A Taste of You (21 page)

“I’m coming over,” Beckett announced.

“You don’t have to do that.” But I was glad. I felt awful—in body and soul.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” And he was. Beckett had a key, so it seemed like one moment we were on the phone and the next he was standing over me. “Cat, you’re burning up,” he said, pressing his hand to my forehead the way my dad did when I was a kid. “Have you taken anything?”

“It’s over, Beckett,” I said, tears streaming down my cheeks. “With William.”

“Oh, Cat. What happened?”

I tried to tell him, but I was crying so much I didn’t make sense.

Finally, in the middle of my blubbering, Beckett said, “Do not move. I’m going to the store for supplies.” Laird took Beckett’s place on the couch, and I must have dozed.

When I woke, Beckett held a small plastic cup of cold medicine to my lips. I drank it along with the tea he’d made and promptly began crying again.

“Cat, you need to sleep. Come on.”

It was a monumental effort to drag my weary, pain-filled body to bed, but I did it with Beckett’s help. “I’m worried about you,” he said after tucking me in. “I’m going to hang here awhile. Make sure your fever doesn’t spike.”

“No, Beckett,” I groaned. “You’ve done enough.”

“Oh, this isn’t as selfless as it seems, honey. I’m using your AGA to try out a few recipes. Now go to sleep.”

I slept a dreamless sleep, half awake at times, but too groggy to get out of bed. When I woke, it was dark, and I wondered if Beckett had finally gone home. My clock read almost seven, and I groaned. I’d slept the entire day.

I rose and stumbled into the living room, shielding my eyes against the bright lamplight. I heard Beckett in the kitchen and followed my nose. Something smelled delicious, and my empty stomach rumbled. My mouth was watering by the time I spotted Beckett. He was washing pots and pans and looked up when I entered. “You look like hell,” he said.

“I feel like hell,” I rasped. On the stove, soup bubbled, the aroma irresistible. It was a rich broth, and even my stuffed nose detected the scent of herbs. “Beckett, I can’t believe you made me soup.”

“I didn’t.” He gestured to a cooling rack filled with cupcakes ready to be frosted. “I made the cupcakes. William brought over the soup.”

“What?” Just the mention of William made my heart beat faster, and pain lanced through my chest.

“I answered your cell while you were passed out. Your friend Allison called and then William. He was pissed when I wouldn’t put you on, so I told him you were sick and asleep. Ninety minutes later he showed up with soup.”

I blinked. “William was here? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Cat, you were out. William said he couldn’t stay. He handed me the soup and said to tell you he hopes you feel better soon.”

I stared at Beckett. William had been here. He’d brought me soup.

“Are you sure he knows it’s over?” Beckett asked.

“I don’t know what to think.” I was still confused by William and by my own reaction. One part of me was thrilled he had been so close, another part was still furious. No way were we ever getting back together. Not after what I’d seen in his study. But I couldn’t help wondering—if I could have smelled anything, would I have picked up his scent? Would my body have known he was here, even if my mind rejected him?

“So,” Beckett said, indicating the soup. “We’re not letting this go to waste, are we?” He pulled two soup mugs from my cabinet. “I mean, we can still hate the guy, even if we eat his soup.”

“Oh, we’re eating the soup,” I confirmed.

We sat at my dining table, and Beckett had three bowls while I managed to put away two. It was delicious. I wasn’t big on soup—felt like I was drinking my meal—but I could have eaten this for the rest of my life.

“Either I was starving, or that was the best soup I’ve ever eaten,” I told Beckett.

“It was the best soup
I’ve
ever eaten. I need to find out where he got it.”

“I’m sure he made it,” I said, sitting back contentedly. “He’s a great cook.”

“Is there anything the man doesn’t do?” Beckett asked.

“He doesn’t do normal.”

Beckett leaned over and gave me a hug. “He’s a great gift-giver. Remember that bracelet?”

“Beckett, I didn’t tell you about the watch. I forgot it at his penthouse, but it was beautiful.” I described it, and Beckett pulled out his phone as I talked.

