Bite Me Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Cover Designer: Cover Girl Design

  Summary

  Cecily

  Rule number one of writing a restaurant review: don’t fraternize with the chef. Seems pretty simple. It’s awfully difficult, though, when said bad boy chef insists on following me around campus. Milo may be a charmer, but he’s in for a rude awakening when I don’t fall at his feet like everyone else on the planet. I’ve got a student newspaper to run and finals to ace. Besides, doesn’t he have anything better to do with his time?

  Milo

  My manager keeps calling, my publisher is pissed, and I’ve got a restaurant launch to oversee. So, why not throw in a little bit of obsession over a terrible review of my food? Sure, I’ve got nothing but time. Don’t get me wrong; Cecily can write whatever she wants to in that college newspaper of hers. She may not like me now, but that’s not going to stop me from making her mine.

  What’s on the menu?

  Age gap

  Saucy, independent virgin heroine

  Misunderstood hero

  Very mild dom/sub kink

  Epilogue with appearances of all five Willams sisters

  Lots of babies and baby-making

  This is book five of five in the Homemade Heat series, in which the youngest sister, Cecily, finds her happily ever after.

  Reading order:

  Judge Me

  Cake Walk

  Hand Tossed

  Chef’s Kiss

  Bite Me

  Read on to enjoy the conclusion of Homemade Heat!

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  More by Abby Knox

  Chapter One

  Cecily

  I admit it. I started this foodie assignment with an attitude.

  I roll up to this new eatery with a chip firmly planted on my shoulder about the Michelin-starred chef Milo St. Germaine.

  The valet takes the keys to my rattletrap Chevy, and I wince as I remember that about six gas-station coffee cups litter my floorboards. Oops. I wasn’t expecting valet parking.

  This repurposed tobacco warehouse now houses St. Germaine’s latest pet project, Urban Fruit, a chic, organic, farm-to-table pilot restaurant. That playboy gourmand must have money to burn.

  The hostess seats me at a table by the window and hands me the one-sheet menu. The prices instantly send me diving for my pen and reporter’s spiral notepad.

  I scribble in my chicken-scratch: “If St. Germaine expects customers in this town to pay $22 for a smallish breast of a free-range chicken that was hand-fed juicy grubs before being snuggled to death, then in return his customers may expect table linens instead of being forced to endure splinters from reclaimed barn wood. And perhaps they will expect their $15 cocktails to arrive in something that doesn’t resemble a jelly jar.”

  Satisfied at my own snark, I set down my pen and sip my lemon water. Sure enough, I dribble some down my front. Damn jelly jars and their threaded tops were not meant for beverages. The food world is out of control.

  I know. I’m taking this whole restaurant review assignment a little too seriously. And, okay, I am salivating over the idea of writing something genuinely entertaining about this rock star of the food world.

  As editor of the Meadows Community College newspaper in my senior year, I could have assigned this article to a number of different staffers. But if I’d done that? It would be yet another glowing review for the worshiped kitchen deity. Who wants to read a rave?

  I’d seen the looks on the faces of all of the other writers on my staff. I knew right away none of them would be able to pen an impartial critique of Urban Fruit or of St. Germaine himself. All of them came down with a severe case of heart-eyes as soon as I posted the assignment on the whiteboard in the newsroom.

  So, I took it on myself. Not going to lie; the collective “aw, come ons” from the Milo stans felt pretty awesome. Yeah. I’m that bitch, and I don’t give a fuck. I didn’t spend four years writing about the snooze-fest state board of college trustees just to hand off a fun story to a cub reporter.

  I run my hands over the parchment menu and marvel at the audacity of offering three entree choices in a neighborhood teeming with fast food, pizzerias, and mom-and-pop restaurants. On the back of the menu is a sketch of Chef Milo, so beefy and smug in his Nirvana tee-shirt and tattoos and salt-and-pepper scruff. He could have fit at least three more affordable salad choices on the menu if he’d skipped putting his face on there. I mean it; where’s the Cobb salad?

  As I wait for the server to bring me my overpriced cocktail, I scan the room.

  And there he is, the man himself. Leaning on the bar, cracking jokes with the blonde bombshell bartender, he’s larger than life. Often, television is produced to make celebrities look taller. That is not the case with St. Germaine. He’s even taller and takes up more space in person than I’d imagined. Physical space, but also he’s hogging all the personality with that booming laugh. Save some oxygen for the rest of us, pal.

  I continue to stare. Sure, he’s easy to look at. But also, maybe observing him will be relevant to the story, somehow. He must be six foot four inches, at least. He’s slightly heavier than I had imagined, with a black concert tee-shirt stretched over a broad chest and a delightfully soft tummy that just barely protrudes over the top of his belted Levi’s. I can see why he attracts the ladies; he’s got the kind of body that makes a woman get the nibbles. Not me. But women in general. Women who don’t mind being a notch on a bedpost.

