BURN (The HEAT Series Book 1) Read online

  BURN

  Part One of

  The HEAT Series

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  Deborah Bladon

  FIRST ORIGINAL KINDLE EDITION, APRIL 2016

  Copyright © 2016 by Deborah Bladon

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written consent from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual person’s, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-926440-36-1

  Book & cover design by Wolf & Eagle Media

  www.deborahbladon.com

  Also by Deborah Bladon

  THE OBSESSED SERIES

  THE EXPOSED SERIES

  THE PULSE SERIES

  THE VAIN SERIES

  THE RUIN SERIES

  IMPULSE

  SOLO

  THE GONE SERIES

  FUSE

  THE TRACE SERIES

  CHANCE

  THE EMBER SERIES

  THE RISE SERIES

  HAZE

  SHIVER

  TORN

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Thank You

  Deborah’s Mailing List

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  "I once had one in my mouth twice that size," I boast as I adjust the collar of my chef's jacket. "I had it all the way in before it exploded. I swallowed most of it."

  "You what?" Drea, the newly hired sous chef stares across the counter at me, a knife at the ready in her hand. "There's no way you did that, Cadence. I don't believe you."

  "Whether you believe me or not isn't relevant." I turn back to my prep station. "I know what I'm capable of and I know that if I was given the chance, I'd happily prove that I could take Tyler Monroe's in one swallow. I'd do it right now if I could."

  "You'd think I'd have a say in that, no?"

  I stop with my hand in mid-air. No one else is supposed to be in the kitchen right now. The only other people in the entire restaurant are the two front-of-the house staff and they're busy confirming reservations. They're both also women. That means that there's no way in hell either of them just asked that question considering the voice attached to it is all kinds of deep and sexy. I know that voice. This is the first time I'm hearing it in person. Every other time has been on television during one of the dozens of appearances he's made on cooking programs and talk shows the past three months while he's been on tour promoting his newest cookbook.

  "Who are you?" Drea asks because she's not only new, she's naïve. She must also be one of the few people working in the restaurant industry in New York City who has never seen a picture of him.

  "I'm Tyler." I hear footsteps behind me. "I'm Tyler Monroe and you are?"

  "Drea Hernandez," she offers. "You're not actually Tyler Monroe, are you?"

  "I'm actually him." He chuckles.

  I hear shuffling behind me and then in a way too excited tone, Drea screeches out the words no one working in this kitchen should ask. "Can I have your autograph? I have all of your cookbooks at home, but can you sign my jacket?"

  I pick that moment to turn around because I know inevitably I'm going to have to face him. He's one of the reasons I applied for this position after I graduated from culinary school. His career is outstanding and his accomplishments are nothing short of impressive. He's only twenty-nine-years-old and he's already the owner and executive chef at one of the most prestigious restaurants in Manhattan. He's also one of the most recognizable faces in food today.

  "I sign your paycheck." He ignores the offer of the pen that Drea is dangling in front of him. "I assume that whatever you're working on needs your attention."

  She purses her lips together in a grimace before she tucks the pen back into her pocket. "I thought you were on a book tour."

  "I thought you had work to do," he counters. "I'm here for dinner service tonight. I want everything in order."

  I stare at his profile. He's gorgeous. His brown hair is long enough in the back to brush the collar of his jacket. His jaw is covered in stubble. It's no wonder that women come to the restaurant with hope that he'll be here. I've lost count of how many of my classmates from culinary school have asked if they can stop by to meet him.

  "You and I should talk." He suddenly turns to the side so he's facing me directly. "Come with me."

  My breath catches at his words. "I have a lot of work to do."

  His tongue slicks his bottom lip. It's an innocent action that shouldn't stir me the way that it does. "That can wait."

  I lower the knife in my hand onto the cutting board. I tug on the hem of my chef's jacket to straighten it before I take a deep breath and silently follow him down a corridor toward a makeshift office that I've seen the restaurant manager use to fire those who don't pull their weight.

  "If this is about what you overheard, I can explain that," I say the moment we're through the doorway.

  He shrugs out of his leather jacket revealing a plain black t-shirt and muscular, tattooed arms. I look to the open doorway hoping someone, anyone, will save me from the reprimand I'm about to receive.

  "I don't need an explanation." He tilts his head as his eyes rake me from head to toe. His gaze stalls on my name, which is sewn on the front of my jacket in red thread. "I'm going to assume you were talking about one of the new, signature, one-bite starters when you said you could fit the entire thing in your mouth."

  My heartbeat quickens when he takes a step closer.

  "That's what you were talking about isn't it, Cadence?"

  My lips part slightly as I draw in a deep breath. "No. I was talking about… I was actually talking about your…"

  "My what?" He taps his index finger on his chin. "I'm curious now. Tell me what of mine you think you can fit in that mouth of yours."

