Month of Sundays Read Free Page B

that Rachel seemed to have absolutely no idea how sexy she was? Rachel was shy and reserved, which made her even more alluring. Yes, she was a little heavy, but Griffin liked women with meat on their bones. And Rachel had curves for days, even if she insisted on camouflaging them under ill-fitting clothes like the shapeless sweater and baggy Chinos she sported tonight. Griffin would love to see her in something that showcased the voluptuous body she was trying to hide. The body that had molded itself to hers for a brief, tantalizing moment.
    She remembered the feel of Rachel’s hands on her hips. Rachel’s arms around her waist. Rachel’s full breasts pressed against her back. She could have ended the contact much sooner than she did, but she had lingered, longing for more.
    She turned on the record player and continued to the kitchen. The phonograph needle hissed and popped as it slid through the well-worn grooves of her favorite album, adding another layer of sound to the trailblazing jazz played by Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, and Max Roach. She grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator and returned to the living room to read the thirty-page contract her personal assistant had delivered while she was out.
    Two months ago, she sent in an audition tape for Cream of the Crop , a cooking competition/reality show that attracted hundreds of applicants each year and was watched by millions of viewers each week. A few days ago, she discovered she was one of eight contestants chosen to appear on the show. If she performed well, she could prove that female chefs were as talented as their male counterparts and they didn’t need to rely on their looks to be successful, two stereotypes she and her peers often struggled to overcome.
    She longed to prove herself against the best of the best, but she didn’t want to put her life on hold to do it. If she agreed to do the show, she’d have to leave the restaurant in the hands of her sous chefs for three weeks. Her team was good, but she didn’t know if they were ready to take the heat without her around to douse the fires. Match was on a roll. Momentum, once lost, was difficult to regain.
    She took a sip of her beer and leaned back on the sofa. She closed her eyes and tapped out a staccato rhythm on her blue-jeaned thighs. The music washed over her. At its best, jazz was like aural sex, lifting her spirits, relaxing her body, and freeing her mind. Tonight, she desperately needed to come.
    She hadn’t become a chef for the attention. She had done it because she loved to cook. She was as ambitious as anyone in her profession, but unlike her celebrity counterparts, she didn’t want to have her face plastered on the cover of her own monthly vanity magazine or hear her name bandied about on Entertainment Tonight . She simply wanted to make good food and have people enjoy it.
    The two hundred fifty thousand dollar check and prestigious magazine spread awarded to the winner of Cream of the Crop were tempting, but she wanted to claim an even bigger prize. Winning the show could help her earn the respect of her peers, an honor that had eluded her for far too long.
    She read through the contract, wincing each time she came across a clause she didn’t like. When the show began filming in June, she and the other contestants would be sequestered in a spacious Central Park apartment, where they would be deprived of all contact with the outside world for three long weeks. No cell phones, computers, or TVs. Their every move would be filmed by a camera crew or shadowed by a stringer from the show.
    Before they reported to the set, they would be sworn to secrecy, unable to tell anyone they were involved with the program or spill any of the behind-the-scenes secrets until after the winner was crowned during the live finale in August.
    She looked at the last page of the contract. At the line on which she was supposed to sign her name.
    “Do I really want to put myself through this?” she asked,