Hot Mess. Emily Belden

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ it would be great to finally meet Benji’s sponsor, Mark—and his wife, Rita—I’m okay with the last-minute cancellation. Two less comp seats means more profit and less work for Benji. It also means two less people who I need to impress on the spot. Especially people whose job it is to spot bullshit. They’ll be missed by Benji, I’m sure, since they’re basically the parents he never had from what I gather. But hopefully he’ll just shake it off.

      “I’m sorry, that sucks. It’s tough with kids,” I say, like I know.

      “Yeah, it’s whatever. I told them we’ll see them next weekend. Anyway, can you just promise me something?”

      “Of course.”

      He looks me dead in the eye and says: “Promise that you’ll fuck me after this is all done.”

      Blood rushes to places it hasn’t since I lost my virginity on Valentine’s night my freshman year of college. I know, I know. That’s totally cliché. But what was your first time like? Okay then, let’s not judge.

      Speaking of clichés, now would be a good time to mention that I fell for the bad boy. And being “that girl” doesn’t end there: just imagine a more basic version of Selena Gomez with a day-old blowout, tucking her leggings into Uggs when the temperature falls below seventy degrees. Give or take a Pumpkin Spiced Latte and a Real Housewives viewing party, and you’ve just about got me—Allie Simon—pegged. I’m the last person someone like Benji Zane would want to date and the first person the food blogosphere has been able to confirm he actually is dating. I give him a wink and turn toward the dining room. I’ve got a little time before our first guests are set to arrive and I need to get my game face on. I need to feel less like someone whose superhot boyfriend wants to ravish her across the very counter the amuse-bouches are being prepped on and more like someone who knows on what side of the plate the fork goes.

      Tonight’s pop-up is in a small ballroom on the forty-fifth floor of a high-rise luxury apartment building way up on the North Side. For a Friday night, it’ll be a bit of a clusterfuck for anyone who lives in the heart of Chicago, the Loop, or out in the suburbs like my parents, to get up here, but the views of the boats on Lake Michigan and the sunset reflecting off the buildings in the skyline will be so worth it. This summer evening is the kind of night Instagram was made for.

      How Benji secured the venue this time is a doozy. He put an ad on Craigslist: “Party Room Needed.” Said he couldn’t pay money for the space, but would leave all his leftovers behind and the secret to “a roasted chicken guaranteed to get you laid.” Thirty minutes later, some teenager whose parents live in the building dropped off the keys to the penthouse floor. It never ceases to amaze me the things people will do just to feel like they have a personal connection to the Steven Tyler of the food world. Alas, here we are.

      I push on the balcony door handles fully expecting they’d be locked. But they pop down with ease and the warm summer wind hits me in the face. I grab the railing, close my eyes and suck in that city air.

      I don’t breathe enough. Not like this, deep and alone. I have to admit that being Benji’s girlfriend sometimes feels like sitting in the passenger seat as he drives 110 miles per hour on the freeway in a jalopy with no seat belts. It’s easy to get overwhelmed, but I remind myself that Benji came into my life for a reason. Every douchey, going-nowhere guy I dated before him was worth it because they led me to him: a beautiful genius who knows exactly who he is and what he wants. A guy with talent, charisma and nothing but pure adoration for me. So what if he had a flawed start? All that matters is that I stopped the top from spinning out of control and now we’re good. We’re really fucking good.

      Just then my phone, which I have stashed in my bra (hey, no pockets, okay?), buzzes with a text. I dig around in my cleavage and read the message from Benji.

      2-top off elevator. It’s time, babe.

      * * *

      My feet are aching and I’m sweating, but as far as everyone can tell by the smile on my face, I’m having a grand old time filling water glasses. By now, we’re more than halfway through the service and so far, Benji’s only used the bottle of bourbon in the back for a caramel-y glaze on the dessert course, not to ease the kitchen chaos. In fact, in the ten or so times I’ve popped my head in to check on him, he appeared to be keeping his cool entirely.

      “And how are you two enjoying your evening?” I say, hovering over a couple at a round-top table I haven’t checked on yet.

      “There she is.” My dad wipes his mouth as he stands up to give me a hug. My god, he’s wearing a wool suit and a silk tie. Overdress much?

      “What do you think of the food?” I ask.

      “It’s outstanding, Allie. Say, can we get another one of those Sriracha Jell-O cubes?”

      “Goodness, Bill, don’t embarrass me like that. Just ignore him, Allie. Although, yes, the Sriracha cube was...” My mom, Patty, closes her eyes, puckers her lips and explodes an air-kiss off the tips of her fingers. I think that’s mom code for amaze-balls.

      “I’m really glad you guys could make it,” I say. And I mean that. It’s not easy to accept the fact that your daughter is dating the most talked-about, tattooed chef in the Midwest, let alone show your support by attending a BYOB makeshift dinner party on the far North Side.

      “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. And hey, I couldn’t figure out how to get the flash on this dang iPhone to work, but I took a bunch of pictures,” my dad says. “You’ll have to explain later how I’m supposed to send them to you.”

      I’m positive they will all be blurry, but it’s the thought that counts.

      “Is Benji going to come out?” my mom asks, playing with the pearls on her necklace. Her question captures the attention of strangers sitting across the table and now everyone’s eyes are on me.

      “We’ll see,” I say, knowing that answer isn’t good enough. Not for anyone in the room who paid to be here. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got to keep checking on other tables. Love you guys.”

      As I make my rounds, everyone seems to be gushing over the fifth and final course of the night: grilled fig panna cotta with a bourbon, honeycomb drizzle over vanilla bean gelato. I hear one person whisper it was better than Alinea’s dessert. Another says she just had a foodgasm. At that, I set down the water pitcher and offer to clear a few dirty plates back to the kitchen. When no one is looking, I dip my pinky into some melted gelato and run it through a glob of the bourbon honey before quickly licking it off my manicured finger.

      Heaven. Pure heaven.

      Even though there’s no negative feedback to report to the kitchen and everyone is stuffed, I can tell people are saving room for one more culinary delight.

      They want to see Benji Zane.

      Put it this way: sure, the tenderness on the squab was on point. And yes, the scoop of gelato was spherical as fuck. But as rock-star as his dishes may be, these people are here for something else entirely. They’ve ponied up to get up close and personal with Benji Zane and not just because he’s easy on the eyes. To them, this is the Reformed Addict Show. It’s their chance to witness firsthand if he’s turned over a real leaf this time, or if he’s just moments away from the downfall more than a few food bloggers think is coming.

      My money is on the former.

      Does that make СКАЧАТЬ