“A Patek Philippe?” he asked. “Like this one?” He turned the screen toward me.

“Exactly.”

“Cat, that’s a sixty-thousand-dollar watch.”

“You know what, Beckett? It could be a million-dollar watch, and I wouldn’t care. I can’t be with someone like him.”

“You’re too good for him, Cat, but I do wish you’d kept the watch.” He ruffled my hair. “I’m going to walk Laird and then head home. Do you need anything else?”

“You’ve already done too much.”

“Nothing is too much for you. Take more medicine, and I’ll call you in the morning.”

I did. Beckett took Laird for a quick walk, and I drifted into another cold medicine coma.

I woke to the sound of Laird’s snoring and my ring tone. Figuring it was Beckett making sure I was alive, I answered. Rather, I croaked. My throat was raw and raspy.

“Catherine?”

It was William. I shot up, my head spinning.

“Catherine, how are you feeling?”

I was miserable, but I took a deep breath and held it together. “I’m okay. Thanks for the soup. It helped.”

“Is Beckett still there?”

“No.” I closed my eyes, picturing William. I could see his wavy hair, making me want to curl my fingers in it. His long, aristocratic fingers held the phone. His stormy eyes narrowed as I spoke. I swallowed and clenched my hands.

“You sound awful. Are you eating?”

“I’m not hungry.” I paused for a coughing fit, and I fumbled for my cold medicine—time for another dose.

“Catherine, I’m coming over.”

“No, you’re not. I just need another dose of medicine.”

“Have you seen a doctor?” He sounded a bit frantic.

“It’s just a cold.”

“Beckett said you had a high fever. I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“What? No.”

“It won’t hurt to have a doctor look at you. What meds are you taking? Have you checked your temperature?”

“William…”

“Are you drinking enough? You can easily get dehydrated.”

“William, stop, okay? Just stop.” Silence. I would not start crying. I knew he was trying to take care of me, and that was sweet, but there was another side to him. “Thanks for the soup and for your concern, but I don’t want to see you.”

“I’ll send George to check on you then.”

“
No
. I don’t want you or your people to check on me. I’m not your concern anymore, and I can take care of myself. I can’t be with you, William. I can’t be with someone who isn’t honest. There are too many secrets. And even if I could get past that, I can’t get past the cruelty.”

“Catherine—”

“The way you deal with people, with relationships.
Exit strategies. Dossiers.
I can’t be with you.”

“You’re right.”

I was? It didn’t feel right. It felt like the hardest thing I’d ever had to say.

“You’re better off without me. You should stay away.”

I really didn’t know what to say in response. Was this reverse psychology, or was he serious? I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I couldn’t allow myself to be drawn into William’s seductive, bewildering world again. “I have to go.”

“Get well soon.”

“Thanks.” I hung up and threw the phone down. New tears spilled over my cheeks, and I buried my face in the pillow. Laird moaned and nuzzled me with his nose. I hugged him and sobbed. Everything inside felt bruised and tender. The weight of the breakup coupled with the miserable cold pressed down until I felt crushed. I curled back up into a ball and sobbed.

Seventeen

By Wednesday I finally felt better. I still wasn’t back to normal, but I was out of bed, and my head didn’t feel as heavy as a pumpkin. Yesterday I’d worried I wouldn’t be up for the Fresh Market shoot. This morning I thought I would be okay. When I’d looked in the mirror, my face hadn’t been red or blotchy for the first time in five days. My Saturday morning break-up with William felt far away—dreamlike. The last couple days had given me perspective.

One benefit of being my own boss was that I could work when I wanted and how I wanted. No one cared if I worked in my pajamas or put in barely an hour in the morning, a couple hours in the afternoon, and several more in the evening as long as the work got done. I’d dragged my tired ass in front of my computer yesterday to work on the ad campaign for Fresh Market. We were shooting spring foods for the Fresh for Spring ads. Beckett and I were styling and shooting cherries and asparagus. If we nailed these two, Fresh Market might ask us to do the rest of the Fresh for Spring line—foods like apricots, oranges, and my favorite, strawberries. But we had to sex up the cherries. The asparagus I felt good about. Beckett and I had a lot of ideas for making the asparagus look phallic and yummy. The cherries were a little harder, and I still hoped inspiration would strike.

