"So why did you disappear?" I crossed one leg over the other, leaning backwards to give myself some distance from Zane. Throughout his story, I'd gotten closer, sympathetic to his plight, wanting to offer him comfort. But despite it all, he had hurt me, he had said all those things, whether or not he meant them. He hadn't earned forgiveness or full-on sympathy yet. "Why did you close everything down?"

Zane chewed on his lower lip as he dipped his chin. "I was ashamed. I told you, this is what I do—run. When something is hard, I turn away. But...this time, it wasn't so much running as it was hiding. I was angry with myself, and needed to rebel against that asshole, somehow."

"Isaac." I sucked my teeth. "A true piece of shit."

The true piece of shit, I didn't say out loud; he was the one maneuvering Zane, sure, but Zane had still consented to it. He'd been the mouthpiece, even if he didn't want to.

"The restaurant isn't closed forever. I'm working on reopening it, because...well," he offered a small smile as he looked up, "it's my life's work. It's everything to me. I can't leave it there, unused, turning to dust, you know? But the book?" He growled, glancing askance. "I want it burned. Removed from everyone's memory. It's not even my book, it's Isaac's."

My heart hurt for him. Abusive producers and agents were a real thing, and I was lucky my own agents weren't like that. Luca looked out for me and never threw me under the bus or forced me into doing anything I didn't want to. And Wendy listened to my suggestions, and only offered input when it came to editing and presentation. My publishing company respected me, and sometimes urged me to write faster, but not to print out what they wanted.

My producers, however...I snarled at the notion of Grace and Archie, high-fiving at my demise. Not that I thought they were out to get me, per se, but they took pleasure in all the drama. Of course they'd want to lift me to the top and then step back to watch me fall, crash and burn, destroying myself based on their advice. Would they massacre one of their own talents for views? Absolutely.

Grace and Archie. Fucking Grace and Archie. Hearing of Zane's plight reminded me I had power. I had options. I didn't need to sit behind those two jerks and let them dictate my show, my career.

Ideas were forming in my head, but I knew Zane needed my attention a little longer.

I studied him, how crumbled he was compared to his normal demeaning demeanor. This wasn't the Zane I'd met that night in his restaurant, embarrassing me before my peers. This wasn't the Zane who tried to show me down on the panel at the Comic Con. And this certainly wasn't the Zane who smirked snidely while watching me squirm in front of a plate of snails and a ratatouille dish.

This was the real Zane. A man with designs and hopes and dreams, and who'd been squashed by some petty shark who wanted to fuck up my life for no reason. Zane had been dragged into a situation where he had no control. All he'd wanted, all he'd needed was a little recognition for his years of hard work. His cooking skills, his lovely restaurant—it was lovely despite my bad experience there—and his true personality underneath all that bullshit.

He was a good man, who'd been dealt a shitty hand. I hated to see him like this; a fellow chef who'd been stomped on and discouraged. He'd been pushed into the negative side of the industry, the one where there were no collaborators, no friends, only enemy chefs you had to be better than.

It wasn't fair. But I also believed he could have done something about it sooner.

"You should have asked for help," I said, shaking my head. "Instead of obeying his fucked up orders, I mean. I realize you didn't have the means to fight him, but...you met me. You interacted with me. I'm Béatrice Balzac, for crying out loud. Billionaire chef, restaurateur, author. You could have told me what you were going through. I have power, I have money, I have a say in this industry. I have two agents, assistants, and an incredible legal team. And I could have helped you, Zane."

He shrugged, a sheepish smile swiping over his lips. "I meant what I said, the other night. In the kitchen." His cheeks turned red and he scrubbed his face as if hoping to erase the color; but it was there. He slumped in his seat, his jeans barely loose enough to allow him a comfortable position.

"Which part?" I folded my arms. "You said a lot that night, and not all of it was words."

He let out a quick laugh before quickly shaking his head. "Touché. I was referring to the part where I said I was attracted to you." He lifted his gaze, the deep hues of his eyes shooting at me through his thick lashes. "I admired you. Admire. But all that led to intimidation."

