Speaker 1: Calarogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly.
Speaker 2: This episode is titled The Grateful Game, Episode three, Sweet
and Sour.
Speaker 1: The kitchen clock reads two am. When I finally pull
the last batch of cardamom shortbread from the oven. Everyone
else has gone home, leaving me alone with my thoughts
and my memories. The basement kitchen at sweet Heat feels
different at night, intimate, like the space between heartbeats, like
the moment before a kiss. My phone buzzes Marcus, still
at the restaurant. Of course, he knows he's probably been watching,
waiting for my staff to leave. I should ignore it.
I should think about my missing father, about Catherine's warnings
about the growing web of danger around me. Instead, I
text back, Yes, three dots appear, disappear, appear again, the
article about the health inspector. We need to talk now,
better than Tuesday. Too many masks. Then he's right, Tuesday's
underground dinner is too risky, too public, too watched. But
here now, in my quiet kitchen, that's dangerous in a
different way, side door. I reply. Ten minutes while I wait,
I remember the last time we were alone in this
kitchen after the wine cellar before I knew who he
was one month earlier. Show me where you create, he'd said,
the wolf masks still in place, even though the other
guests had gone. His bow tie was undone, hanging loose
around his neck, a conscious dishevelment that made my pulse race.
I had led him to my basement kitchen, still high
on adrenaline and desire. This is where the magic happens,
the magic. His laugh was low, dangerous. Is that what
you call it? I turned to face him, feeling bold
behind my fox mask. What would you call it? He
moved closer, backing me against my work table. I'd call
it seduction. His fingers traced my collar bone. Every dish
designed to make us surrender. Is that what you did?
I challenged, surrender. His hand slid into my hair, gripping
gently but firmly. You tell me, chef. The kiss was
different from the ones we'd shared in the wine cellar.
Those had been urgent, desperate. This was slow, deliberate, his
tongue tasting, testing like he was sampling a new dish.
I moaned. When he lifted me onto the work table,
my dress riding up present. A soft knock at the
side door pulls me from the memory. My body is
flushed remembering focus. Maya, this isn't about pleasure tonight. This
is about answers. When I open the door, Marcus steps
in from the cold November night. No mask this time,
no critics notebook, just a man with secrets in his
eyes and danger in his smile. Thank you for seeing me,
he says, following me to the kitchen. He's wearing a
charcoal sweater that makes me think of how his skin
would look against my white sheets. Stop it, you said
we needed to talk. I lean against my work table,
the same one where we'd no focus so talk. Marcus's
eyes track my movement as I reach behind me for
the shortbread, a chef's habit. Always keep your hands busy,
always maintain control, the health inspector, he says, watching my
fingers break the still warm cookie. He was getting close
to something bigger than health code violations, something that connects
your father's restaurants to Catherine's acquisitions and to my underground dinners.
The shortbread crumbles like my resolve. When he takes a
step closer, maybe his voice drops lower. What really happens
at those dinners? Maya, The way he says my name,
like he's tasting it, like that night in the kitchen,
when he'd whispered it against my skin, over and over
one month earlier. Tell me what you want, he'd murmured,
his hands sliding up my thighs as I sat on
the work table. The wolf mask cast shadows on his
throat when he swallowed. I want My fingers found the
buttons of his shirt. I want to see if you
taste as good as my desserts. His laugh rumbled through
his chest. Dangerous words from a chef. I'm not just
a chef. I pulled him closer, wrapped my legs around
his waist. Not to night, No, his teeth grazed my neck.
What are you to night to night? I gasped, as
his hands found bare skin. Tonight, I'm whatever I want
to be, and what do you want to be? The
answer surprised us, both yours present. Maya Marcus is closer, now,
close enough that I can smell his cologne, cedar and
smoke like always, Where did you go?
Speaker 2: Just now?
Speaker 1: Nowhere? I turn away, but his hand catches my wrist,
gentle but firm, like that night. Don't lie. His thumb
traces my pulse point. I know that look what look
the one you had in the wine cellar, when you
stopped being James Chen's daughter and started being just you.