I checked my phone while I dressed for the shoot. William had texted me a few times since our last conversation on Monday, but I hadn’t replied. He hadn’t called me again, and the texts had petered out. I was checking my cell because I wanted him to call. A part of me still missed him, still felt incredibly sad, still wanted him back. There was a deep ache inside where he was missing. I hadn’t realized I’d been touched so deeply by our relationship, and I knew the wound would take time to heal.

It was healing already. I was keeping it together. I might be sad, but I knew I could get through today and the shoot. It would be a grueling day, but I looked forward to the distraction of hard work.

Another aspect of the Fresh Market shoot I looked forward to was the chance to work in the studio. I’d done so much shooting in the wild that working under controlled conditions was a dream come true. Plus, I’d be working with Beckett, and he was the best food stylist in the city. I knew the food would look amazing.

Alec Carr met me in the foyer of the studio Fresh Market had booked for the morning. These studios were in demand and ridiculously expensive. Alec had generously asked Beckett and me how long we needed. We’d said four hours and understood it was a testament to Fresh Market’s commitment to my work that they’d agreed without argument. The shoot was costing them a small fortune.

“Beckett is already here and hard at work,” Alec told me. “He’s choosing the heroes now.” The hero was what we called the food we’d shoot that day. Beckett and the Fresh Market people had been searching for the best cherries and asparagus they could find. This wasn’t easy in the middle of January.

Alec led me to the studio, and with a nod at Beckett, I set up. A lot of food photographers had assistants do this, but I was a control freak about my work. I wanted to do it myself. The Fresh Market people had already prepared the studio. On a table, light screens, light boxes, and the cardboard stand-ins for the food were ready. State-of-the art computers were on another table behind where I’d shoot, so we’d see the photos immediately.

Beckett was off to the side, hunched over a mound of cherries. He gave me an appraising look, saw I was feeling better, and went back to work. I set my bag down and got my equipment out. For the shoot, I’d use a digital mounted on a tripod. I had several lenses, including a close-up lens I’d used often. The great advantage of my tripod was that it allowed me to move the camera three hundred sixty degrees. I could shoot above the food or from any side angle. Versatility would be the key today if I wanted to get the perfect shot.

As soon as I jumped into the work, I forgot the lingering aches and stuffiness from my cold. This kind of shoot was grueling, and I’d be drained tonight. But I really enjoyed it, and I knew I was good. Excellence was its own reward, though the money was pretty substantial for both Beckett and me.

Once I was ready, I took a few shots of the cardboard cutout to test the lighting and the angle. Beckett came over and studied the images on the computer, and we conferred about minor tweaks. We decided to shoot the asparagus first because I had a clear idea of the shots—sexy and phallic. Beckett blanched the chosen asparagus to brighten its color. He positioned it, and I nodded my approval and took a few shots. “Let’s add moisture on the tip,” I said. “Just a little.”

“Ooh!” Beckett said. “Now you’re getting naughty. Pre-cum shot, Cat?”

I blushed and ducked my head. “Just going for a fresh, spring look, Beckett.”

“Uh-huh.” Beckett styled the asparagus and then stepped back. I focused and took shot after shot, but I could hear Beckett and Alec chatting as they watched me work.

“Those are some impressive stalks,” Alec commented. I could hear the teasing tone.

“Oh, I always prefer the thick stalks. You?” Beckett answered.

“I like mine long and hard.”

I rolled my eyes and chuckled at their innuendo.

“Cat, we’re talking about asparagus,” Beckett said, pretending to be offended. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Sorry. A few more shots, and I’ll need you to prep the cherries.”

“Got it. I have a new idea for those. Interested?”

I glanced at Beckett, intrigued. “Sure.”

