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Anyone else would have blushed even deeper, dropping their eyes back to safe territory. Not Sophia. She bumped her knee against mine. And despite my best efforts to pretend this whole meeting meant next to nothing to me, I couldn't stop the smile from stealing across my face. Sophia was fighting one of her own, biting her bottom lip with a gleam in her eye that made me want to sweep everything on the floor, bend her over the table-
"What drove you to share that you were getting rid of the contestant because he was boring?"
Both of us glanced over at the third person in the room, jerked back to the reason we were here in the first place.
For the past few weeks I'd basked in my 180, leaving the man with the reputation in my dust. Kara had tried her best to provoke me, shouting into the earbud that people didn't tune in to watch me be nice to people, then opting for the carrot by pleading with me to at least have some ulterior motive. She wanted the smiles, the helpfulness, the lack of profanity, to all be a ruse before I came back in full force and terrorized the remaining contestants, then crowned ‘America's Chef’.
The truth was, it felt good to not have a permanent scowl on my face. I'd found that while the contestants rarely cried at this stage of the competition, and were practically immune to my berating, they responded well to me calmly explaining where they went wrong instead of wasting minutes picking apart a subpar dish. It felt good to show them, to show the world that I was more than a caricature. And the change in me that made Kara screech like a banshee was because I'd met a woman that showed me that gentleness was just as powerful as the hammer crashing down. And while I still wasn't sure what was real between me and Sophia and what was all show, I knew that letting go, being open to surprises, and switching things up, was a very real gift she’d given me.
"Let's let him get something to eat before we pounce, Peter," Sophia said, an edge to her words.
I realized my silent inner conversation had left me literally quiet, a sure sign of caginess and irritability when in reality, I was anything but. Before Peter's frown became etched in stone, I spoke up. "I'm fine with answering the question. It's a fair one, considering I started this meeting by lamenting my reputation." I brought my glass of water to my lips and wet my tongue, smirking along the rim as I watched Sophia's bright eyes follow my every movement. I had a feeling if I'd acted upon my daydream a few moments ago, I'd get no protests from her. In fact, the way she bit her lip and tugged at her dress like the temperature had shot upward several degrees, she even encouraged it. And all the while, as she undressed me with her eyes, she still saw the other part of me. The businessman, the face of America's Chef; a man that was more than a hollering douchebag. "I've done this, hosting and producing reality TV content, for five years." I lowered my glass back to the table like I was unpacking the heaviness, the stress, and the numbing unfulfillment. "I've gone through the motions and because of that, five years feels like a lifetime. And the legacy I've built over that lifetime is not a legacy I've always felt proud of.
“When Roger came to me after we stopped rolling and asked me an honest question, I had reached my boiling point. So I did something that probably wasn't very wise, was definitely a little selfish, but ultimately, was the right thing to do. He's a damn good chef, but unfortunately, the show isn't about good food. It's about drama and good television." I looked at them both. They were reporters, the enemy, the last people I should be telling any big reveals or secrets to—and then I said something that would make Kara's head explode. I told the truth. "When I began this journey, I wanted to help people. This probably sounds a bit hyperbolic, but I think good food and people who are passionate about food builds and strengthens community. The kitchen table was the one place where my mother, sister and I came together and there were no phones, no distractions and we connected for those moments over food. America's Chef has lost sight of that. We've gotten so tied up in bells and whistles and ratings that we've forgotten the humanity, the authenticity that sent me to the culinary field in the first place." The emotion was ripe in my voice. I wasn't even at Melt, in my mind I was back in the kitchen at the house I grew up in with the awful wallpaper and mismatched furniture. All the ingredients for my mother's famous spaghetti stretched from the counter to the stove. My sister was groaning about the ‘no phone’ thing and I wanted to be anywhere but stuck in the house with my mom and kid sister. My mother called me over and took me through the recipe, insisting that every woman was a sucker for a man that was good in the kitchen. And when I tasted the end product of our work, warmth spread in my chest. That became a ritual which led to my love of cooking.
I blinked and was pulled from those beautiful, painful memories. And the way Sophia was looking at me, like she wanted to take my face in her hands and kiss away every hurt...it was too much to bear.
I rose from the table, nearly taking out said table, and my chair, in my haste to get away from these feelings. The vulnerability.
