer in a rock band—you had groupies of all shapes, sizes, and sexes panting after you. To her eternal shame, Serafina had been one of Blake’s. She’d been flattered by his attention and extravagant praise of her talents in the beginning, dazzled by his practiced charm as he pursued and easily won her. In awe, shy and insecure, she’d written off his abrasive manner, excusing his hot temper and over-the-top insults as part of his celebrity chef schtick. He isn’t the first egotistical chef to rule a kitchen with an iron hand, she’d told herself. He’s just striving for perfection—in his own way. It’s admirable, really.
And at first, he’d been so charming when they were alone. Whispering sweet nothings about her sweet creations in a way that was absurdly gratifying, and more than a little sexy. She’d felt like she was the only woman in the world who truly knew the real Blake Austin—brilliant, demanding, intense… and all hers. To have the attention of such a man… to be the woman he chose? What woman wouldn’t be a little swept away?
By the time he’d dropped the flattery and begun belittling Sera for her very personal, private “shortcomings,” telling her no other man would tolerate what he termed her “limitations,” she’d been so humiliated and confused she’d actually felt grateful that he continued to “put up with her,” as he put it. Desperate to please, to measure up, she’d put on a brave face, kept a bottle of liquid courage in her apron, and soldiered on. At least, she’d consoled herself, he appreciates my professionalism in the kitchen.
Or he had.
If he catches me like this, drunk in the walk-in with the busboy…. Oh, God… he’ll eviscerate me! And God only knows what he’ll do to Lorenzo.
I’ve got to stop this, Sera thought, panicked. But it was too late.
Two things happened at that moment.
Enzo made a play for her panties…
And the door swung open.
“Serafina, stop your dawdling and get back to work!” Blake roared before he was halfway through the walk-in’s wide doorway. He stopped stock-still, however, when he caught sight of his girlfriend en deshabille and in flagrante delicto with his most junior busboy.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
Sera let out a shriek that probably shattered half the country club’s champagne flutes.
Lorenzo yipped like a coyote and dove for his pants, leaving Serafina exposed on the marble-topped counter among the smashed appetizers and smeared amuse bouche.
For a moment Blake said nothing, simply surveying the scene as the rest of his prep team gathered behind him to witness the confrontation.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…
With fingers made clumsy by booze, Sera reached for her bra straps and fumbled to fix her clothes. A knife of dread cut through the last of her fast-dying buzz. Her face burned bright red as she saw her fellow cooks peering avidly over their leader’s shoulders to see what was going on.
One thing was immediately clear. She might have served the chef a taste of his own sauce, but it was her goose she’d cooked. Sera’s mouth worked, but no words emerged. She was frozen, breathless, gaze riveted in terror upon her boyfriend’s face.
Blake’s black eyes narrowed, but his countenance remained expressionless. It was a conceit of his that he always dressed for the weddings he catered as an invited guest rather than in chef’s whites, mingling with the partygoers and schmoozing before getting down to business in the kitchen. Today he was sporting an impeccable cream linen suit, silver-blue pocket square, and pale pink Ralph Lauren shirt she herself had picked out to complement his swarthy Black Irish good looks. And look good, he did—only the slight twitch around his deep-set eyes marred his appealingly louche features. By comparison, she looked like someone had dropped her off a three-story building to land—splat!—on a loaded banquet table.
“Well, well.” He sighed as if positively smothering in ennui. “Of course it would be the freezer. You’ve always been a cold fish in the bedroom, Serafina. I suppose it only stands to reason this is where you’d go to get off.”
There were gasps and titters from the cooks and caterers behind him. None of them, however, could guess how pointed Blake’s barb really was. It struck Sera a devastating blow. The high color drained from her face and left her completely gray. She struggled to her feet and righted her stained garments, standing panting before the marble-topped altar of her shame.
I didn’t even practice a revenge speech, Sera thought with a pang. Instead of “How’s it feel, big man?” or “See how you like it!” she could do no more than gulp wordlessly now that the moment was upon them. It was that, or throw up in front of all of these people. Her head spun. Man, I could use another drink right about now. Maybe twelve.
Her boyfriend didn’t appear concerned with her lack of explanation—or her betrayal. In fact, he seemed to have dismissed her from his mind entirely. Addressing his crew, he said, “All this will have to be thrown out. The Wagyu filet mignon. The wild Alaskan sockeye. The Petrossian caviar. Anything that has been in contact with this filth”—he waved demonstratively—“is unfit to be served to our guests. Oh, and Lorenzo—you’re fired. ¡Estás despedido! ¿Comprendes? Now, Serafina…” He returned his attention to her with menace as rich and smooth as one of his famous terrines of foie gras.
“Perhaps, Serafina, once you have… composed yourself, you will care to explain to four hundred of New York’s wealthiest, hardest-to-please socialites that they’ll be eating Mickey D’s for dinner when they return from their mimosas on the beach instead of the six-course feast they expect.”