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Calarogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly.
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This episode is titled The Grateful Game, Episode three, Sweet
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and Sour.
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The kitchen clock reads two am. When I finally pull
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the last batch of cardamom shortbread from the oven. Everyone
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else has gone home, leaving me alone with my thoughts
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and my memories. The basement kitchen at sweet Heat feels
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different at night, intimate, like the space between heartbeats, like
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the moment before a kiss. My phone buzzes Marcus, still
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at the restaurant. Of course, he knows he's probably been watching,
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waiting for my staff to leave. I should ignore it.
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I should think about my missing father, about Catherine's warnings
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about the growing web of danger around me. Instead, I
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text back, Yes, three dots appear, disappear, appear again, the
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article about the health inspector. We need to talk now,
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better than Tuesday. Too many masks. Then he's right, Tuesday's
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underground dinner is too risky, too public, too watched. But
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here now, in my quiet kitchen, that's dangerous in a
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different way, side door. I reply. Ten minutes while I wait,
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I remember the last time we were alone in this
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kitchen after the wine cellar before I knew who he
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was one month earlier. Show me where you create, he'd said,
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the wolf masks still in place, even though the other
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guests had gone. His bow tie was undone, hanging loose
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around his neck, a conscious dishevelment that made my pulse race.
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I had led him to my basement kitchen, still high
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on adrenaline and desire. This is where the magic happens,
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the magic. His laugh was low, dangerous. Is that what
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you call it? I turned to face him, feeling bold
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behind my fox mask. What would you call it? He
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moved closer, backing me against my work table. I'd call
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it seduction. His fingers traced my collar bone. Every dish
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designed to make us surrender. Is that what you did?
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I challenged, surrender. His hand slid into my hair, gripping
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gently but firmly. You tell me, chef. The kiss was
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different from the ones we'd shared in the wine cellar.
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Those had been urgent, desperate. This was slow, deliberate, his
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tongue tasting, testing like he was sampling a new dish.
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I moaned. When he lifted me onto the work table,
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my dress riding up present. A soft knock at the
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side door pulls me from the memory. My body is
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flushed remembering focus. Maya, this isn't about pleasure tonight. This
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is about answers. When I open the door, Marcus steps
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in from the cold November night. No mask this time,
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no critics notebook, just a man with secrets in his
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eyes and danger in his smile. Thank you for seeing me,
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he says, following me to the kitchen. He's wearing a
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charcoal sweater that makes me think of how his skin
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would look against my white sheets. Stop it, you said
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we needed to talk. I lean against my work table,
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the same one where we'd no focus so talk. Marcus's
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eyes track my movement as I reach behind me for
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the shortbread, a chef's habit. Always keep your hands busy,
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always maintain control, the health inspector, he says, watching my
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fingers break the still warm cookie. He was getting close
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to something bigger than health code violations, something that connects
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your father's restaurants to Catherine's acquisitions and to my underground dinners.
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The shortbread crumbles like my resolve. When he takes a
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step closer, maybe his voice drops lower. What really happens
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at those dinners? Maya, The way he says my name,
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like he's tasting it, like that night in the kitchen,
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when he'd whispered it against my skin, over and over
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one month earlier. Tell me what you want, he'd murmured,
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his hands sliding up my thighs as I sat on
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the work table. The wolf mask cast shadows on his
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throat when he swallowed. I want My fingers found the
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buttons of his shirt. I want to see if you
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taste as good as my desserts. His laugh rumbled through
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his chest. Dangerous words from a chef. I'm not just
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a chef. I pulled him closer, wrapped my legs around
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his waist. Not to night, No, his teeth grazed my neck.
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What are you to night to night? I gasped, as
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his hands found bare skin. Tonight, I'm whatever I want
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to be, and what do you want to be? The
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answer surprised us, both yours present. Maya Marcus is closer, now,
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close enough that I can smell his cologne, cedar and
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smoke like always, Where did you go?
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Just now?
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Nowhere? I turn away, but his hand catches my wrist,
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gentle but firm, like that night. Don't lie. His thumb
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traces my pulse point. I know that look what look
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the one you had in the wine cellar, when you
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stopped being James Chen's daughter and started being just you.
