Nov. 21, 2024

The Grateful Game: (Thanksgiving Episode 3 of 4) - "Sweet and Sour"

The Grateful Game: (Thanksgiving Episode 3 of 4) - "Sweet and Sour"

Late at night in her empty restaurant, Maya Chen receives an urgent message from Marcus Reid that leads to a clandestine meeting in her private kitchen. As professional boundaries dissolve into a passionate encounter, crucial truths about the...

Late at night in her empty restaurant, Maya Chen receives an urgent message from Marcus Reid that leads to a clandestine meeting in her private kitchen. As professional boundaries dissolve into a passionate encounter, crucial truths about the restaurant industry conspiracy begin to surface. Through intimate revelations and heated memories of their first masked liaison, Maya discovers her father's true role in Katherine Reid's dangerous insurance scheme.

The episode weaves between past and present, building erotic tension as Maya and Marcus navigate their complex attraction while plotting to expose the corruption at Tuesday's underground dinner. But when news of her father's discovery at his old restaurant arrives, Maya must decide if she can trust Marcus's change of allegiance – and her own heart. Their late-night rendezvous culminates in a risky plan that could either save them both or destroy everything Maya has built. In the end, the lines between passion and power, trust and betrayal, become as deliciously blurred as the boundaries they've crossed.

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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.