An Acquired Taste By Magnolia822.pdf

An Acquired Taste By Magnolia822

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7000756/1/

Chapter One: America's Hottest Chef?

I sighed and stretched away from my desk, stifling a yawn as I considered the

contracts laid out before me. Wedding season in New York drew some of the

city's richest and most frivolous clients to La Vie en Rose. This particular couple

wanted ice cream sundaes with gold-coated sprinkles; apparently the bride saw

some show about the most expensive desserts in the country, and that had been

one of them. To me, it sounded tacky as hell.

Of course I couldn't complain about it since clients like these helped to put my

business on the map. Only four short years ago, Rose, my best friend, and I

started from nothing, calling our business Swan and Hale Edibles; I had a bank

loan that put med students to shame and a small corner kitchen and office in the

Meatpacking district. We started off small – five staff, one of whom talked us into

switching the name to La Vie En Rose – all of us working every contract we got,

prepping into the wee hours of the night.

Feeling for my shoes under the table, I buzzed the intercom. My assistant

Emmett answered almost immediately.

"Bella, are you still here?"

"Yeah," I said tiredly. "Still here."

"I thought you left, girl. I haven't heard any moans or groans or anything being

thrown in the past hour."

"Ha ha. Listen Em, I need you to find an ingredient for me. Can you come in for a

second?"

Moments later, Emmett burst through the door. His tight, black button down

strained over his gigantic pectorals, the rolled up sleeves showcasing the bottom

of his full arm tattoo—a piece he'd been working on for years. As long as it stayed

covered during events, I didn't mind.

"You rang, darling?" He sat across from me, crossing ankle over knee.

I slid the contract over to him and pointed at my notes with the eraser end of my

pencil. "The Steinway/McCloud wedding wants fucking gold sprinkles on their ice

cream; I hate to make you run out tomorrow on your day off . . . but . . ."

Emmett grabbed a sticky note from my desk and scribbled "Hmm . . . gold for the

Jew/Shiksa wedding. Sweetie is starting it off right. Got it."

"Emmett." I snorted in spite of myself.

"What?" he asked innocently. "Now that would make a great reality TV show."

"You're in the wrong business, my friend."

"All right, boss-lady, is that all?"

"Yep, that's it for now. I think I'm leaving."

"It's about time. It's a wonder you keep a man with these crazy hours." He stood

again and gave me an appraising look, part judgment, part concern.

I glanced at my watch, noticing with some alarm how time had flown. Already

after eight. Oh no.

"I had no idea it was so late." I paused. "What are you still doing here?"

"Laurent fucked up the cupcake order for that NBC gig." Emmett sighed, putting

his hands on his hips. "I've been helping him frost."

"Shit, the one for 30 Rock? Don't mess with Baldwin's cupcakes."

"I know," Emmett replied with a barely-concealed shudder. "Remember what

happened last time?"

"Don't remind me."

Apparently Alec Baldwin had a serious aversion to any pink-colored food; he'd

reacted badly to our Valentine's Day dessert spread, screaming something about

love and abandonment. Until that day I never knew the joys of cleaning

buttercream off NBC studio ceilings.

The fact we'd held the contract after that seemed a small miracle.

"Okay, well, thanks for looking out for me."

"Sounds good, sweetness. We up for hot yoga tomorrow?"

Sunday mornings, Emmett usually dragged me out of bed to attend his early

class on the Lower East Side. We'd sweat like stuck pigs, then go drink spirulina

yogurt shakes to cleanse our charkas. Or something. In the past six years,

Emmett had become my closest friend, aside from Rose. The three of us spent

most of our free time together, unless one of them had a flavor of the month. My

love life was admittedly tamer.

"If I can. I might go to Felix's tonight." The guy I'd been seeing for the past year

lived in Brooklyn, and if I headed there tonight, I couldn't see myself coming back

to Manhattan so early in the morning.

Emmett sighed dramatically. "Oh well. Fine, just abandon me."

"I would never abandon you, baby."

"Mmm-hmm." He gave me a skeptical nod but smiled, waggling his eyebrow.

"Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"I'm not having butt sex tonight."

"But you love it." He grinned.

"Yeah. I kind of do."

"TMI, girl, TMI."

I laughed at the joke; anyone who knew Emmett well understood he considered

nothing too personal.

After Emmett and I said our goodbyes, I grabbed my stuff and looked around my

office, making sure I'd picked up all the work for tomorrow afternoon on my "day

off."

How times had changed.

While I still worked events myself, I now had a staff of twenty, a much bigger

kitchen with better equipment, and storefront where we sold some of our most

popular entrees, individually wrapped and frozen. My office sat on the second

story of a newly rezoned and remodeled building right across from one of Mario

Batali's eateries—one of many signs of the gentrification that had recently made

the Meatpacking district such a popular neighborhood. In some ways it was sad; I

hated the idea of pushing out old residents, mostly poor or minority, and raising

the rent. But no place in Manhattan had been spared this fate. At least it hadn't

turned into the Disneyfication of Times Square . . . sometimes I missed the dirt

and the hookers in that area, just for the gritty flavor it put off. I liked my whores

to be more blatant about it.

I locked the door behind me, noticing Emmett had gone downstairs, probably to

help Laurent finish up. Once outside, I immediately dialed Felix's number. We'd

been planning to meet for dinner tonight, but he hadn't called.

