Bite Me Page 2

  And then, he looks over at me with a curious expression, then turns his attention back to Cherise. Then back to me, then back to Cherise. What is he doing? Trying to make me jealous?

  For the first time since Cherise’s lipstick permanently stained my homemade Chris Evans pillowcase, I want to scratch her eyes out. Listen, if our oldest sister Chloe can hold on to her virginity for a foreign celebrity, then I’m no crazier for saving myself for Captain America.

  But wait a minute. I’m not jealous. What do I even have to be jealous about? Maybe because saving myself for an A-list movie star seems more and more bonkers the longer I’m in the presence of Milo St. Germaine?

  No, that’s not it. I’m sure what’s happening here is that Cherise is networking, and Milo thinks she’s flirting. And his body language tells me he knows I’m watching him lap up the attention from someone else just minutes after I’ve turned him away.

  Well, then. You just earned yourself a one-star, buddy.

  Chapter Four

  Milo

  “What in the ever-living fuck?”

  “Milo. We don’t read the reviews. Especially not college newspaper reviews.” My local business partner, Carl, is enjoying his cigar while sitting out on the hotel veranda, cackling over my one-star review in the—what is this again? I loudly flip backward to page one. Meadows Monitor.

  “Did you read this, though?” I don’t care about the rating as much as the words.

  “College kids can’t afford our restaurant; why do you care what they think?”

  I ignore Carl and read out loud, “‘I would say the chocolate ganache was too miserly between the layers of the obviously box-mix cake, but honestly, I wouldn’t have wanted another bite of it. I would have had to order a ten-dollar glass of grass-fed milk to balance out all the sweetness. St. Germaine should consider hiring an actual pastry chef instead of phoning it in. Desserts are not meant to be an afterthought.’”

  By the time I finish reading, I’m red-faced. Not from anger but from laughter. Carl shakes his head.

  “That’s it. I have got to meet whoever wrote this article. And would you close the sliding door? It’s freezing in here.”

  Instead of enjoying a rare day off before flying off for a food tour to promote my latest cookbook, I’m scrolling social media for everything I can find about editor Cecily Williams. Her Facebook profile makes this easier. She has it locked down pretty tight, but I gather that she has a huge family.

  That’s when I look closely at the profile photo and realize Cecily is Polly Pocket. Or, rather, Polly Pocket is a fake name that I should have recognized the instant she said it. I thought it sounded oddly familiar. And then it clicks: my niece in Philly had some toys with names like that.

  Furthermore, the woman who approached me right after my conversation with Cecily? Her sister. I knew it. I thought I noticed a familial resemblance. While I admire Cherise’s pluck in coming right out to ask for a job, I had to turn her down.

  Desserts are not our specialty at Urban Fruit.

  And oh, boy, does Cecily remark on that in her article.

  I re-read this line several times just to torture myself. “When I say the chocolate cake is dry as a bone, I mean a dinosaur bone because that’s how much Milo St. Germaine is up to date on what people want in desserts.”

  “Wow,” is all I can say, laughing at this woman’s relentless skewering of me.

  Carl chuckles dismissively as he steps indoors to look over the receipts from opening night. “Going over the top with dessert steals focus from our mission,” he says.

  Still, Cecily sure doesn’t agree. She has strong opinions, and I want to know all of them.

  Not going to lie; she scares me a little. Because someone who put that much thought into panning a Michelin-starred chef? She gives no fucks. And I need to know her.

  Chapter Five

  Cecily

  “I’m telling you, the G-spot is a myth, and multiple orgasms are also a myth.”

  That declaration comes from the former sex columnist for the Meadows Monitor, Seth.

  Thank god I took Seth off that job and gave it to someone else. The current sex columnist, Vanessa, is arguing with Seth on the subject while we’re in the middle of putting the paper to bed for today.

  Sometimes I wish the paper didn’t even have a weekly sex advice column. But it gets students talking, so we keep it. I mostly wish my staff at the paper would stop discussing orgasms while I’m trying to work.