I meet his eyes, and the air changes charges, like
the moment before lightning strikes. Why did you come to
my dinner that night? My voice is barely a whisper.
Was it just part of your investigation? His other hand
comes up to cut my face, and I should stop him,
should think about my father, about Catherine's warnings about Tuesday's dinner. Instead,
I lean into his touch. I came because I had
to know, he says, had to know if you were
part of it, part of the corruption I've been tracking.
But then then his thumb brushes my bottom lip. Then
I saw how you moved in that fox mask, how
you commanded that room, how every dish told a story
about desire and power and surrender. And I forgot why
I came? Did you forget I challenge my heart racing?
Or did you find a better way to investigate me?
His hand stills on my face in the dim kitchen light.
I see something flash in his eyes, desire warring with duty.
Good let him feel the same conflict that's been torturing
me When I touched you that night, he says, voice rough.
When I tasted you, investigation was the last thing on
my mind. The memory floods back, making my knees weak.
One month earlier, his hands had found the zipper of
my dress, sliding it down with agonizing slowness. Every dish
you serve tonight, he'd murmured, was about control, taking it,
giving it, playing with it. And I'd arched into his
touch as the silk slipped from my shoulders. And now
I want to know His fingers traced my spine. What
happens when Chef Maya Chen loses control, I'd shuddered, gripping
his shoulders. No one sees that ever, I see it.
He'd pulled back, just enough to meet my eyes through
our masks. I see you. That's when I'd surrendered. Let
him peel away more than just my dress. Let him
discover how I taste, how I sound, when I break,
how I feel, when I finally finally let go present
Maya Marcus's voice pulls me back. His thumb is still
brushing my lip, but now his other hand has found
my hip, the same spot he'd gripped that night. We
should talk about Tuesday? Should we I step closer, eliminating
the last space between us, professional boundaries dissolve like sugar
in hot water. Or should we talk about how you've
been watching my restaurant, following my deliveries, learning my secrets.
His fingers flex on my hip. Catherine isn't just buying
failed restaurants, She's I silence him with a kiss, not gentle,
not sweet, hungry like I've been starving for this since
that night. He responds, instantly, backing me against the work again,
history repeating itself, but this time without masks, this time
with full knowledge of who we are, what we risk.
His hand slide under my chef's coat, finding skin, and
I gasp into his mouth. Tell me about the danger.
I whisper against his lips. Tell me what Catherine's really doing.
Tell me why my father disappeared. Clever girl. He nips
at my throat, using pleasure to extract information. You did
it first. I pull him closer, feeling him hard against
me that night in the wine cellar, All those questions
between kisses, He laughs darkly. You were asking questions too,
if I remember correctly. Maybe we were both playing each other.
Maybe we still are the truth of it, should make
me stop, should make me think about consequences, about Tuesday's dinner,
about everything at stake. Instead, I reach for his belt.
His belt hits the floor at the sae moment his
mouth finds my throat. Catherine, He murmurs, against my pulse
has been collecting insurance payments on every restaurant she acquires insurance.
My fingers tangle in his hair as his teeth graze
that spot below my ear. What kind of I gasp
as his hand slides higher under my chef's coat, The
kind that pays triple if the business fails due to scandal.
His touch is maddening, professional fingers, knowing exactly how to
take me apart. Your father found out. That's why he disappeared.
Understanding blooms like heat in my veins. The health inspector
was going to expose everything. His mouth moves lower, making
coherent thought impossible, just like I was supposed to, supposed to.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his
breathing as ragged as mine. Until I met you, until
that night, until I realized what happens next is pure chemistry,
like sugar carameline, like copper hitting flame, we ignite. My
chef's coat joins his belt on the floor. His sweater follows,
Skin meets skin, A secrets spill between kisses, Tuesday's dinner.
He breathes against my collar bone. Catherine will be there,
Everyone involved will be there. It's a trapmyre I arch
into him, mind spinning with revelation and desire for who.
