The Taste of You
Description
Raegan is the sous chef at Lumiere, one of Manhattan's most prestigious restaurants, surviving on caffeine, spite, and the desperate hope that her next paycheck brings her closer to funding her deaf sister's cochlear implant surgery. Romance has never made the priority list. She's been too busy raising her little sister while their alcoholic mother pickled herself into irrelevance. Desperation drives Raegan toward an unthinkable solution: one night in a man's bed, giving him her virginity, for the money she needs. But three men have been watching her for two years. Wanting her. Waiting for a moment exactly like this one. Raegan stands at a crossroads. One path leads to a monster's bed and a transaction that will haunt her forever. The other leads to three men who are promising her everything-money, protection, pleasure, love-if she's brave enough to reach for it. For a woman who has spent her entire life putting everyone else first, the choice should be obvious. So why does wanting something for herself feel like the most terrifying risk of all?
Chapter 1
Dec 31, 2025
POV Raegan
"You call this a reduction, Delacroix? My grandmother makes better sauces, and she's been dead for twelve years!"
Adrian's voice cuts through the dinner rush chaos like a particularly dull knife—annoying, ineffective, and somehow still managing to draw blood.
The kitchen's oppressive heat has nothing on the burning urge to introduce Adrian's face to my sauté pan. Repeatedly.
Every line cook within earshot suddenly develops an intense fascination with their mise en place. Cowards. Though honestly, I don't blame them. Kitchen politics at this level make Game of Thrones look like a workplace sensitivity seminar.
"The consistency is exactly where Chef Maxwell specified." My voice stays professional. Barely. "Unless his recipe notes were written in some secret code."
Okay, so the professional thing needs work.
"Chef isn't here right now, is he?" Adrian steps closer, his shoulder bumping mine with deliberate force. "What's here is your mediocre attempt at fine dining, and I'm not taking the fall for it."
Here's the thing about restaurant hierarchy that nobody tells you in culinary school: talent means nothing if the guy who started three months before you decides to make your life hell.
So if I want to stay, if I want to climb, I swallow my pride and take every opportunity to prove myself without making enemies.
"The dish is ready for the VIP table." I managed not to add ‘you asshole’ to the end of that sentence. Personal growth. "I'll plate it now."
Adrian shoves a pristine white plate at me—the new tasting menu creation I've spent weeks perfecting, arranged across its surface like edible art.
"Then you're delivering it yourself. When it's shit, you can explain to Mr. Spencer why his guest is eating shit. I'm not covering for your incompetent ass."
My fingers curl around the plate's edge. The urge to redecorate his stupid gelled hair with sixty dollars worth of sustainable seafood is overwhelming.
"Is there a problem at my station?"
That voice.
That. Voice.
Every cell in my body simultaneously catches fire and freezes solid. Maxwell Ravencroft emerges behind Adrian like some kind of culinary deity who took a wrong turn and ended up slumming it with us mortals.
Six feet of lean muscle that his chef's coat pretends to be professional about hiding. Jet-black hair that probably has its own Instagram following. Grey eyes that could cut glass—or me, honestly. I'm not picky.
Two years. Two fucking years I've worked under this man—poor choice of words, brain—watching those hands work with surgical precision, listening to him bark orders in a voice that turns "julienne those carrots" into something vaguely pornographic.
It’s pretty hard to hide the secret crush along with desperate want that pools low in my belly every time he gets close.
Gosh, I am so professionally screwed.
"Chef!” Adrian spins around so fast I'm surprised he doesn't drill himself into the floor. “I was just ensuring the VIP presentation meets your standards—"
"I heard exactly what you were doing, Cross." Maxwell's jaw does this thing where it tightens and flexes and suddenly I understand why Victorian women needed fainting couches. "Return to your station. Now."
Adrian scurries away like the kitchen rat he is.
Then those devastating grey eyes turn on me, and breathing becomes a distant memory, like Blockbuster or affordable housing.
"You're presenting this with me." Not a question. Never a question with him. "Do not disappoint me, Delacroix. And do not humiliate me in front of our guests."
Yes, Chef. Absolutely, Chef. Threaten me again, Chef.
I've imagined you saying far worse things to me in far more private settings.
Jesus Christ, I need therapy. Or a cold shower. Or both.
Definitely both.