  Not because I’m a prude. But because I’ve never experienced one, and that fact is brought home to me every passing day. Also, it’s late. I’m tired and cranky and ready for bed.

  Thankfully the news desk phone interrupts this orgasm chat, and Seth answers. “Sure, hang on,” he says, extending the receiver to me.

  “Is it the printers?” I ask. I’m anxious to speak to anyone not discussing orgasms. “No, he says he’s that chef guy, and he wants to talk to you.”

  I take the receiver and say hello with more than a hint of suspicion in my voice.

  “Cecily Williams? This is Milo St. Germaine. I wanted to commend you on an extremely well-written article in the paper today.”

  I know this is not Milo on the phone. “I’ve met the man, and he has a much sexier phone voice than you.”

  The voice on the other end laughs, as does everyone in the room.

  “He does? Like how? So I know next time I harass someone.”

  I roll my eyes and stand from my office chair at the computer, where I’ve been copy-editing a story about the cafeteria raising its prices.

  “He’s got a lower octave than you. He’s very tall, see. But gravelly. You sound like a pimply 16-year-old boy.”

  The voice replies, “You’re a striking woman who makes me nervous. It’s possible my voice went up. But it’s definitely me, and I’d like to invite you to give us another try.”

  Now I know that this is a prank because Milo St. Germaine is a lot of things, but he would never ask a reviewer to change her star rating. Milo doesn’t give a fuck; that’s on the shortlist of redeeming qualities. Okay, and he’s nice to his fans.

  “Nice try, clown,” I say, hanging up.

  After I hang up, I wonder if I was a little hasty. But no. The man would never bother reading a review from a pissant newspaper from a tiny community college nobody’s ever heard of, would he?

  Chapter Six

  Milo

  She hung up on me. I can’t believe she hung up on me.

  I need to try again. I’m old and out of practice.

  This time, I’m going in person.

  Quickly, I find the newspaper office location on the school’s map, readily available via pdf online. The college should really do a better job of protecting its reporters, and other students for that matter. What if somebody was really pissed about an article? What if a psycho showed up? Or a stalker?

  When I arrive at the newspaper office, I’m greeted by a purple-haired kid at the reception desk who, thank goodness, doesn’t give a shit who I am.

  “Cecily Williams?”

  “Yes, she’s in there.” The receptionist points to an adjacent glass door.

  “I can just go in?”

  The kid shrugs and nods.

  What is with this place? No gatekeepers whatsoever.

  I stroll into the newspaper office and spot Cecily right away. Long and leggy, wearing a long, oversized shirt and leggings that cling to her thighs. Even under a layer of lycra, I recognize those thighs—because, yeah, I’m a dirty dog. Her striped shirt hangs off her shoulder in a way that’s too sexy for an office. I realize it’s not a professional office, but I don’t like how some of the guys stare.

  I’m not a judgmental fellow. I don’t have strong opinions over what women wear or don’t wear. I’m certainly not one of those guys that accuse women of distracting men with their clothing. But a feral, unevolved urge inside me wants to cover her up and carry her out, slung over my shoulder. Wrapped in a blanket for go
od measure.

  Someone editing photos at a computer sees me standing there like a freaking creep, silent and staring at Cecily. He’s about to say something when Cecily spins around because everyone is now staring at me.

  Her striking eyes widen when they take me in. “Whoa. I mean, hi?”

  I shoot her my brightest smile and extend my hand. “I thought I’d try again since we don’t seem to be able to connect otherwise.”

  She squints, then a look of realization comes over her face as she accept my handshake. “Oh no. That was actually you on the phone?”

  I shrug like it’s no big deal. I’m lost in the fact that I’m holding her hand in mine. Soft skin. Smooth fingers. It takes all my strength to let go when I sense her pull back.

  “I am so sorry. I thought it was a prank. Guys prank me here all the time.”