Alec, Beckett, and I studied the asparagus shots on the computer, made a few tweaks, and I took a couple more shots. Then I got a break while Beckett prepared the cherries. I rolled my shoulders and craned my neck then wandered over to see what Beckett was up to.

As soon as I saw what he’d done, I gasped.

“You don’t like it.” His face fell, and he sounded devastated.

“I like it. It’s very fresh.” I smiled at Alec, but inside my stomach tightened into knots. Beckett had styled the cherries to look frozen. He’d used a cellulose mixture on the edges of the cherries, similar to what one might use to flock a Christmas tree, giving the fruit a chilled look. He’d sprayed them with water, cornstarch, and whatever secret ingredients he had to create a magic potion that made the cherries glisten. The effect was of refreshingly cold, mouthwatering cherries that would feel wonderfully cool when popped into one’s mouth.

Or slid down one’s body.

The cherries reminded me of my last night with William and the inventive way he’d used the frozen grapes. I didn’t know if I could shoot these cherries without my hand shaking and tears clouding my vision.

“Oh, I love that!” Alec said. He’d come over while I recovered from my shock.

Beckett winked. “I thought you might.” Beckett glanced at me. “Want to give it a try?”

“Of course.”

Alec wandered back to the corner of the room he and Beckett had been sharing, and Beckett leaned close so he couldn’t be heard. “You okay? You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Alec loves it, and that’s all I need.”

I began shooting, focusing the camera, looking for the perfect angle. Beckett came over a few times to reposition or spray the cherries, but after awhile he let me work. I could hear Beckett and Alec’s banter, and it was clear something was developing between them. I tried to shut them out and think exclusively about work, but images of William assaulted my mind. William’s hand on my breast. His mouth on my belly. His firm body as it rose over mine.

I blinked my eyes to keep tears from forming.

Finally, the shoot was done. While I’d been working, several Fresh Market execs had come into the studio to study my picks for the asparagus shots. I shook hands and went through the shots of the cherries, picking those I thought were best.

Beckett rushed around, trying to preserve the food in case more shots were needed, but it was a losing battle. Fortunately, the execs loved several shots and approved them on the spot. Everyone relaxed, and I started to break the equipment down.

“Can I help with anything?” Alec asked.

I smiled. I’d never known a corporate art director—even an assistant one—to offer to help. He was a nice guy. “I’ve got it, but thanks.”

“Beckett and I were talking about the Major League Chef’s Ball,” he said as I worked. “Have you been to one?”

“Is that the event where the best chefs are pitted against baseball players?”

“Exactly. It’s at the Chicago Hilton, and Chicago’s best twenty-five chefs and mixologists compete against guest chefs from Chicago’s favorite teams. Not only baseball. Football and basketball too.”

“Sounds fun.” I disassembled my tripod.

“It’s the best event of the year. Not too stuffy, tons of great food and drinks, super fun atmosphere—dancing and a DJ. It’s to raise money for Chicago’s charities. Fresh Market is a major sponsor this year, and I’m heading the event.”

“When is it?” I asked absently, thinking about William and only half listening.

“Tomorrow night. I’d love for you and Beckett to come. It would be great exposure. We could introduce you to new clients.”

“Umm…”

“I can have two tickets waiting at the door. Just say the word.”

“Oh, Alec, I don’t know.” If I’d been paying attention I would have seen where he was going and cut him off before it got to this point. I wasn’t up to going out yet, much less being a third wheel with Beckett and Alec. Plus, this was a huge foodie event. It was definitely William Lambourne territory. I didn’t want to risk running into him. Not yet. It was too soon after our breakup.

“Cat! You have to say yes.” Beckett sidled up beside me. “Think about it. Delicious food, hot baseball players. How can you say no?”

“William might be there.”

Beckett waved his hand, dismissing my concern. “Chicago is a big place. William Lambourne can’t be everywhere. And this would be good for your career and mine.”

Still, I hesitated.

“Look, Cat. If you don’t come willingly, I’m going to drag you. This is the opportunity of a lifetime!”

