Tasty (28 page)

My
stomach plummets. It takes the elevator back up and plummets again,
even further and harder, when Davis says,

“We’re
taking the pitches in a week. I want to see good work, Kinley.”

“If
by good work, you mean good T and A, I got what you need. I’m
already cooking up an angle for something totally new: breast
implants for underage teen daughters of celebrities. It’ll be
SAH—Sweet As Hell.”

“Have
you been waiting for the right moment to use that one?” I say,
wanting to run him over with a tractor. I wince; damn, I didn’t
want to appear rattled in front of Davis, but Tyler will do that to
you. The bastard actually winks at me.

“Came
up with it in the moment. That’s what I do, Young. I’m an
idea guy.”

No.
You’re the guy who steals other people’s ideas
.
As I walk out of Davis’s office and listen to Tyler guffaw and
talk about the ‘hot new assistant’ outside, I grit my
teeth. It’s time for Genghis Khan to grab her pumps and get to
work.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Read the rest of the story in
RUGGED
-
Available now
!

Keep reading for an excerpt of Katie McCoy’s
PLAY ME
!

by Katie McCoy

Recipe For:

A Roll In The Hay Hot Crossed Buns
 Love

Ingredients:

1 Chef (equal parts sexy and carefree)

1 Pianist (equal parts uptight and endearing)

1/8 inch of drywall between their apartments

2 opinions on everything

Combine all ingredients, mix vigorously, and be prepared
for an explosion of heat.

Pianist
Ella Thomas is training for the competition of her life. Finally in
an apartment of her own, she can practice from dawn till dusk. 
But
she didn't bet on the sexy and frustrating neighbor keeping her up
all night - even if he does cook like a maestro and kiss like it’s
his job.

Jake
Matson is living his dream as Head Chef at one of the most popular
restaurants in San Francisco. He's easy going, flirtatious and not
looking for love. He didn't expect to be completely distracted by the
girl next door, whose buttoned-up appearance hides the seductive
firecracker underneath.

What happens when opposites attract?
As their tension fires up, can they create a new kind of music
together or will everything boil over?

AVAILABLE NOW
!

Chapter One

Ella

It
wasn’t going to fit. Just looking at it, I could tell. It was
too big. Way, way too big. But still, I took a deep breath and tried
to relax. There wasn’t much I could do now. Somehow he was
going to make it fit. It was too late to turn back, I told myself.

Keeping
my gaze on Mark’s face, I watched as beads of perspiration
broke out on his forehead, wrinkled with concentration. We were both
sweating. I bit my lip and closed my eyes, knowing it would all be
over soon. My heart pounded in my chest.

I
held my breath and braced for contact. I heard Mark let out a low
grunt and then nothing.

When
I opened my eyes, my piano was in the middle of my new apartment. I
hurried over to help him tilt it off the dolly, gently maneuvering it
close to the large bay windows that took up an entire wall of the
loft. It looked fantastic sitting there, beautiful and gleaming. Like
it belonged. Afternoon light was streaming in and already my fingers
itched to play a few notes, test the acoustics in the room.

“I
told you it would fit,” Mark said, making the same expression
of displeasure as he did when I messed up during rehearsal. Which
seemed to be more often than not these days. The closer we got to the
competition, the worse I seemed to get in rehearsal, my hands growing
more and more clammy and my nerves through the roof.

“Thank
you for helping me move it,” I told him, still surprised he had
agreed to do so.

“Well,
you were probably going to hire some idiot who would damage it.
Better if I just took care of it.”

I
ran my hand over the piano’s polished black surface. It took up
most of the space in the tiny first-floor loft I had rented in Lower
Nob Hill—there was barely any room for my bed and I hadn’t
even bothered with trying to get a table or couch in there as well.
Not like I could afford them with how much I was paying for rent. But
it didn’t matter. The piano was all that mattered. And somehow,
Mark had managed to maneuver it through the narrow door without
getting a scratch on it.

