They said time flew by when you were having fun. I didn't know if what I did was fun, but time certainly did fly by.

Food Me! continued to climb the ranks, its ratings for the most part positive. Some were glowing, some down in the dumps for all sorts of stupid reasons.

Instead of filming a second season—which hadn't yet been approved—we decided to shoot some extra episodes for holidays or other events.

So of course, other flukes showed up on the show, taking Zane's awful example of how to behave. Some tried to proposition me right there, in front of an audience. Others cornered me before or after filming, asking if they could have the Zane-special, meaning a round in the sheets in payment for a few whispered words to the right people. Some bold creatures even dared to lie to the media about having already slept with me, and the articles were released minutes before filming started. Even Grace and Archie were blindsided.

At first, I laughed at these people, almost praising their boldness. But it grew tiresome, and after five or six very polite denials, the annoyance took over me, and it was difficult to remain calm in front of everyone.

I still received backlash from the Zane episode, and couldn't afford an outburst, so I kept my cool as best as I could. I sat down and spoke with Grace and Archie—who finally stopped avoiding me and attended the tapings as usual—about better filtering through the guests who'd come on the show. To my surprise, they agreed.

"As entertaining as the Zane episode was, we can't repeat it too much," Grace had said, flashing me her prettiest smile. She was so relaxed, as if I'd moved on from her sly coup behind my back. I thought I could count on her, as a fellow female in a business cramped with dudes. Boy, was I wrong.

"The public will lose interest if we repeat the same storyline," Archie had added, pressing down on his expensive gray suit, looking bored.

Whatever their reasons for finally supporting me, I thanked them, appreciating that they were listening to me, at last.

Weeks breezed past, and still comments poured in about Zane and I. Some articles were against me and my pickiness. Some shone a light on Zane being a jerk for not accepting my differences, calling him rude. And then some nitpicked at both of us, calling us spoiled rich chefs with nothing better to do than fuck and fight for entertainment.

Little did any of these people know, Zane and I had fucked and fought, but not to entertain anyone.

I was told by interviewers to loosen up, that I was too big of a perfectionist, that I was too proud. And after one fat, degrading piece on me in a masculine magazine—a piece I hadn't been invited to comment on—my restaurants suffered the consequences. Fewer patrons lined up to eat there, fewer decent reviews popped up online.

For a moment, I worried that was it, my legacy was over, the picky eaters were gone and had adhered to Zane's way of life; but thankfully, it didn't last long.

Luca, while mainly my showbiz agent, suggested I do a tour of all the restaurants I owned in the country, to check in, to generate more buzz. He even got a traveling online journalist to follow me around and document the entire process, which became a mini-series on the journalist's YouTube channel. It boosted sales of my books, brought more customers to the restaurants, and almost erased the nasty bigoted piece that had come too close to crashing my reputation.

I spent a few weeks at my L.A.-based restaurant—sort of my hub, I liked to call it—cooking for guests who had no idea I was there. Eventually, I'd pop out and greet patrons as they ate, surprising them. It became something of a rumor—Béatrice Balzac is hiding in her L.A. restaurant lately, hurry up and get a table!

Soon enough, I'd find foodies sitting in their booths with copies of my books that they wanted signed.

It was thrilling to meet fans and hear them compliment my style. For them to thank me for tailoring food to them and not criticizing them for not opening up their taste buds to exploration.

"Unlike that jerk, Zane Rose," one patron said, shaking their head after I'd left a little note in the book they'd brought. "Gastrognome is overrated. He's never there, and honestly, the food is adequate, but not customizable. They're super strict in there."

I nodded, knowing full well what this customer meant, having been on the other end of Zane's temper.

For the first time in weeks, after promising myself not to, I thought about Zane.

How was he? Had his restaurants been hit, like mine, from the mildly bad press? That patron had said he wasn't at Gastrognome often; what did that mean?

I caved and asked around, needing to satisfy my curiosity.

Though it shocked her that I'd ask about him, Grace assured me he'd lost clients because of his attitude. Archie agreed but specified that he still drew a lot of press and interest. Elliot informed me they'd found a few online articles with Zane bad-mouthing me, but not recently.

"He's been quiet lately, it's almost suspicious," they'd added, as we had drinks together about a month after we'd quit filming.

Suspicious, yes, but worrisome, too. I still hated him—I doubted I'd ever stop—but I'd never wished him harm. Despite his stunt, I'd wanted to elevate him, treat him with the same kindness as I did other chefs. And after marching out of his apartment that last night we fucked, I hoped he'd get his shit together and succeed without stomping all over other people.