  I open my mouth to respond. His eyes are cast on my lips as I breathe slowly, deliberately. "It's not what you think, Chef."

  "What do I think?" he asks gruffly. "I'd love to hear where you think my mind went with the limited facts that I have. All I know is that you're dead sure of your ability to swallow something that belongs to me."

  I'm reading oral sex between those lines. How did I go from dinner prep four minutes ago to talking about taking Tyler Monroe's dick down my throat? This conversation has hit the rails, crashed and is now burning my chance to keep my job and my self-esteem.

  "Yesterday was my day off. I took a bus to Chappaqua." I ignore his question in favor of an actual, rational explanation for what I said to Drea. "I took a tour of your experimental garden. I was talking about the tomatoes when you walked in."

  His lips twitch. "You were talking about tomatoes?"

  "Marglobe tomatoes," I clarify. "You're growing a hybrid there. I asked for a taste but the tour guide said those are off limits. He offered me a Juliet, but I wasn't interested."

  "Tomatoes?" He narrows his eyes at me
. "You were talking about putting a tomato in your mouth?"

  "I think it's important for a chef to have a relationship with the food they cook." I rub at my forehead, feeling a headache tightening its grip on me. I'm not going to tell him that the conversation he overheard started when I told Drea about the flawless Marglobe tomatoes I saw when I was at Tyler's garden. Drea held up an average, market bought, Tigerella tomato in her hand. She licked it before she popped it into her mouth, bit it once and swallowed. "Your experimental garden supplies some of the produce for the restaurant. I went there to see the source."

  "Who asked you to do that?"

  "No one did," I answer with no hesitation. "I was briefed on the garden during my orientation. I've been meaning to go upstate for weeks to visit it. I finally booked a spot on one of the tours yesterday."

  "That's impressive," he says tightly. "I value that kind of initiative."

  I sigh inwardly, grateful that I found a tunnel to dig me out of the compromising position I'd accidently fallen into. "It was worth the trip."

  "It was worth it?" His gaze meets mine. "Even though you didn't get to sample a Marglobe?"

  "They're a week away from harvest," I repeat what the guide at the garden told me word-for-word. "I'll have my chance once they're delivered here."

  He moves his gaze around the small office, then back to my face. "You'll be the first to taste them. I'll see to it personally that you're there when we crack open the crate."

  If he's being facetious in any way, I can't find that in his expression or his voice. He sounds sincere. His brown eyes back that up.

  "Is that all, Chef?" I blink. I want to head back to my two-foot by two-foot prep station and finish what I've started before the kitchen swarms with the extra bodies and heat generated by my co-workers as lunch service kicks into high gear. The crowded congestion in that small, meticulously designed space, defines Nova. The restaurant is one of the most popular in Manhattan right now, and the amount of food we prepare and serve on any given day is proof of that.

  "No." He lowers his voice. "That's not why I called you back here. There's something else, Cadence."

  He says my name differently than most. It's an easy name. It's pronounced exactly as it looks, yet his tongue holds onto the second c longer than it should. It lingers there, on his lips, as goosebumps pebble my skin.

  "What else?" My brow knits.

  He offers a quick smile. "I need you tomorrow morning, very early tomorrow morning."

  "For what?" I ask, spellbound by how his face alters when there's joy touching the corners of his mouth. He looks happy, or excited. It's something other than the serious scowl that is synonymous with his name.

  "You're going to make your television debut."

  "I'm what?" I snap. "I'm going to be on television?"

  "We're going to be on television." He makes the subtle correction. "I'm doing a spot on a national morning show about the new menu and I need an assistant. You're it."

  "Why me?" I ask as I try not to sound completely terrified of the prospect.

  His mouth softens into another grin. "I asked Darrell, one of the head chefs, for a recommendation yesterday. You're it. Tomorrow morning, you're going to cook the gorgonzola gnocchi in front of millions of people."

  CHAPTER 2

  "I'm not sure how much of this you want me to eat, Cadence."

  I glance across our kitchen island at my best friend, Sophia Reese, who's eating gnocchi like a woman deprived a meal for days. "I told you to taste it, Soph. I didn't want you to eat it all."

  She sets her fork down carefully on the granite countertop. "It's hard not to. It's delicious."

  I laugh as I pick up the fork and the bowl and take a bite of the now, cold food. "I can do better than this."

  She pushes her long brown hair back over her shoulder, her blue eyes locking on me. I know that look. I also know what she's about to say. "You're stressing over nothing, Den. You're going to walk onto that kitchen set tomorrow morning and knock the culinary socks off every single one of those millions of people watching you."

  "I don't need you to remind me how many people watch that show." I smile overly sweetly, grateful that Sophia left her office at a reasonable time tonight so she could be my taste tester.