  This throws me off. “They do? How so?”

  She hesitates like she’s wondering why I’m asking that. “Oh. Well, you know. Because I’m a journalist, so I’m pretty much everywhere on campus all the time. And plenty of people don’t like the articles I write. The improv team has banned me from their performances until I print a retraction for my article about them. Which I won’t.”

  She pauses, waiting for me to get the gist.

  “I see. Well, that’s not what I’m doing here.”

  She nods, but I still see the skepticism on her face. Based on her experience, I can understand why she’s not buying what I’m selling.

  “I would like to give you another opportunity to eat at the restaurant, though.”

  She covers her stomach. “I think once is enough.”

  I laugh, even though she’s dissing my passion. “Even Ruth Reichl wouldn’t write an article without giving a restaurant three tries.”

  Cecily shakes her head. “Who’s Ruth Reichl?”

  “Ask your sister.”

  I can’t help but notice, something changes in Cecily’s face when I mention her sister. A hint of pink in her cheeks. Her eyes take on a wilder look, like she might put a hex on me. “Listen,” she says, closing in, pointing one finger at my chest. “You stay away from my sister. First of all, Cherise has a boyfriend. Second of all, she’s a fun-loving, friendly girl and people fall in love with her all the time because they think she’s flirting. She was just networking. So just stuff that idea back into your jeans. Got that?”

  I hold up both palms in surrender. “Yes, ma’am. And that’s not what I’m trying to do. It’s you I’m interested in, not your sister.”

  I could be wrong, but I believe I hear clucking and tsking from the bank of cubicles in the corner. Where there once was the sound of typing is clearly the sounds of people listening. Whispers, titters, scoffs. I see Cecily’s eyes cut in that direction, and when I follow her gaze, I see three pairs of female eyes looking at her like she’s the devil.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause drama by coming here,” I say.

  Cecily snorts. “Okay.”

  “But my offer still stands. And for the record, I wasn’t flirting with your sister. I was curious about the resemblance, which is why I kept looking back at you last night.”

  She nods. “Oh.”

  Continuing, I add, “I understand you ordered the chicken breast. Which is good, very good. But you should have the prime rib.”

  Cecily lifts one cute, bare shoulder. “Couldn’t afford it.”

  “The thighs then. The Jamaican rub—”

  She interrupts me, “Listen. I’m a college student. I can’t afford your restaurant as it is, and I can’t accept free food for a freaking review, so it seems we are at an impasse here.”

  I laugh. “An impasse that you imposed. You have some stringent ideas about what you can and can’t do.”

  She laughs, turns away, and grabs her backpack. “I have to go.”

  “Great, I’ll walk with you,” I say.

  More verbal noises from the peanut gallery.

  “Suit yourself. Not like campus security is going to stop you,” she says, breezing past me, hoisting her bag over her shoulder.

  I follow her out the door. “I’ll walk twenty paces behind you in total silence if you wish, but I feel like you should be accompanied.”

  Cecily hesitates but keeps walking, her two loose braids sliding back and forth across the backs of her shoulders. “Fine.”

  I follow her all the way home on foot, watching her enter a basement apartment under a small ranch house. Not the best neighborhood but not the worst. I don’t like that she appears to live alone and below street level where anyone could break in, peek in windows. Anything.

  My manager texts me. “When you get to Mexico City, let us know, and we’ll arrange for the camera crew to meet you at Mango.”

  I text back, “No can do. I’m in Charlotte.”

  Seconds later, my phone rings, and when I pick up, my manager lights into me. “What the fuck? You’re supposed to be on a plane to Mexico to film travel vlogs for the book tour.”

  “I already called the producer there. They were fine to reschedule a week.” It’s true. I’m very familiar with how that crew operates, and they have no problem rescheduling for me.

  “The publisher is going to be pissed.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “What the fuck is holding you up that’s so important, if I may ask?”

  I take a deep breath, and then I tell him the truth. “The woman I’m going to marry, that’s who.”

