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  Master Chef

  DANIELLE BERGGREN

  MASTER CHEF

  Copyright © by Danielle Berggren.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For information contact :

  www.danielleberggren.com/contact/

  Book Formatting by Derek Murphy @Creativindie

  Cover artwork by Adobe Stock

  Cover design by Danielle Berggren

  Cover spine and back design by Danielle Berggren

  ISBN:

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  I wanted to address anyone reading this in 2019 and beyond:

  Thank you for checking out this book, but please know that this was a work I got out in a fit of post-divorce writing fury. It was quick, it was dirty, and it was done wrong. It took me, literally, twenty-eight days from starting the story to pushing the ‘publish’ button on Amazon’s KDP.

  I did not want to remove this book from circulation altogether because it stands as a testament to what could have been.

  Since 2015, when this book was published, I’ve remarried and been diagnosed with mental illnesses which explain a lot of my past and my behaviors, one of which was to start working on these grandiose plans of fame, glory, and money which never actualized because I never put in the work. Because, depression. It’s a bad one. If you want to know more about that whole tangled mess, I recommend checking out my blog www.ahumaninprogress.com.

  So, keep in mind, dear reader, this writing is not indicative of what I’m capable of or what I’m attempting to create with my more ambitious works, which you can find out more about by visiting my author page. This was a one-off. I can’t say “I’ll never write another romance,” because I love romance. I love—love.

  But there are some major changes to the story you’re about to read (or not, I won’t be offended if you put this down). Upon re-reading this story for re-release, editing it here and there, I made some major plot changes. They’re for the better, I assure you.

  The one area where I made the most changes was regarding the BDSM community. Through careful, um, research, I realized I made a few key mistakes here and there when it came to protocol and the variations of relationships one can engage in.

  It’s a big, brave world, folks.

  Anyway, I thought it was only fair to give you a warning and explanation before you proceed.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Veronica

  I started the day in a half dream, fantasizing how I would kill my awful and infuriatingly sexy boss. I opened my eyes and spent a good few minutes staring at the ceiling tiles fantasizing about burying the boss under a chicken coop—where may he be shit upon for all eternity—or dissolving him in a vat of chemicals, leaving an untraceable soup—After all, I graduated with a secondary degree in chemistry—when the smoke alarm in my condo began to wail.

  “Shit.” I slung my legs down to the cold hardwood floor and went running to the kitchen. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  My new oven—my ten thousand dollar new range I better not ruin—was spewing a foul-smelling gray smoke from the top vents.

  I skidded to a stop on socked feet and shut off the cursed machine, grasping a pair of oven mitts with practiced ease and sliding open the door. Smoke rolled out, threatening to choke, and I backed up a step, eyes watering. I coughed and fanned the mitts in front of my face to clear the air before pulling the breakfast casserole from the oven. It was a charred black thing.

  “Damn it,” I whispered as the casserole dish fell with a thump to the gas range. “I thought I had it right.”

  My new range possessed more options than a space shuttle, and I was still working out the kinks on how to program it to turn on and off at specific times.

  The smoke alarm continued to wail and I ran to the windows, throwing them open despite the chilly November air and the fact I was clad in nothing but underwear and a thin spaghetti strap. It was the sixth story, after all. I ran back to the alarm and waved the mitts at it frantically, willing the thing to stop its horrendous wail.

  Even with the choking stench of the smoke, my stomach growled in anticipation of its morning meal. “Soon enough, okay?” I assured it, “Just need this thing to shut. The hell. Up.”

  The circular alarm gave a final loud, long shriek like a dying hare and fell silent. I let out a sigh of relief and turned on the overhead fans in the kitchen to siphon out the last of the cloying smoke.

  “Okay,” I said aloud. “Okay, so that didn’t work. No need to panic, Veronica, you need to find the Bible.”

  I started rooting around in the drawers and cabinets for the user’s manual. I find my way to any cooking utensil blindfold, but I could not for the life of me find anything else once I had put it away where ‘I am sure I’ll find it again.’

  Damn my past self. She’s an asshole.

  The phone interrupted my search and I ran to grab it, wincing as my steps thumped on the floor. It made me sure I would be seeing a note from Miss. Stevenson downstairs, reminding me yet again that as a retired schoolteacher, she needed her rest. Deserved it. My running around in the dawn hours never coincided with her schedule.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming!” I shouted at the iPhone plugged into its charger by the front door. It continued to ring until I almost snapped the cord in my haste and swiped at the screen. “Hello!”

  “Why are you shouting at me?”