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I meet his eyes, and the air changes charges, like
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the moment before lightning strikes. Why did you come to
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my dinner that night? My voice is barely a whisper.
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Was it just part of your investigation? His other hand
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comes up to cut my face, and I should stop him,
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should think about my father, about Catherine's warnings about Tuesday's dinner. Instead,
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I lean into his touch. I came because I had
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to know, he says, had to know if you were
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part of it, part of the corruption I've been tracking.
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But then then his thumb brushes my bottom lip. Then
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I saw how you moved in that fox mask, how
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you commanded that room, how every dish told a story
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about desire and power and surrender. And I forgot why
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I came? Did you forget I challenge my heart racing?
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Or did you find a better way to investigate me?
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His hand stills on my face in the dim kitchen light.
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I see something flash in his eyes, desire warring with duty.
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Good let him feel the same conflict that's been torturing
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me When I touched you that night, he says, voice rough.
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When I tasted you, investigation was the last thing on
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my mind. The memory floods back, making my knees weak.
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One month earlier, his hands had found the zipper of
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my dress, sliding it down with agonizing slowness. Every dish
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you serve tonight, he'd murmured, was about control, taking it,
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giving it, playing with it. And I'd arched into his
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touch as the silk slipped from my shoulders. And now
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I want to know His fingers traced my spine. What
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happens when Chef Maya Chen loses control, I'd shuddered, gripping
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his shoulders. No one sees that ever, I see it.
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He'd pulled back, just enough to meet my eyes through
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our masks. I see you. That's when I'd surrendered. Let
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him peel away more than just my dress. Let him
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discover how I taste, how I sound, when I break,
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how I feel, when I finally finally let go present
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Maya Marcus's voice pulls me back. His thumb is still
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brushing my lip, but now his other hand has found
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my hip, the same spot he'd gripped that night. We
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should talk about Tuesday? Should we I step closer, eliminating
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the last space between us, professional boundaries dissolve like sugar
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in hot water. Or should we talk about how you've
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been watching my restaurant, following my deliveries, learning my secrets.
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His fingers flex on my hip. Catherine isn't just buying
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failed restaurants, She's I silence him with a kiss, not gentle,
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not sweet, hungry like I've been starving for this since
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that night. He responds, instantly, backing me against the work again,
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history repeating itself, but this time without masks, this time
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with full knowledge of who we are, what we risk.
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His hand slide under my chef's coat, finding skin, and
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I gasp into his mouth. Tell me about the danger.
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I whisper against his lips. Tell me what Catherine's really doing.
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Tell me why my father disappeared. Clever girl. He nips
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at my throat, using pleasure to extract information. You did
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it first. I pull him closer, feeling him hard against
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me that night in the wine cellar, All those questions
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between kisses, He laughs darkly. You were asking questions too,
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if I remember correctly. Maybe we were both playing each other.
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Maybe we still are the truth of it, should make
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me stop, should make me think about consequences, about Tuesday's dinner,
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about everything at stake. Instead, I reach for his belt.
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His belt hits the floor at the sae moment his
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mouth finds my throat. Catherine, He murmurs, against my pulse
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has been collecting insurance payments on every restaurant she acquires insurance.
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My fingers tangle in his hair as his teeth graze
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that spot below my ear. What kind of I gasp
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as his hand slides higher under my chef's coat, The
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kind that pays triple if the business fails due to scandal.
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His touch is maddening, professional fingers, knowing exactly how to
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take me apart. Your father found out. That's why he disappeared.
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Understanding blooms like heat in my veins. The health inspector
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was going to expose everything. His mouth moves lower, making
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coherent thought impossible, just like I was supposed to, supposed to.
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He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his
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breathing as ragged as mine. Until I met you, until
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that night, until I realized what happens next is pure chemistry,
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like sugar carameline, like copper hitting flame, we ignite. My
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chef's coat joins his belt on the floor. His sweater follows,
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Skin meets skin, A secrets spill between kisses, Tuesday's dinner.
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He breathes against my collar bone. Catherine will be there,
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Everyone involved will be there. It's a trapmyre I arch
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into him, mind spinning with revelation and desire for who.