  I let my manager rant for a while and keep my eyes on Cecily’s house. I’ll follow her to her next destination, whatever that may be. A frat party? A nightclub?

  I stare and stare, for who knows how long. Lights go on and off, then another one, and then total darkness. I wait, expecting her to come outside dressed for a night out, but she never does. She’s turned in for the night.

  If she won’t accept my offer of dinner, then at least I can make sure she’s safe, and that’s all I need for today.

  I stay for a couple more minutes until I’m satisfied the neighborhood is quiet. Then I walk back to campus for my car and drive myself to the hotel, my manager still yelling at me through the phone.

  Chapter Seven

  Cecily

  One thing Milo needs to learn: just because he’s famous doesn’t make it less terrifying when he approaches out of nowhere in the coffee aisle at the QuikTrip.

  While I’m trying to decide how I want my cheap gas-station caffeine delivered into my veins—breakfast blend or French vanilla—that oversized chef startles me out of my socks.

  “Can I buy you a coffee?”

  My heart leaps into my throat, and I spin around, heart pounding, to see Milo standing behind me.

  “What the fuck! You scared the shit out of me.”

  He winces and looks sheepish. “I apologize. I thought you saw me.”

  With my hand on my chest, I say, “I might not need coffee after that adrenalin rush. What are you doing here?”

  He smiles and lifts one shoulder. “It’s a nice city with nice people, and I didn’t want to leave without convincing you to try my food again. So, I decided to stick around.” He says this casually, like someone who gets to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants.

  He follows this up with a wink. I look away and focus on the tiny creamers.

  “You are really trying to get me to rewrite my article, aren’t you?”

  “No,” he says, sounding genuine.

  I move aside to let Milo fill his own cup as I watch. One sugar, two creams. Despite myself, I make a mental note of it. “No? Are you sure?”

  Milo shakes his head, snaps a lid on his cup, and looks down at me with a serious expression I’ve not seen on him until now. “I’m sorry if it wasn’t clear. I wanted to ask you out.”

  I blink back. This can’t be happening. Did some witch back in the day curse all the women in our family to fall for older men? I cannot explain these butterflies in my stomach at the prospect of having dinner with this man. I’m 22.
He’s got to be at least 40. And he’s into me. Yet, last time I checked, I’m not a princess. “You said you wanted to give me another chance. That implies you want me to reconsider writing a second review after eating there again.”

  “Hang on,” he says, his face breaking into a smile that crinkles his eyes. God, why does he have to be so big and so cute? Pick one! “It’s been very well documented that I don’t give a fuck about food critics.”

  His wording makes me a slight bit defensive. So he doesn’t actually give a fuck about me? I sip my coffee and try to give him the benefit of the doubt. He did say on the phone yesterday that I made him nervous. “And yet here you are,” I say with a smirk.

  He’s so polite, paying for my coffee, insisting on picking up some donuts, too, and holding the door open for me as we leave the QuikTrip.

  My usual self hates all this chivalrous crap. But my traitorous stomach and my butterflies tell another story.

  “So what is it you want? Just dinner?” I smile slyly as we sit facing each other at a cafe table outside, me bracing against the chill and Milo looking about two sizes too big for the tiny round industrial seats. “We’re having coffee now. What is it you really want from me?”

  Another severe look from him has my eyes darting away and my hands diving for one of the donuts he offers. “I want to date you,” he says.

  I shake my head. “Dude. How old are you?”

  “I’m 40.”

  I sit back and stare at him while I try not to wolf down this thing. Gas-station donuts should not be this good, but I’m a total trash panda for QuikTrip cuisine. With a bit of food in my tummy, I start to appreciate what Milo’s wearing today: a gray fisherman-style sweater that complements his eyes. “I like your sweater.”

  “Thanks,” he beams. “My mom knitted it.”

  Of course, she did. Even his mom is indirectly conspiring to make me like this man. “I’m 22.”