  I smiled. The voice was familiar, one I listened to almost every day of my life since the seventh grade when my now-best-friend Fiona Helbourn moved to Monmouth, Oregon and landed herself in the same home room as me. We had done almost everything together since then, up to and including pursuing the same degree in the culinary fields and moving together to San Francisco four years ago after we graduated. “Hey, Fiona. How are you?”

  “I’m wondering where you are, that’s how I am. Please tell me you’re in an Uber and you’re on your way.”

  I glanced at the calendar tacked to the wall by the door. It was no help, the frolicking kittens stuck over an accusatory ‘September’. “Um... “

  A loud, static-filled sigh filtered through the phone. “The farmers market? Started an hour ago? Chef Tight-Ass wanted us to buy fresh ingredients for ton
ight’s big event? Any of this ring a bell?”

  I groaned. “Oh, God, Fee, I’m so, so sorry. I’m putting on pants and I’m out the door.”

  “Pants? Are you telling me you were still in bed?” There was a slight pause. “Please tell me there was someone else in the bed with you.”

  I let out a dry laugh, but I was already moving back toward the bedroom. “No such luck, Miss Matchmaker. I just forgot. I’ll be there in a tick.”

  “You better be. When he gets angry, I don’t want to be the only one catching the blame. You and I are in this together.”

  “Of course. I’ll be there in a sec. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I tossed the phone on my bed and quickly pulled on a pair of work pants and a top that would breathe under the jacket I would need to wear in the kitchen later today. Fiona was always pushing me to start dating again after Jason, but it was hard when your ex-fiancé stared down at you from billboards and from the cover of music magazines. He had even been listed this year in one of the gossip rags ‘Top Ten Most Eligible Bachelors’, not that he was one—he was engaged.

  Again.

  But not to me.

  I ran from my bedroom to the bathroom to perform my ablutions and brush my teeth, pulling my hair into a messy bun while the toothbrush hung out of one corner of my mouth.

  I stared at my reflection while I finished brushing. If I didn’t have the harried look of the messy, too-curly blond hair and the blush of blue-purple bruising under my eyes from lack of sleep, I think I might be found attractive. That was another reason for my lonely nights—I worked, often and with long hours.

  Once finished, I gave my reflection not a second glance before I threw the necessities in my purse, shoved my feet into ergonomic, slip-resistant shoes, and hurried out the door.

  I loved the farmers market, and spending time with Fiona, but I dreaded the confrontation that was sure to explode the moment we brought our purchases back to the restaurant. Every day, I vowed that I would not let Chef Craymore bother me, and almost every day I went home fighting back tears. Or full of a homicidal, impotent rage.

  “But not today,” I said aloud, squaring my shoulders as I waited for my elevator. “Today, if he pushes me I’ll just ignore him. I won’t let it bother me.”

  I pursed my lips and gave a jerky nod.

  Not today.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Veronica

  “Veronica!”

  I turned toward the sound of my name and spied my friend. Fiona stood on an empty crate in front of a citrus fruit stand so that she could be seen above the crowd, her arm raised in greeting. I waved back and hurried over to her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said as soon as she was in earshot. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to skip out on you like that.”

  She hopped off the crate, her head coming up to my shoulders now that she was without the extra assistance. It was not that she was short, just that I was incredibly tall. And mom always said no man would want a tall woman, so I had to find a way to make myself useful. That one sentiment would explain a lot if I ever deigned to enter therapy, which, going off how the last six weeks had gone since Chef Craymore had arrived, I may need sooner rather than later.

  Fiona pulled on the sleeve of my jacket. “Come on. José kept some things held back for us, but he won’t for long.”

  I let her pull me along through the thin crowd. It was past dawn, and the majority of shoppers wouldn’t arrive for another hour or more. The others blinking down at the produce stand or gesticulating to the sellers almost exclusively in our same profession. Some of them looked like I felt—zombified this early in the morning—but many others had that pep that made me both loathe and admire them. I got my pep in the evening, as work started winding down.

  José was back with the others in the fish market, but whereas others had stacks of shiny silver and rose-scaled fish to show, his table had few occupants. He held back the best of his catch for the chef’s and, in his considerable opinion, most of what he caught was prime.

  “Hello, beautiful ladies!” He called when he spotted us moving toward him. “Veronica, you shine as bright as the sun on this chilly morning. Do you have a kiss for me today?”

  I smiled at him but shook my head. “What would your wife think if she heard you talking to us like this?”

  He held a hand to his heart. “Maria has her pool boys and I have my girlfriends. This is how you keep a good marriage.” He winked. “But just so, don’t say anything, eh? There is a treat for you if you’ll give me another smile.”