  We've been close since she moved in with me shortly after she arrived in New York almost two years ago. I put out some feelers with friends asking them to keep their eyes and ears open for anyone, preferably a woman close to my age, looking for a room to rent on the Upper West Side.

  When I got Sophia's number from a friend of a friend, I sent her a short text asking if she wanted to see the place. An hour later, we were sitting in this kitchen, sharing a beer and talking about what fuels our passion. For me it's obviously food. For Sophia, fashion is her life.

  She's helped me understand how to dress my tall, slim frame. She's even given me tips on what colors complement my pale green eyes and medium length blond hair. Even though I spend the majority of my life in a chef's jacket, I now know how to rock a killer dress and heels when I actually do find the time to go out.

  "I had a professor in college who told me that the best way to handle speaking in front of a group of people is to …"

  "Imagine everyone in their underwear?" I interrupt her. "I've heard that too, Soph, it's not going to work."

  "That's disgusting." She shields her eyes with her hands. "Now I'm thinking of my professor in his boxers."

  "That's a bad thing?" I swallow the final bite of food that was left in the bowl. "What did he look like?"

  "Like someone you don't want to see naked." Her arms fold over her chest. "I wasn't going to say that. I was going to tell you that you should pretend you're here, cooking for me. Forget about the cameras and the lights. Cook from your heart, the way you did just now."

  I turn off the burner on the stove and slide the next batch of gnocchi into the empty bowl. "I can't do that when Tyler is standing next to me. If I fuck up, I'll lose my job."

  She reaches to pick up the fork before she tugs the bowl back into her hand. "In the case of Tyler Monroe, I'd go with that advice about imagining him in his underwear, or better yet, nothing at all."

  ***

  I give Tyler a once-over when I walk onto the set after spending more than an hour in hair and make-up. I'd shown up to the studio in Midtown before dawn broke. An assistant producer on the show called me last night, right after Sophia and I finished our dinner, to tell me when and where to be. She was clear that they didn't want me in a chef's jacket. They wanted me dressed in something casual but appropriate. She suggested dark wash jeans and a white blouse to offset the color of the emerald green apron they'd give me to wear. The apron, emblazoned with the show's logo, is a requirement for me, but apparently not for Tyler. He's dressed in black slacks and a black dress shirt, open at the collar with the arms rolled up past his elbows to reveal his colorful tattoos.

  That's not the only striking difference since I saw him yesterday. His hair is shorter. It's been trimmed and his face is clean shaven. He looks every part the successful restaurant owner and chef.

  As a man approaches me with a microphone pack in his hand, Tyler glances in my direction. His gaze slides slowly over me, from the black heels I'm wearing straight up to my perfectly styled hair.

  I drop my eyes, instead focusing on the sound guy as he makes small talk while we wait for the producer to hand me the apron I have to wear. I put it on, tying it securely around my waist.

  The microphone is clipped into place on the front of the apron, the pack secured to the back of the waistband of my jeans. I follow the vocal prompts that they give me to test for sound quality. I'm assured, calm and if I didn't know better, I'd think that I'm at ease.

  My heart doesn't agree with that though. It's beating a million beats per minute, anticipating the moment when the director signals that we're on the air.

  "Are you ready to show the country the best of what Nova has to offer?" Tyler asks as he appro
aches, his eyes narrowing.

  "I am, Chef. Once we're done there won't be an open reservation at the restaurant for at least the next year. "

  CHAPTER 3

  I step into place next to Tyler as soon as the male host of the show, Percy, appears on the set. He shakes Tyler's hand before he reaches for my shoulder, tugging me into him. His lips touch first my left cheek and then the right. I smile as he pulls back. He's as handsome as he looks on television.

  Since it's on so early in the morning, I don't catch the program often, only on the days when Sophia needs a pep talk before she heads to lower Manhattan to her job as assistant to the CEO of one of the world's premier fashion empires.

  I stand still, listening as Percy launches into an introduction about the segment when the show resumes after the commercial break. He's charismatic and relaxed as he reads from the teleprompter.

  "Chef Cadence Sutton, right?" Percy grabs hold of my forearm, his fingers pressing gently into my skin through the thin silk of my blouse. "That's a beautiful name. You're a beautiful woman. What made you want to be a chef?"

  I look beyond him to where Tyler is standing, his arms crossed over his chest, a dark brow raised.

  "I've always enjoyed cooking," I answer honestly. "Today I'm going to prepare one of Chef Monroe's new small plates. It's the gorgonzola gnocchi."

  I take a step toward the long counter that's complete with a working cooktop and oven. It was wheeled into place during the commercial. My hands instinctively reach for each ingredient in order, as I start preparing the dish, knowing that my time is limited.

  "How long have you been a chef?"

  "I've been working in restaurants for the past six years." I drop the pre-prepared gnocchi into the pot of already boiling water. "The blue cheese that we use in this dish is specially made just for Nova in Italy."