“Thank
you,” I told him again, but the frown didn’t budge, his
attention turned to the state of the apartment. I had loved it since
the moment I saw it, the old three-story building with six identical
lofts, two on each floor, with their own beautiful set of windows
that curved outwards. It felt a little like a fishbowl. But in a good
way. Like, if a fish had to choose its fishbowl, it would probably
choose a fishbowl like this.

Peering
out my windows, I could see into the apartment immediately next to
mine—or at least I would be able to if their curtains hadn’t
been drawn.
You
should probably buy curtains
;
I made a mental note to myself. Looking up, I could see the ceiling
of the apartment above the one next door, but not much more.

But
when I looked back at Mark and his frown, suddenly I could see
everything in my apartment that he had disapproved of. The lack of
space. The creaky floorboards. The ancient sink and bathtub. I
quickly pushed his doubts away. He was only my instructor now—he
didn’t get to tell me where to live, even though he kept
trying. He had found nothing but fault with my new place.

“Just
continue to stay with your parents,” he kept saying, the one
and only time he and my folks were in total agreement. “Why add
to your stress with another move?”

But
he didn’t understand that as much as I loved my parents, it was
time to move out. I was twenty-five and had never been on my own. I
had always planned my move back home to be temporary, just to get my
bearings after the break-up and find my own place. My parents had
clearly been hoping I would stay forever, like my sister. But they
still couldn’t understand—after years of practice and
graduating from the conservatory—why I had chosen to focus on
classical music instead of jazz like Nina. Like them. They respected
classical music, of course, they just thought it was a bit
old-fashioned. They didn’t mean any harm by it, I knew that,
but it was still frustrating to be around people who didn’t
listen to what you wanted.

“We’re
a family of free spirits, Ella,” my dad would always say. “We
like to improvise, not follow sheet music.”

But
I needed to follow sheet music. Just like I needed to move out. But
they also thought I should focus on an instrument and genre that
didn’t have so many solo performances—the very thing that
tended to trigger my panic attacks. They didn’t understand why
I continued to put myself through the stress of performing and they
definitely didn’t understand why I had entered the Menuhin
Competition.

“I’m
going to go,” Mark said, smoothing back his perfect hair.

I
remembered being so enamored with him those first few years. Back
then I was just out of the conservatory and he was the best piano
teacher in San Francisco, so of course I sought him out. I wanted to
win the newly established Menuhin competition and he was considered
the best person to prepare me. The competition was how I was going to
prove to my parents that I could succeed as a musician. It wasn’t
the money I was interested in, but the opportunity it would allow.
The winner of this competition would have a hundred doors opened to
them. Secretly I hoped it would allow me to teach. Even though I had
a few students, mostly kids, winning the competition would give me
respect and attention in the classical world. I would be able to take
on students like Mark took on me. And charge them the same exorbitant
fees. Because I would be worth it. And I would be able to keep my
current students at their current cost. But I was getting ahead of
myself. I had to win the competition first.

My
palms began to sweat just thinking about it, the skin on the back of
my neck prickled. I had made it through the first few rounds of
smaller performances, but each time had to cope with the panic
attacks. I hated it, but besides small coping mechanisms and tricks
to keep me from passing out before I got on stage, there wasn’t
much I else I could do to battle them. It didn’t help that Mark
insisted it was all in my mind and that if I just tried harder, I
could be over them.

Was
there anything more pathetic then a concert pianist who was terrified
of performing? If so, I’d love to find out so I could feel
slightly less like an enormous loser who had chosen the worst
possible career path for herself. But I loved classical music and I
loved the piano. I didn’t know how to do anything else. Even
so, I was getting to the point if I didn’t win this
competition—if I couldn’t prove to my parents, to Mark,
to myself that I could make a living through my playing—then I
would have to seriously reconsider what I was doing with my life.
Either I’d conquer my panic attacks, or they’d conquer
me. I had made it through the first few rounds of the competition and
I wasn’t ready to admit defeat just yet.