I looked at Beckett and saw the plea in his eyes. He needed me to go, and I owed him big time. He’d had my back over and over, and if this was good for his career, I owed him this much. I smiled. “No dragging necessary. I’m in.”

*****

The next morning I woke feeling good. I was stiff and fatigued from the photo shoot the day before, but over my cold. And the photos for Fresh Market weren’t due for a few days, so I could take a break from work. Laird hopped on the bed, his leash in his mouth, and I laughed. “Okay, boy, I can take a hint.”

The sun was out, and the day was perfect for a run along the lake. Laird and I headed out, but about ten minutes into the run, I wished we hadn’t gone so far. Arctic air and the chill beside the lake had taken me off-guard. I’d remembered my hat but not my gloves. Big surprise. My hands were numb, aching from the bitter cold. On the way home, I stopped to get coffee and warm my frozen fingers. Suddenly hungry, I realized I had nothing but yogurt at home. There was an organic market on the next block, so I walked over and picked up groceries.

More accustomed to shopping for lingerie than fruits and vegetables, I collected a shopping basket and picked out whatever looked fresh. I was in a hurry because Laird was tied up outside. Everything went well until I reached the grapes. It was hard not to think of William when I saw them, but I pushed him out of my mind, selected some, and kept shopping.

I could do this.

*****

The next night I shared a cab with Beckett to the Hilton for the ball. Alec was meeting us there, and Beckett was a bundle of nerves. He must have asked three times if the suit he’d chosen looked good.

“Beckett, it’s an Armani. You can’t go wrong.” I wasn’t used to Beckett acting insecure. He was usually confident about fashion and style.

“Do I look like I’m trying too hard?”

“No. You’re rocking that suit. You look great. Alec won’t be able to concentrate on work once he sees you.”

Beckett gave me one of his signature grins. “Thanks, Cat. What about these shoes?”

And we started all over again. I didn’t mind Beckett’s incessant chattering and worrying because it distracted me from thoughts of William. I had dressed carefully in a fitted, black sequined, V-neck dress, by a designer my mom loved. I liked the dress because it was both fun and flirty. It showed off my cleavage, and even though I didn’t want to see William tonight, if I did, I wanted to look good.

We finally arrived, and I’d been so busy worrying about seeing William and listening to Beckett, I hadn’t paid attention to where we were. Once we walked into the hotel, I put my arm on Beckett’s sleeve to stop and gawk. The hotel was gorgeous, the mammoth entrance ornamented by plush rugs and soaring columns. Soft lighting gave the place grace and elegance as did the gold medallions and molding on the ceilings and the paintings in muted colors. I wished I’d brought my Leica and knew I’d have to come back to shoot this place. I turned three hundred sixty degrees, seeing different angles in my mind, before Beckett took my arm. “You haven’t ever been here?”

“No.”

“Just wait. You’ll love the Grand Ballroom.”

He was right. The ballroom was huge, lit by ten crystal chandeliers that glinted on the ornate plasterwork. A mezzanine overlooked the space, and ruffled drapes added elegance. Tonight that elegance had been juxtaposed with funky lighting, thumping music, and the best-dressed, most beautiful people I’d ever seen. The energy was high. Sumptuous scents tantalized, gourmet concoctions sizzled, the DJ blasted my favorite songs, and celebrity athletes mingled with those of us considerably less coordinated.

Alec spotted us quickly and made sure we had drinks and samples of the culinary offerings. He introduced us to Fresh Market execs we hadn’t met, those not involved with the art department. I tried to make conversation, but it was difficult with the loud music and my worries about running into William. I kept telling myself to stop thinking about him. The place was packed. There was no way I would see him, even if he were here.

Alec made sure our plates were always full. He knew the best offerings from each chef and bartender. Everything was delicious, and after a few drinks, Beckett dragged me toward the dance floor. I tried to say no, but he was such a good dancer, I finally gave in. We danced to several songs, and then Alec joined us, and I said I had to go to the restroom. I didn’t want to get in Beckett’s way.