I winced. "Ah. Intimidated by me, then? You definitely didn't show that."

"It's a weakness." There was that smirk again. "And I'm a dude. I can't show weakness."

I was about to launch some anti-sexist retort back at him, but caught his expression growing serious, his eyebrows joining and furrowing, his mouth down-turning. "What?"

"The truth is," he sighed deeply, filling his chiseled chest with air before slowly blowing it out, "I thought you'd laugh in my face. I thought you wouldn't believe me. If I told you I was being bullied by Isaac, ordered to fuck up your career? Why would you believe that?"

I balked at him. "I've believed much crazier things, trust me."

He snorted. "Yeah, but me trying to excuse my behavior by dumping it on my agent? You would have believed that?"

"Zane." I broke my internal vow to not get close again, and sent my hand towards his leg. It was potentially too forward, but he didn't react negatively; in fact, he didn't react at all. He sat still as if it was normal for me to touch him, as if my hand belonged there. "I don't think you comprehend how truly fucked up show-business is."

He chortled. "Oh, I do now."

"Seriously." I didn't remove my hand. Something about the feeling of his firm, muscled leg beneath my palm kept me grounded, kept me...stable. Serene. "It's more common than you think; agents, producers, big bosses abusing their client's trust. It's something that happens a lot. Heck, it happened to me in the beginning."

"What?" Zane's eyes bulged and he had trouble closing his mouth. "You were abused?"

I grimaced. "It's not a good memory, but yeah. When I was younger, more vulnerable, starting out. Fresh out of culinary school. I was preyed on, like you, but social media was less prevalent back then, so we didn't know how deep scams could run. I got lucky." I smiled. "My father knew the business in and out and spotted all the issues when I confided in him. Anything I signed—and I signed some stupid shit—was torn up. I learned the hard way. I didn't get to where I am now by snapping my fingers."

Zane nodded with a gulp. "I see that. I...misjudged you, completely."

I moved a few hairs from my face as I leaned forward, pressing my hand harder on his thigh. "There are dangerous sharks in this industry, Zane. Bigger sharks in Hollywood. They'll team up and fuck you up if you give them the chance. It's not weak," I squeezed him, "to ask for help."

He offered me a smile so fragile, so charged with pain and sorrow, that I almost hopped into his lap to give him a hug. I couldn't, I wouldn't open myself up to him, to his affection.

Not yet.

Not ever.

As awful as I felt for him, he needed to understand that his actions, no matter how much he didn't mean them, had wounded more than himself.

"Everything you said...it was so hurtful, Zane." I ripped my hand from his thigh as ice coated my veins, my heart. "You brought so much doubt into my life, so much confusion. I questioned so much of my work, my cooking, everything I'd ever created or written. You put my entire life in jeopardy, and that was cruel."

"Cruel," he said, narrowing his gaze. "I agree."

"I'm not sure I'll ever forgive you." I felt like steel had replaced my arms, snow had gathered in my mouth. Where earlier I'd sensed fire and rage, I was now cold, emotionless. An icy wall, impenetrable, impossible to see through. It wasn't anger anymore, it was indifference, with disappointment at his lack of a will, his inability to fight.

It wasn't his fault, not fully, but I couldn't help but hold it against him.

"Cruel," Zane's lips tightened, "but..."

"But?" I arched an eyebrow, sensing my facade growing smaller the longer I looked at him.

Fuck, hold your ground, Béa.

"But there was some truth to some of the things I said. Granted, I sucked at conveying it, but..."

I scowled at him. Another push at my wall of ice, another prickle of heat melting my core. "But what?"

What was it about his stubborn, insulting nature that got under my skin so easily? Even when I promised myself to not let him in?

"I do think," he wetted his lips and wrinkled his nose, "that you need to go beyond your comfort zone. Expand your boundaries. Explore, you know? Quit sticking to your usual flavors and try something else. Test your limits."