  The word “bedpost” is benign enough on its own, but when it floats through my brain in the context of staring at Milo St. Germaine, I feel an itch I can’t scratch.

  Forget it, Cecily. He’s too old, too experienced, too rich, too everything.

  I take long sip of ice water as my eyes rake over the man’s forearms. I have a weakness for sinewy limbs, and I can’t help but stare. That man could bench press me and all four of my sisters plus their dogs, I’ll bet. He could probably lift those bar kegs, one in each hand. Wow.

  Not that it matters how hard he works. He’s still a playboy, lapping up attention from women everywhere with that thick dad bod that everyone appreciates these days, loud laugh, more money than god, and the ability to cook.

  The bartender has said something funny, and St. Germaine barks a laugh, the kind you can hear a block over. He sounds ridiculous but also kind of sexy in how much he doesn’t care. The bartender must be flirting with him. Who wouldn’t? I can answer that: me. I would never.

  I slice into the chicken the second it arrives. I’m starving, h
aving been subsisting on ramen and peanut M&Ms during the ramp-up to college finals. I can’t wait to go home for winter break; I’m going to eat so much good food that the family will have to roll me back to school when my vacation ends in January.

  A group of young starstruck customers approaches Milo to ask to pose for selfies. I nibble on my chicken and observe. Of course, he accommodates them with that boyish charm, flashing that brilliant smile and making comments that have everyone in stitches.

  Oh brother. And then, I relax my hands; I hadn’t noticed until now that I’d been gripping my fork and knife while watching the selfie moment.

  Chill, Cecily. His flirty ways are not part of the story.

  I have no intention of letting Milo’s reported romantic escapades affect my review. And yet, I can’t stop thinking about the TMZ clip about the nude sunbathing on his yacht in the South Pacific with a princess. An actual princess. The yacht thing pissed me off more than the nude thing. A modicum of talent in the kitchen has earned him the status of someone who hangs out on yachts with royalty. It rubs me the wrong way. Especially when my educated sister, Cherise, struggles to make ends meet as a kitchen dishwasher.

  That thought gives me fodder for the next paragraph of my review. I click my pen as I sip my beverage and continue writing: “Please tell us how a man who never attended culinary school is allowed to charge $27 for locally raised prime rib? Is it because women are expected to do all the real work while men, when they make the slightest effort in the kitchen, are the ones who get undue attention? These are questions that nag at me the longer I am forced to chew through this dry bird.”

  That last part is sincere. Because this bird? Is dry.

  Still, I’m feeling generous. Milo could earn one star back with the dessert course. But when I see the dessert menu, I scoff immediately. Chocolate cake. Creme brûlée. A summer berry tart. That’s it? Points for keeping it simple, but it better be the best goddamn chocolate cake I’ve ever eaten in my life, at $16 per slice.

  I am quickly disappointed when the cake appears. I can tell right away that it’s going to be dry, and there’s not enough chocolate ganache icing.

  I’ve been spoiled by my mother and at least two of my supremely talented older sisters, who make desserts from scratch. I mutter under my breath as I scribble out another negative paragraph in my notebook.

  And suddenly there appears next to my table a pair of motorcycle boots. Above those boots? Long, thick legs in worn Levi’s.

  A man’s deep voice resonates louder than any of the chatter and clatter in the crowded room.

  “May I sit down?”

  Oh. Shit.

  Chapter Two

  Milo

  This is not going the way I thought it would.

  The woman at table seven looks me up and down, then says, “No.”

  In a span of a few seconds, my mind bounces from one reason for the rejection to the next. Is she saying no because she knows who I am and has a low opinion of me based on a sensational story she saw on tabloid TV? Does she not know who I am and therefore think I’m just a random creep? If it’s the latter, do I introduce myself and risk embarrassing her?

  Most likely, the simplest explanation is probably the correct one: I’m not her type. I’ve indeed put on a bit of weight since I starting sitting down a lot more to write my cookbooks. I’m not as young or as fit as I used to be.

  Still, I can’t explain it, but I can’t seem to get my ass moving in the other direction.

  “No?” I repeat back to her. What are you doing, St. Germaine? She doesn’t want you to join her.

  The gorgeous brunette curls her lip and stirs her drink.

  “In fact, you probably shouldn’t even be talking to me,” she says.

  I should have brought water for this conversation because my throat is dry as Death Valley.

  “I shouldn’t be talking to you? Why?”

  The woman leans forward and stage-whispers, “Are you okay? Because you’re repeating everything back to me like you don’t understand the words.”