His answer is lost in the heat of what follows.
In this moment, we're not critic and chef, not hunter
and hunted. We're just nerve endings and need, just pleasure
and power and the sweet ache of surrender. Later, much later,
as we catch our breath against the cool steel of
the work table, the pieces click into place. She's going
to destroy us, all I whisper into the darkness, isn't she?
Marcus's arms tighten around me, not if we destroy her first.
In the distance, a phone rings, the real world, intruding
on our dangerous paradise. Time to put our masks back on.
The phone belongs to Marcus. He answers it without letting
go of me, his free hand tracing patterns on my
bare shoulder. Even this simple touch feels charged now, like
every nerve ending has been rewired for his frequency. When
he says into the phone, his body tenses against mine.
Are you sure? A pause? Keep him there? I'm on
my way. What is it? I ask, already knowing I
won't like the answer. They've found your father. His eyes
meet mine in the dim kitchen light at Catherine's latest acquisition,
the old Jade Palace on Michigan Avenue, my father's original restaurant,
where everything started, where everything fell apart? Is he a
live but mya His hand cups my face, thumb brushing
my swollen lips. He's asking for Catherine, not you. The
implications hit me like ice water. My father isn't a
victim in this scheme. He's a player. I pull away
from Marcus, gathering my clothes. My skin still burns where
he touched me, but my mind is crystallizing into sharp focus.
Tuesday's dinner, I say, sliding my chef's coat back on.
Tell me everything. He watches me dress, his own clothes
still scattered across my kitchen floor. Every major restaurant investor
in Chicago will be there. Catherine's arranged it through my
underground supper club. The pieces clicked together. She's using me
as bait. Yes, he stands magnificent in his undressed state,
but I force myself to focus on his words, not
his body. But she doesn't know that I've turned that tonight.
He gestures between us, change things, finish, raising an eyebrow.
His laugh is dark, sensual. Everything was already changing from
the moment I tasted your first dessert wearing that wolf mask.
I knew, knew what he steps closer, still unashamedly bare,
that you are either going to destroy me or save me,
maybe both. The air charges again. I resist the pull
of his gravity, even as my body remembers how perfectly
we fit together minutes ago. We need a plan, I say,
proud of how steady my voice remains for Tuesday. I
have one. He finally starts gathering his clothes, But you're
not going to like it. Tell me. As he dresses,
he outlines a scheme so dangerous, so perfectly balanced between
risk and reward, that it takes my breath away, just
like his kisses had. You want me to serve them
their own secrets, I say. When he finishes on a
silver platter with your signature creative touch, his smile is
wolf like, even without the mask, Can you do it?
I think about my father, about Catherine, about masks and power,
and the thin line between justice and revenge, About how
Marcus's hands felt mapping my body, and how his secrets
taste on my tongue. I'll need ingredients that aren't exactly legal.
I can help with that. He's fully dressed now, but
somehow looks more undone than when he was naked. Maya,
don't I hold up a hand. Whatever this is between us,
we can't lose focus. He nods, but his eyes say
something different, something that makes my pulse race and my
resolve waver. Tuesday, then he says, moving toward the door. Tuesday.
He pauses, with his hand on the knob. That night
in the wine cellar, Yes, I wasn't playing either. After
he leaves, I stand in my kitchen, letting the weight
of everything settle around me, the taste of him lying
on my lips, the feel of him echoes on my skin,
and in my mind a menu begins to form. Tuesday's
dinner will be my masterpiece. Each course a confession, each
bite a revelation, each mask a mirror. Let them come
hungry for secrets. I'll serve them their own destruction, garnished
with truth and seasoned with revenge and Marcus. Marcus will
either be my salvation or my downfall, maybe both, just
like his Kiss.
Speaker 2: Romance Weekly is a production of Calarogu Shark Media executive
producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast
may have been created with the assistance of Ai
Speaker 1: Calaruga Shark Media.