"Right." The icy wall thickened again. "Because I'm bland?"

"You're anything but bland." A fire ignited in his eyes; not one of fury, but something else. Something deeper, hungrier. Something that startled me to my core and completely shattered the ice. Instantly. "If there's anything I wish you'd forget about me saying, it's that. You're not bland. You're flavorful, spicy, exquisite. A delirious delicacy I want to keep sinking my teeth into, if you'll let me."

My veins ignited, my heart raced, my soul soared.

The words tipped me over the edge. Not into forgiveness, but...forgetting. Temporarily at least. I'd work on our issues later, but for now, his comments warranted a thank-you. A real thank you.

Something propelled me forward, plunging into him, against him, and shoving my mouth to his. My lips yearned for his, and he didn't push me away, didn't refuse my touch.

When my tongue crept into his mouth, he opened wider, letting me in. He grabbed my waist, setting me atop him, straddling him as he twirled his tongue with mine, tasting me as if it were the first time. As if he'd never been able to fully absorb my flavor, never been able to get enough to be satisfied.

As tight as his jeans were, I did sense his cock growing harder beneath me. I hadn't meant to, but my body responded by writhing atop him, agitating him further. He groaned into my mouth, his hands finding their way under my shirt and holding my lower back to press me closer.

Lava erupted inside my gut, my core, strengthening my kiss, turning it almost violent; but without the violent thoughts, for once. I only wanted him here, underneath me, feeling me, tasting me. I didn't want to hurt him or scream at him; I wanted him to scream my name in my ear.

Those words—flavorful, spicy, exquisite. The way he'd said them, meant them, started something in me I could no longer control, and didn't want to. I couldn't keep hating someone to this degree. It was destructive. Especially since he didn't hate me at all. Never did. Never wanted to.

He wanted this. Me sitting in his lap, kissing him, devouring him. Me moving back and forth on top of him, toying with him, making his erection so irresistible that he'd want to tear off his jeans, yank mine down, and fuck me hard on my desk.

I yearned for him to do it. Oh, how badly I yearned.

As we kissed, as our tongues picked up speed, as I grew dizzy from his aroma, I imagined it. The clothes coming off, the fingers fluttering into crevices or sliding against slippery erections and rubbing, flicking, titillating until explosion. The sweat drizzling down our temples and spines, the hardened nipples being twirled and tickled. The wetness of my pussy as he shoved into me and carried us away on a train of bliss.

But this wasn't the place nor the time. My friends were downstairs waiting for me. Zane hadn't earned my full forgiveness yet. This was but a taste of what could happen if he made up for how he'd wounded me, somehow.

I kind of hoped he'd succeed.

I broke us apart and passed my thumb over his lips, gently, sensually. "This," I gave him a quick peck, "is delightful, but not right now."

He nodded in understanding and tried to help me off him, but I didn't want to leave his lap. Instead, I settled for sitting sideways, my legs dangling off the arm-rests. Comfortable, but not within a dangerous place of us turning each other on.

"In all seriousness." I squeezed his shoulder, my gaze connecting with his. "My legal team can get you out of any remaining bullshit with that bully."

He smiled—a real, wide, true smile—but shook his head. "That's unnecessary. My new guy took care of that. And he's legit. I did the research this time and he's not a fraud like Isaac."

"Okay," I patted his chest, "then I can help you start all over."

One of his eyebrows twitched up. "You can? I mean," he flinched, "you would?"

I got up off him and set my hands on my hips. "Consider it a new beginning."

"A new beginning?" He planted his feet on the ground, preparing to stand up as well. "A new beginning to what?"

"A collaboration that will allow you to start repaying me for what you did."

He flashed a devilish smirk that nearly made me jump him again. "Béatrice Balzac, how can I ever repay you, or get you to even think about forgiving me?"

"You can keep saying my name like that, first off." As he stood up, I grabbed him by his belt and yanked him to me. "And oh," I brought my lips to his, but didn't touch them, "I have some other ideas, too."

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