He'd spent all his money to open Gastrognome, and it saddened me that some patrons had taken sides, had chosen to criticize him over me. Even though I'd had to weed through his dishes to properly eat them, he was a wonderful cook, and deserved praise for his meals. Cooking was his passion, I could tell. I recalled some of the artwork from his place was cooking-themed and knew from stalking him online that he didn't do anything else but cook.

Yes, he'd put himself in this position, he'd embarrassed himself by trying to belittle and trick me, but ultimately, I wished him well. I'd told him to go fuck himself, but...from time to time, I still longed for him to fuck me again.

I'd never admit it. I never even informed Elliot about Zane and I fucking again, because I no longer trusted them with that information. But I did think of Zane often, after that L.A. restaurant tour. Not so much about what he did to me, but the better parts of him. The physical parts, like his handsome face with those demonically alluring eyes. His sturdy shoulders, arms ripped from holding giant cast iron skillets and flipping food in steamy kitchens. Those legs, so chiseled; that ass, carved like a god's. And his cock—

Yes, I craved him, still. I spent more than one evening with the lights off and candles flickering as I stripped off my pajamas and touched myself, picturing our last night together. Or envisioning other nights that would never happen. Smooches in restaurant bathrooms, fucking around in the backseat of a limo, sixty-nining on a blanket during a picnic in the forest.

Every time his face flashed inside my head, my underwear got wet. No matter where I was, what I was doing, I gathered up images for later, when I'd be in bed and able to masturbate to the idea of sleeping with Zane Rose. And it was only an idea, because I'd sworn to myself it'd never happen again.

I'd have to be satisfied forever with my fingers, because though I'd once been skilled at getting myself off within seconds, it no longer felt as satisfying as when Zane got me off. With his tongue, his hands, his thick cock cramming into me—there was nothing like it.

So while I was normally sexually active, I started to refuse advances in the passing months, preferring to take care of myself. Even when a sexy woman propositioned me after drinks with Elliot one night, I bit the insides of my cheeks as I declined. I hadn't fooled around with a hot lady in a long time, and I berated myself later for not accepting her offer.

I knew, ahead of time, that nothing and no one would compare to Zane.

Which made me hate him more.

Though I started going out more—no partying, only drinks with Elliot or dinner with friends—I had other matters to focus on, more moves to help fix some of the mistakes Zane had led me to make.

One of those matters was the manuscript I'd promised my book agent, Wendy, that I was working on when I definitely wasn't.

After her third call gently reminding me that I had a slight deadline, I quit screwing around and tried to focus. We were done filming Food Me! for real, this time, waiting to find out if we'd get renewed, and I didn't have anything better to do.

I found that concentration only came when I blared loud music and drank rosé. Otherwise, Zane's image filled my mind, haunting me. Or I'd envision myself strangling Archie with his stupid blue tie, or pulling at Grace's perfect hair while screaming in her ear that I loathed her and all her bad decisions for the show.

The music distracted me, the wine relaxed me. And with time, I produced something of a complete, unedited manuscript, that I sent to Wendy. She got back to me within days, excited to announce that she was pushing it over to the editors, and the usual procedures of publishing would go into effect.

While the book was with the editing team, I did another restaurant tour, being the guest-chef at each one for at least one evening. I spoke with my sous-chefs and staff at every location, gathering their thoughts and advice to streamline an even better experience.

I sat down with my L.A. restaurant's executive chef, Nita Hopkins, over a few glasses of wine. She and I were friends before I hired her, and she was one of the few chefs in my team that I wholeheartedly trusted with everything—my thoughts, my style, my concerns.

And my feelings.

"So...the whole Zane thing," she said, sipping from her chardonnay, dark eyes zeroing on me. "You haven't had time to chat with me about that. Or you haven't wanted to, which I get."

I winced. I usually did confide in her as one would in a best friend. Technically Elliot was my best friend, but as of late I didn't let them into my private life as much; not after they spilled so much of it to Grace and Archie. It was bare minimum now, and I knew they felt it, but I wasn't comfortable confiding in them as much anymore.

So for several months after the Zane incident, I confided in...no one. Not even a notebook. I kept it all bottled up and either cried or masturbated about it.