Sophia followed suit, her voice soft with worry. "Desmond is everything-"
"I'm fine," I snapped, raising my chin defiantly. Peter was watching with an arched brow, his arms locked against his chest. I focused on that, and didn't look Sophia in the eye. "I have some things to take care of. I'm sure my sappy ass quote will more than suffice for your magazine's purposes. ‘Desmond the Douche has Gone Soft’ or whatever titillating headline you have floating around in your pretty little head will suffice." I lowered my voice slightly, just loud enough for her to hear. "We both know you tell one hell of a story, 'Soph'."
I walked away from her for the second time in less than twenty four hours. It should have been easier the second time around.
It wasn’t.
Chapter Three: Sophia
My breath came in jagged, staccato pants. My heat raced, punching wildly against my ribcage like I was halfway through some triathlon and seriously doubting my sanity for leaving the start line in the first place. But my grip was steady and sure, my fingers locked around irrefutable evidence that my boyfriend was a lying, cheating sack of shit.
I’d promised myself that I’d wait right here, at the foot of his bed, until he strolled in after his poli-sci class, probably armed with some politician status BS. A logical reason for the underwear in my fist. The sad part was, his smooth tongue, and the way he had with words, was a huge part of why I’d fallen for Damon in the first place. He made me feel like it was okay that I didn't live in Ulta, and wasn’t sure where I wanted to be after graduation, but I knew I wanted to write. He made me feel like I was as sexy in my jeans and t-shirt as the other girls around campus were in their carefully curated outfits. The looks we got around school, where girls and guys alike gawked at the resident bad boy settling down with the quiet girl from the campus newspaper thrilled me because when Damon caught them looking, he’d do something completely outrageous like dip me backwards and plant a kiss on me that no one with eyes could look away from.
I dropped my eyes to the tangle of strings and lace and the tears that I refused to let fall clouded my view. What did all that mean, what did all that matter if he was whispering the same sweet nothings to some other girl? What did ‘I love you’ really mean if he could say it, then hurt me so deeply?
I heard the familiar jingle of keys in the lock and the tears in my eyes hardened to ice. I’d left my backpack on the couch, along with a special surprise for my boyfriend. I’d created a sexy trail of breadcrumbs that consisted of my jeans, then my t-shirt, then my sweatshirt, leaving only my bra and panties on my body. I’d crawled into his bed, burrowing under the covers when I felt a tickle, expecting to find some pair of boxers or one of his old t-shirts tangled up in the sheets. Instead, I threw the covers back and realized I had some girl’s thong wrapped around my toe.
I pushed aside the hurt, the overwhelming urge to throw up, to scream, and focused my glare on his door. It was open a sliver and I imagined he was pulling off his own backpack and any moment, he’d notice my stuff strewn all over the place, and burst into the room expecting some afternoon delight. I’d throw the panties at his head and then-
“Whose shit is all over your place, D?”
My heart came to a full stop in my chest. Damon was a lot of things: infuriatingly sexy with his dark, wavy hair and even darker, onyx colored eyes. He lived in the gym but he didn’t sweat, he glistened. None of that mattered though, because he wasn’t the type to refer to himself in the third person and his voice was definitely not female.
Still in shock, I edged forward, hoping, stupidly, that my ears were playing tricks on me and that the guy I’d been dating since freshmen year, the first guy I said I love you to, the guy I gave my virginity to, who claimed he wanted to marry me, had not only cheated on me God knows how many times, but had brought her back to his place for another round.
“Baby,” his voice oozed through the crack in the door. “We’ve talked about this.”
I couldn’t look, but I didn’t need to. I knew that tone. He’d used it on me; after an argument, cupping my cheeks and staring deep into my eyes. Telling me the prettiest little lies.
“She means nothing to me at all,” he finished.
Something deep inside me snapped in two.
I left my body as I threw open his bedroom door. I barely noticed the fact that she looked just like the girls he claimed he had no interest in, complete with her pink sweatshirt with Greek letters emblazoned across the front, blonde hair piled on top of her head, and pearls twinkling in her ears. She looked more shocked than he did, his mop of black hair flying around his head as he dodged out of the way and the underwear smacked the other girl in the chin.
I wanted blood. I wanted the years I’d wasted back, but I settled for grinning as she touched her face gingerly like I’d punched her. Her eyes were a few shades darker than mine, going as wide as saucers as she squatted to the floor and picked up the underwear.
“That’s right,” I snarled. “I found your underwear, bi-”