  We both smiled and José motioned us back to the ice-laden table. Fiona elbowed me, “You first. He likes his women tall and shapely.” I opened my mouth to argue—Fiona was the pretty one, athletic and petite with straight dark hair and smiling brown eyes—but she quelled me with a look. “Just get us a good deal. I don’t want management coming down on us because Mr. I’m-the-King-of-the-God-damned-Universe upped the prices on our goods by being such an insufferable ass. We’re the only ones José will deal with now.”

  I sighed and went into the back, where the freshest goods available could be found in crates in a large refrigerated truck. José lauded his catch, gesturing over the herrings, cod, shrimp and mussels like they were virgin sacrifices which, I suppose, in his mind they were. We talked, Fiona handling any awkward pauses on my account while I hand-selected the seafood we would need for tonight’s menu with a practiced eye. Fiona helped and, after a long monolog on how, if he were a younger, unmarried man, he would take us out on his boat for a sunset cruise, so did José.

  His flirtation was harmless. Though he swore with great conviction that his marriage to Maria was open to additional partners, the two were devoted to each other. I had seen his wife on some occasions and no one who saw them together would doubt the depth of their love. If I or any other woman ever did give him a kiss, or agree to one of his ‘romantic cruises’ on the stinking fishing vessel, I’m sure he wouldn’t know what the hell to do.

  Fiona took over when it was time to haggle price, and my roaring stomach reminded me that I had yet to eat breakfast. From here I could not smell the bread and pastries that some of the vendors would display under clear plastic hoods, but I knew they were there. It felt as though my stomach tugged me in that direction.

  “You ladies tell me the minute el cabrón drives you from the restaurant. When you two open your own, I will sell only to you. I would wipe my hands of Le Poisson d’Azur if not for your lovely faces.” He wiped his hands down his apron to show, and then held out a hand for us to shake. His grip was chilled from handling the fish bare-handed.

  “Thank you, José,” I said. “The boys will be by in about an hour to pick everything up.”

  “Ah,” he said. “They are good boys. You will take them with you, si?”

  “Yes,” I laughed. “If we ever open our own place, we’ll take them with us.”

  We said our good-byes and moved to the vegetable and fruit stands. From here, away from the salty ocean brine of fresh-caught fish, I caught a whiff of the bakery area.

  Fiona was chatting at me but stopped when she noticed that I was not paying attention to a single word she said. She sighed and gave me a soft punch on the shoulder. “You didn’t eat breakfast, did you?”

  “Hm?” I looked at her and she raised her dark eyebrows at me. “Oh. No. Sorry. Oven malfunction.”

  She laughed. “More like user malfunction. You should go back to the shop and see if they’ll give you a demonstration of how to use it right.”

  “I’ll get it down eventually. There’s the user manual.”

  “The doorstopper? Yeah, I’ve seen it. Hon, not to burst your independent bubble, but you need the help. That thing was written for technicians, not for chefs.”

  “Mm-hm,” I said, feet wandering over toward a stand which held, among other things, a small pyramid of fresh beignets. “Just a minute.”

  Fiona let out a long-suffering sigh and followed me. She never ate
breakfast but I tempted her with one of the delicious pastries and she relented. We leaned against a nearby brick wall and ate. Until the food hit bottom, I would be useless. Blood sugar issues are a pain.

  A few bars of Jason Sanger’s new hit single Lonesome Lives drifted toward us and I paused, beignet half way up to my mouth. Fiona placed a hand on my arm, “It’s okay, hon. He was a self-serving bastard.”

  I nodded and tried to shut out the song. It was playing everywhere these days, but it still made me pause. I remembered nights where he would sit on my bed, shirtless, plucking at his guitar, figuring out the bars. And then I remembered finding out about all the other women, especially the last—Fanny. Fanny, who took my place as the woman most useful to him. Fanny, whose father was a big shot in the music industry. I had provided for his living, paid all the bills and, hell, even bought his damned guitar, but none of that mattered in the end.

  There had been many things, there at the end, which had culminated in our parting, but nothing could compare to the betrayal of his indiscretions. “He was a liar and a cheat,” I said. The words now familiar, as I had said them a thousand times before.

  “That’s right. Plus, there were some compatibility issues, if I remember correctly...”

  I blushed. “Yeah.” I had hoped we were too drunk for Fee to remember those particular confessions, but she always had a better tolerance for liquor than I did. Still, she was the only one I had ever told about my penchant for certain bedroom...activities.

  “You just need to get out there again. Not everyone is Jason. It’s been over a year and I know you haven’t been out on a single date since then.”

  “Well, it’s hard to find someone when you work the hours we do,” I pointed out. “Poisson is a big commitment.” But if the new Master Chef were not such a douche, I would jump him in an instant.

  “I still find time to date.”

  “You would find time to date if the world was ending.”