I nod because words are for people whose brains haven't short-circuited.
The walk to the VIP section stretches like a bad first date—endless, awkward, and filled with me trying not to stare at inappropriate places like his perfect ass.
I'm a professional. I'm a professional. I'm a—
Oh.
Oh no.
The VIP table is basically a thirst trap convention, and I am tragically dehydrated.
Jared Spencer sits at the head like he owns the place—which, okay, he literally does. Honey-blonde hair that belongs in a shampoo commercial, storm-blue eyes that notice everything, and six-foot-two of confidence that makes my daddy issues sit up and take notes.
I've caught him watching me during services, those eyes tracking my movements with an intensity that I've definitely, absolutely, one-hundred-percent been imagining.
Beside him lounges Kobe Spencer. And I use "lounges" because the man doesn't sit so much as drape himself across furniture like an invitation to bad decisions. Jared's cousin, Oscar-nominated actor, and owner of amber eyes that see through every wall I've ever built and find the cracks entertaining.
If I ever fantasized about which man I would give my virginity to, it would be someone like one of them.
Or all three of them. At the same time...
Nope. Down, vagina. Not now. We’re at work, girl.
That swimmer's build haunts my dreams with disturbing regularity, usually in scenarios that would make my confession-booth-regular grandmother weep.
The third man is older, unfamiliar. Late forties, silver threading through dark hair, watching the room with calculating eyes that make my skin prickle with unease.
Fantastic. Serial killer vibes at table twelve.
"Gentlemen." Maxwell's voice shifts into something smoother, more refined. "Our newest tasting menu creation, prepared by our most promising sous chef, Raegan Delacroix."
Most promising.
I step forward on legs that have apparently decided trembling is their new default setting, hyperaware of three sets of eyes tracking my movement.
"This is a deconstructed bouillabaisse with saffron foam…" I dive down into explanations, keeping my hands steady through sheer force of will.
Kobe's gaze travels down my body with the subtlety of a neon sign reading 'impure thoughts occurring'. Jared goes completely still, like a predator who's spotted something interesting.
Even creepy calculator eyes perks up.
Then Kobe's lips curve, that devastating dimple appearing. "You're flushed, Rae."
Rae. Like we're friends. Like he hasn't been calling me that for months despite my repeated requests for 'Raegan' or 'Delacroix’.
"The kitchen runs hot, Mr. Spencer."
"So do other things, apparently." His smile turns wicked. "And it's Kobe. We've discussed this."
My face burns hotter. "I don't—"
"The innovation here is exceptional." Jared's interruption saves me from whatever devastating retort Kobe was preparing, warm with genuine approval. "This is exactly what Lumière needs at the industry gala this weekend."
His storm-blue gaze holds mine. "You'll accompany Maxwell as our culinary team representative."
Pride swells in my chest, fierce and bright. "Thank you, Mr. Spencer. I won't let Lumière down."
"I know you won't." Something flickers in those eyes that makes my breath catch before I can stop it.
"Delacroix." Maxwell's voice snaps me back to reality. "Station. Now."
I nod, backing away from the table on legs that feel unsteady.
My phone vibrates in my pocket the moment I reach the kitchen corridor. Elsie's name flashes across the screen.
I duck into the supply closet and answer, angling the screen so my little sister can see my face clearly. Elsie's image appears, her fourteen-year-old features tight with worry, dark hair falling across eyes that mirror my own.
My fingers move automatically, forming the familiar signs. “Hey, little bird, I'm in the middle of service, can I—”
“Mom was here.” Her fingers fly, sharp with panic.
“What do you mean Mom was there? She doesn't have a key anymore. I changed the locks.” I sign back, keeping my movements controlled despite the dread clawing up my throat.
“She found your money. The box in your closet. She said you knew about it, that you told her she could borrow some.”
No. No, no, no…
“But Rae…” Elsie's fingers tremble as she forms next words. “It's gone. All of it.”
Forty-three thousand dollars.
Years of double shifts, of skipped meals, of sacrificing every small pleasure.
Every dollar I've saved since I was sixteen. Every tip I've hidden away, every extra hour I've worked to afford the cochlear implant surgery that could give my baby sister the gift of hearing the world for the first time, to one day open my own dream-restaurant…
My mother took it all.
The Taste of You
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