He answered on the third ring.

"Hey," I said, pushing open the front door and stepping into the muggy city night.

People walked quickly on their way to dinner or home from work, and I

immediately fell in step behind a couple walking their Boston terrier, a cute, fugly

kind of thing.

"You're just leaving?"

"Yeah. I'm so sorry. I'm just gonna pop by my apartment and get my stuff. I can

be there in an hour."

"It'll be almost ten by then, Bella," Felix said. His voice seemed tired, irritated.

"I know! I suck. I really do. I honestly had no idea what time it was until Emmett

reminded me."

He sighed, and my pace slowed.

"You don't want me to come?" I asked in a small voice.

"Maybe not tonight. I'm beat. I had a really shitty day." As a lawyer at a

prestigious New York firm, Felix put in long hours like I did. It was one of the

reasons our relationship worked.

"What about tomorrow? You wanna meet up and have lunch in the park?"

"I can't. I have to go in tomorrow." He yawned loudly, which for some reason

irritated me.

"On Sunday?"

"I have that big case starting on Monday, remember?"

"I forgot. Right. I guess I'll talk to you later then."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll call when I get out. Shouldn't be too late."

"Sounds good."

We talked for a few more minutes as I made my way home, but the conversation

seemed superficial. It just didn't seem like either of us had much to say, and Felix

expressed minimal interest when I complained about the tacky gold sundaes. To

be fair, I could care less about his golf business meeting in Jersey. Had it always

been like this? I wondered as I made the right turn onto the tree-lined West

Village street where I rented a small townhouse apartment, clicking my phone

shut with a sigh. I guessed no sex, butt or otherwise, would happen tonight.

Looks like I have a date with my vibrator and frozen taquitos. Score.

I briefly considered calling Rose to ask about her plans, but I figured she was

probably spending the night with Demetri, her new fabulous Greek boy toy. And

clubbing with Emmett down at the bear bars did not sound appealing—at all. The

last time I did that Emmett left me to make out with some guy named Steve, and

I wound up getting drunk with a drag queen who felt me up and stole my wallet.

As I fiddled with my key, a plaintive, yet delicate meow sounded through the

door.

"Hey, PV," I said as I opened the door and dropped my bags on the floor. My

ginger cat rubbed against my legs, swishing her tail from side to side. "I know. I

know. It's dinnertime."

At the word "dinner," PV padded away toward the kitchen, the sound of her

footfalls barely audible on the wood floor.

Besides Emmett and Rose, Pussy Veritas, my six year old cat, was my most loyal

companion. Of course I couldn't tell if she actually liked me or if she just liked the

foul smelling grey matter I lumped into her dish every night.

Probably a bit of both.

I had bequeathed her Latinate name on her after her original became . . .

distasteful.

I wrinkled my nose and gave PV her meal of canned innards before ferreting

through my freezer to locate anything edible. For someone who owned a catering

business, there was very little by way of actual victuals in my apartment. Finally I

located a sad-looking Lean Cuisine dinner and popped it in the microwave,

pouring myself a giant glass of Bordeaux from the opened bottle on the table as I

waited for it to heat.

Bills, bills, credit card statements; I flipped through my mail with disinterest while

PV noisily devoured her dinner. At one point, she looked up at me with an

expression that could only be labeled as skepticism.

"I know, I know. This wine is completely oxidized. Mommy should really have

bought a nice, fresh bottle." With another flick of her tail and something I could

have sworn was a roll of her eyes, she went back to eating.

A few minutes later, steaming broccoli linguini and wine in hand, I made my way

to the tiny living room, turning on the TV and sinking back into my plush green

sofa with a relieved sigh. It felt good to be home. Finally sated, PV curled up next

to me as I flipped through the channels, landing on the Food Network.

Since I'd been so busy lately, I hardly watched TV anymore, though when I did I

usually went for the cooking shows. I caught the tail end of a program on

barbecue that made my mouth water, though not for the sludge on my plate.

This crap sucks, I thought, forking a bite of mushy pasta into my mouth. But

cooking at home just didn't seem appealing anymore, not when I did it all day,

everyday at work.

The show ended just as I finished my meal. I placed my plate on the coffee table

and stretched, getting ready to turn off the television when my jaw hit the floor.

The announcer spoke excitedly as a montage of pictures flashed on the glowing

HD screen—holy shit.

Reddish-brown hair. Eyes so green they practically glowed in the dark. Cocky

smile. No. It fucking can't be. My heart pounded, and my hands turned into oil

slicks as they fought to grip the now-slippery remote.

"You've seen him on Best Chef UK, where he recently bested eleven competitors

to reign supreme in the world of cuisine." Even in my daze, I mentally berated

the writers for creating such horrible drivel. Best Chef UK?

Could it really be him?

Then a particularly insane picture flashed, leaving no doubt in my mind. Bare-

chested in the kitchen. Sweaty. Is that even legal? I lost my breath again. But

only because of the shock, not because he looked amazing.

""Now, with a three star Michelin restaurant under his belt and a new

establishment in the works, British phenom Edward Cullen is coming to America.

His challenge? To take eight inexperienced home cooks and mold them into

world-class chefs. Only one will make it to the end and become America's Hottest

Chef.

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