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His answer is lost in the heat of what follows.
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In this moment, we're not critic and chef, not hunter
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and hunted. We're just nerve endings and need, just pleasure
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and power and the sweet ache of surrender. Later, much later,
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as we catch our breath against the cool steel of
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the work table, the pieces click into place. She's going
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to destroy us, all I whisper into the darkness, isn't she?
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Marcus's arms tighten around me, not if we destroy her first.
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In the distance, a phone rings, the real world, intruding
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on our dangerous paradise. Time to put our masks back on.
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The phone belongs to Marcus. He answers it without letting
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go of me, his free hand tracing patterns on my
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bare shoulder. Even this simple touch feels charged now, like
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every nerve ending has been rewired for his frequency. When
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he says into the phone, his body tenses against mine.
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Are you sure? A pause? Keep him there? I'm on
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my way. What is it? I ask, already knowing I
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won't like the answer. They've found your father. His eyes
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meet mine in the dim kitchen light at Catherine's latest acquisition,
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the old Jade Palace on Michigan Avenue, my father's original restaurant,
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where everything started, where everything fell apart? Is he a
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live but mya His hand cups my face, thumb brushing
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my swollen lips. He's asking for Catherine, not you. The
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implications hit me like ice water. My father isn't a
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victim in this scheme. He's a player. I pull away
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from Marcus, gathering my clothes. My skin still burns where
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he touched me, but my mind is crystallizing into sharp focus.
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Tuesday's dinner, I say, sliding my chef's coat back on.
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Tell me everything. He watches me dress, his own clothes
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still scattered across my kitchen floor. Every major restaurant investor
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in Chicago will be there. Catherine's arranged it through my
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underground supper club. The pieces clicked together. She's using me
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as bait. Yes, he stands magnificent in his undressed state,
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but I force myself to focus on his words, not
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his body. But she doesn't know that I've turned that tonight.
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He gestures between us, change things, finish, raising an eyebrow.
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His laugh is dark, sensual. Everything was already changing from
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the moment I tasted your first dessert wearing that wolf mask.
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I knew, knew what he steps closer, still unashamedly bare,
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that you are either going to destroy me or save me,
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maybe both. The air charges again. I resist the pull
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of his gravity, even as my body remembers how perfectly
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we fit together minutes ago. We need a plan, I say,
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proud of how steady my voice remains for Tuesday. I
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have one. He finally starts gathering his clothes, But you're
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not going to like it. Tell me. As he dresses,
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he outlines a scheme so dangerous, so perfectly balanced between
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risk and reward, that it takes my breath away, just
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like his kisses had. You want me to serve them
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their own secrets, I say. When he finishes on a
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silver platter with your signature creative touch, his smile is
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wolf like, even without the mask, Can you do it?
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I think about my father, about Catherine, about masks and power,
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and the thin line between justice and revenge, About how
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Marcus's hands felt mapping my body, and how his secrets
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taste on my tongue. I'll need ingredients that aren't exactly legal.
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I can help with that. He's fully dressed now, but
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somehow looks more undone than when he was naked. Maya,
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don't I hold up a hand. Whatever this is between us,
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we can't lose focus. He nods, but his eyes say
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something different, something that makes my pulse race and my
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resolve waver. Tuesday, then he says, moving toward the door. Tuesday.
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He pauses, with his hand on the knob. That night
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in the wine cellar, Yes, I wasn't playing either. After
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he leaves, I stand in my kitchen, letting the weight
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of everything settle around me, the taste of him lying
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on my lips, the feel of him echoes on my skin,
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and in my mind a menu begins to form. Tuesday's
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dinner will be my masterpiece. Each course a confession, each
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bite a revelation, each mask a mirror. Let them come
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hungry for secrets. I'll serve them their own destruction, garnished
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with truth and seasoned with revenge and Marcus. Marcus will
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either be my salvation or my downfall, maybe both, just
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like his Kiss.
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Romance Weekly is a production of Calarogu Shark Media executive
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producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast
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may have been created with the assistance of Ai
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Calaruga Shark Media.