Mark
had cared about the music just as much as I did. It wasn’t his
fault that we hadn’t worked out romantically. As he had
explained, I was just too young. And undisciplined. And unfocused.

His
talent had definitely been the thing that attracted him to me in the
first place, though he was quite handsome as well. Tall and blonde,
with classic good looks, he was known throughout San Francisco for
his legions of female fans, as well as his talent as an instructor.
“Greek statue” was his nickname, though I was starting to
wonder if it was more in reference to his stoic personality rather
than his attractive face.

Even
though he was nearly ten years older than I was, we had connected
over our love of music, and I had moved into his place soon after we
started working together. But I had felt a strange relief when I
ended things. I had found his touches and kisses enjoyable, but it
always felt like there was something missing. Perhaps it was me. Mark
certainly thought so and made sure to tell me that our age
difference—namely my immaturity—was the real reason I
couldn’t handle a relationship with him. Apparently my lack of
sensuality in the bedroom was the reason it never would have worked
out anyway. That wasn’t a surprise. It had been at the root of
all my other break-ups. I was starting to believe that part of me was
defective. Along with all the other defective parts of me. Too bad I
didn’t come with a warranty. My libido would hardly be the only
thing I would send back to be replaced.

But
then I thought about one of my neighbors that we had passed on our
way in. Tall and lean, he had been wearing a torn shirt and five
o’clock shadow. Dark hair, thick and mussed like he had just
rolled out of bed, and well-muscled arms that were decorated with
tattoos. Normally I preferred my men clean-cut, with clothes that
didn’t look like they had survived a natural disaster, but my
entire body had gone hot at the sight of him. His brown eyes had
caught mine for just a second and I was pretty sure that everything
below my waist had melted in that moment. It was a startling
sensation, but not entirely unpleasant. One that I definitely wasn’t
too familiar with.

“Uh,
Ella?” Mark said, bringing me out of my red-hot memory. I felt
myself blush as if Mark could read my mind. He wouldn’t
approve. “I’m going to leave now.”

“Oh,
yes,” I said, shaking my head. “Thanks so much for your
help, Mark.”

“Well,
just repay me by getting the fifth stanza right next time,” the
Greek statue said and left.

As
the door closed behind him, I was suddenly aware of how quiet it was.
Back at Mark’s place or at my parents’ house, there
would be music—jazz or classical—emanating from every
nook and cranny, whether it was my father listening to his favorite
records in preparation for his class on music theory, or my mother
blasting the latest album she had been sent to review, or my sister,
Nina, playing the horn in her own room. It had never been silent.

I
flopped down on my mattress that was shoved into the corner closest
to the kitchen that I was sure I was never going to use. Cans of
Campbell’s chicken noodle soup were what I lived off of. All I
needed to survive was a can opener and microwave. Unless my life
depended on me locating the box I had packed it in. Then I was a
goner.

I
surveyed my apartment. It was small, but it was mine. I got a thrill.
I was on my own, truly on my own. And it was quiet.

Even
though the thing I wanted to do the most at the moment was play, I
knew that there was a good chance I’d get lost in it and lose
track of time. I really needed to unpack, so that I wouldn’t be
scrambling to look for my clothes and toothbrush and other necessary
items in the morning. I also needed to figure out which bus I needed
to take to get to the location for the upcoming round of the
competition next week since I was so used to coming across the Bay
from my parents’ place near Berkeley.

My
excitement dipped as nervousness rose in my chest, squeezing my heart
painfully. No, no, no. The last thing I needed right now was a panic
attack. Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself that the next round
of the competition wasn’t for another week. I had plenty of
time to practice. And now I could practice on my own, without Mark or
my parents interrupting to tell me what I was doing wrong. This move
was a good thing, I told myself. It was going to help.