  Then I see it. A hint of something playful in her eye tells me she’s fucking with me. Maybe. Or she wants to eat me alive.

  I think I’d be fine with either of those possibilities.

  Was it just her physical attributes getting my attention? What can I say? I’m a visual guy. I spotted her the second she walked into Urban Fruit like a homing beacon, and I couldn’t stop my legs from finding their way over to her table. I’ll admit, I’m a man of simple pleasures. Her hip sway in that dress caught my eye first. A black slip of a thing that shimmered as it moved with her body. The kind of dress that allows a lot of filthy things to happen without having to disrobe. Much. The things my big mitts would do with those thighs. My god. Also, I appreciate a tall woman who’s not worried about appearing too tall in heels. The way those extra five-or-so inches moved her long legs and soft bottom was too alluring to look away.

  “I’m not trying to pick you up just because you’re alone if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say. “But it’s a shame you’re eating alone. I thought you should have company.”

  A lock of hair falls from behind her ear when she chortles at me. “Good to know you’re not trying to pick me up because you would need to work on your material.”

  For some reason, the sound of the Hindenburg crash footage loops through my brain. Oh, the humanity. I should cut and run immediately before Peggy, my bartender, catches on to what’s happening and never lets me live down this public rejection.

  Being a persistent dumbass with no formal culinary education got me where I am today. And, as persistent dumbasses will do, I press onward. “How about you let me buy you a drink? Just a friendly drink.” I gesture to the next empty table. “I’ll even sit over here, away from you.”

  She eyes the table I’m pointing at. “Are you serious? Every table in this place is reserved. I know that because I had to book mine weeks in advance.”

  I smirk, perhaps a little too cockily. “I have a feeling the hostess wouldn’t mind if I found an extra table in the storeroom.”

  The woman whose name I desperately want to know now looks at me like I’m a science specimen. I’m a moth drawn to a flame, and she’s pinned me to her canvas of curiosities. “There’s a myriad of reasons why you cannot sit there and talk to me or buy me a drink. None of which I can discuss with you at the moment. Have a good night.”

  I give it one last shot before running scared, extending my hand. “Nevertheless, it was a pleasure speaking with you, Ms...”

  “Pocket. Polly Pocket.”

  “Ms. Pocket, I’m Milo St. Germaine, and if you need anything at all tonight, I’m at your service.”

  Finally, she smiles. Actually, her shoulders jerk slightly, and she’s biting down on her lip because she’s trying so hard not to laugh.

  “Sure thing, Milo St. Germaine.”

  Chapter Three

  Cecily

  Watching those long tree trunks walk away almost makes me feel bad for being mean to him.

  Milo’s gently frayed Levi’s fit just right, hugging two round, squeezable cheeks. Something in me doesn’t want him to walk away. Which is odd. I don’t go for older guys. Three of my sisters have a thing for older men. The fourth sister? Too soon to tell, because the guy she’s with at the moment is her age, but also not The One. I can tell. Something must be in the water around here because many people in my study group have dated a professor or two.

  Older guys might be fun for a fling, and maybe they’d be fun to hear stories from about the olden days. But I’m skeptical about the long term, despite the evidence to the contrary within my own family.

  But none of that matters. I have a story to write. Letting the chef join me would be wildly unethical.

  After Milo’s quick retreat, I’m still not left alone. Halfway through my chicken entree, someone plops into the chair across from me.

  “Uh, what are you doing here, Cherise?”

  “Hello
to you, too!” chirps my sister, sipping my drink.

  “Hey! You just swallowed about a dollar’s worth of gin there. Pay up; I’m a poor college student.”

  As my best friend, she levels me with a look. “And I am equally poor. Cut me some slack.”

  I gape at her. “So why are you here and not at your job?”

  She eyes me mischievously and says, “Networking.”

  Well, that’s obvious, by the way she’s trying to be nonchalant about spying Milo.

  “You have to order something if you’re going to sit here. I’m working.”

  “Sure! You can squeeze me into your expense account,” she replies with a shrug.

  I snort, “Expense account? Meadows Community College does not pay for pens, let alone these three courses.”

  She doesn’t hear me. I’ll say this for my sister, she can’t be stopped when she sees an opportunity to get her foot in the door in her field. She’s been a one-track mind ever since her toddler days of standing on a kitchen chair to help Mom measure out flour and sugar for birthday cakes.

  “Oh my god, there he is,” she says.

  “Are you fangirling right now?”

  “What? No! This is professional. I’ll be right back; I’m going to go introduce myself.”

  I watch as my sister bounds over to where Milo leans against the bar, chatting with the bartender during a lull. She introduces herself, and then I see Milo beaming at her, offering his hand, and she takes it. He covers her hand with both of his, the way that especially warm people tend to do. Okay, fine, it’s cute.