"Haven't had time," I said, staring down at my phone. I wasn't sure why I kept checking it—I'd rearranged my schedule for the evening to meet with Nita, and didn't anticipate any interruptions. "Trust me, I've needed to chat, but I've been so slammed."

Slammed. The word reverberated through me, reminding me of when Zane slammed me against the window—

"Ugh, it's exhausting." I finished my glass and set it on the edge of the table, signaling that I wanted more. We were at a low-key, lesser frequented dive bar in north L.A., not far from the studio. After a stressful meeting with Grace and Archie—still waiting to hear about renewal—I called Nita and begged to take her up on her request to have drinks. "It's like he's everywhere, even though he's not. Like my subconscious seeks him out, wants to bump into him."

"But you never do?" Nita arched a dark, tweezed eyebrow, studying me. "You haven't seen him since...when?"

"Since we fucked." I cleared my throat. "The second time."

"Ah." Nita put her drink down. She still wore her uniform, since I'd kind of taken her off her shift to drag her out with me, but we had plenty of staff to cover, and we relied on them with the restaurant's running. A few prints of flour and dressing resided on her black shirt, and I felt bad for not giving her a minute to change. But if she cared about her attire, she didn't show it. Nita was a proud woman, knew her skill-set, and knew how to tell me things as they were without sounding like an asshole. "So it wasn't just one time."

I blurted it all out—the one-night-stand, the sudden appearance on my show, the argument in the parking lot near the studio, the bad press, his interview, and my dumb decision to storm over to his place for an explanation that turned into sex.

"I swore," I said after taking a long sip, "that that was it. And I walked out on him. I thought, fuck, Nita, I really thought that'd to the trick."

"Palate cleanser," she said, nodding, "yeah, I can see how you'd think that. But Zane..." She cringed, swirling her drink, its light hues reflecting over her tanned skin. "He's not your average asshole, is he? He's got your blood boiling, Béa. I've known you for a while and I have to say," she smacked her tongue at the piece of cheese she'd eaten, "this isn't like you."

"I've always liked angry sex," I said, setting a morsel of Swiss on top of a wheat cracker. This bar also had the best charcuterie boards in town, and I hadn't been able to resist.

"This isn't angry sex, not with him." She sat back and folded her arms, watching me. "It's hate sex. It's...honestly, I don't even know how to define it. It's like you loathe him so much that it crosses the border between hate and love."

"Ew," I paused before putting my confection of cracker, cheese, and jam into my mouth, "I'm not in love with him."

"I'm not saying you are." Nita's lips pursed. "But your body is confused by all that negativity, because his body draws you in."

I squinted at her. "Are you going to get all scientific on me?"

Nita was smart, as in, super smart. Several degrees in several fields, including cooking, and she read whenever she wasn't working. She attended plays, went to museums, and actually enjoyed listening to science lectures. Which was why she always gave the best advice.

"Keep avoiding him," she tipped her glass towards me, "but be prepared to meet him again. It's inevitable. Yes, sorry, it's science, and you will run into him at some point."

"That's your advice?" I snorted. "I'm haunted by him. Isn't there a pill or something I could take?"

She offered me a weak, knowing smile. "Oh, how I wish there was."

I was about to beg her for a better answer when my phone buzzed. The intensity made it close to falling off the table. I blocked it, then unlocked it to see it was an email from my book agent.

I wasn't expecting any feedback from her or my editors for a while, so I opened the email while Nita ordered another round of appetizers.

It was from Wendy.

Béatrice,

HUGE news. You've been invited to the New York City Comic Con! It's a bit last minute, I know—it's in a few weeks—but they had an opening, and I know you begged me to get you on a waiting list, so I did, and...

ANYWAY, I accepted on your behalf, after double-checking with Luca. He promised you had nothing else going on, for now.

They WANT YOU ON A PANEL. Gasp!! A special panel of cooks who've written books, whether they be cook-books or nonfiction. You qualify for both. How exciting??

I beamed down at the email, and sensed Nita ogling me with wonder. My ears buzzed with excitement—the New York City Comic Con was a gigantic step for me, and I'd been dying to be invited for years. Despite my iconic status, they'd never invited me or even hinted that I was eligible to attend.

I was about to answer Nita's questions of what's going on? before I noticed the tiny addendum at the bottom of my agent's email.

Also, a head's up, Zane Rose was invited, too. He apparently wrote a book that'll be released on the day of the conference, and of course the world is curious. Will that be a problem?

My phone dropped out of my grip as I let my head fall to the table.

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