The Billionaire Chef's Baby: McClellan Billionaires, #2

By Leslie North

Romance is the main course, but wait till you get to dessert…

 

A billionaire from birth, bad boy Arthur McClellan is determined to become the world's greatest celebrity chef. After promising his dying mother to change his ways, he's partnered with the famous Taste Network for a wedding special in the Bahamas. But to please their viewers, the network wants to smooth out his rough edges. Enter wedding planner Cassandra Kelly…

 

Arthur and Cassandra spent a passionate night together, years ago. Now, to boost ratings, the network wants him to pretend she's his girlfriend. That just might be the cherry on top of his showbiz cake. But soon their ratings stunt gets a little too real for comfort…

When the Taste Network offers Cassandra the position of wedding planner on their new pilot, she jumps at the chance. But pretending to be the hot chef's fake girlfriend has left her with an appetite for passion … and an unplanned bun in the oven. Now it's getting harder and harder to figure out which kisses are real, and which ones are fake.

 

Is it too late for this duo to whip up a recipe for true love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Relay Publishing
• Release date: Jul 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393605966

Book preview

1

Chef Arthur McClellan could wield a razor-sharp boning knife without batting an eye. He could plunge his bare hand into boiling water to test the firmness of pasta without flinching. He used fire and heat with ease and sometimes used actual burning torches to add final perfect touches to a dish. There was nothing in a kitchen that could possibly scare him.

Except the little kid staring at him right now.

Art stared down at the tiny intruder and then glanced up at the door that led back into the hall where the wedding reception that would define his career was now underway. He had only a few seconds to get the next course plated, a job that would normally go to his assistant. But this wedding was a make-or-break event for his career, and he'd wanted complete control over everything.

He should have at least hired someone to bar the door to the kitchen.

You lost, kid?

Are you making the food?

She was wearing a puffy white dress that signaled her status as the flower girl. Art knew that she was objectively cute. But, she was in the way. Yes, I'm making the food. And kitchens are no place for kids. You need to go back to your mom now.

The little girl blinked back sudden tears. I can't eat anything, she sniffed.

Arthur looked up from where he'd been measuring out precise dollops of crème fraiche on top of the stone-fruit soup. What do you mean, you can't eat anything?

I'm hungry, but my mom says I can't get my dress all messy. She blinked her wide eyes. Okay, yeah, the kid was cute, in a weird, alien way, Art decided. And all the food you're bringing out is messy. It's got all this…sauce-y stuff. She wrinkled her nose and tugged at her dress dispiritedly.

That sauce-y stuff was a reduction enriched with bone marrow that had taken over twenty hours to make. Art eyed his tray of perfectly plated cold soup and then looked at the little girl's dress again. Oh, for f— He caught himself before he swore in front of the kid. Okay, sit tight, I'll make you something that's clean to eat, okay?

She smiled wide, showing an adorable gap where her front teeth should be. Okay, she was cute, Art decided. And at least she had manners. Thank you.

Anything you don't like? Kids were picky eaters. That was why he never cooked for kids if he could help it.

Broccoli, mayonnaise, and French fries, she said, ticking them off on her fingers.

What kid doesn't like French fries? Okay, I guess the real question is, what do you like? He opened the walk- in fridge. Do you like eggs?

Yes!

I'll make you an omelet. That's not messy, right?

I'll be careful. She tugged at her dress again.

Fine. One omelet…

With ham?

I have thinly sliced Parma ham for the next appetizer. It had cost several hundred dollars to import.

Okay! She paused Thanks! And I like your tattoos! she announced before skipping out of the kitchen.

Arthur looked down at the full sleeve of tattoos that had given him his reputation as the bad boy chef du jour. A seven-year-old in a frilly white dress had just told him she liked them. He winced, rolled his sleeves higher, and got to work on her omelet.

Hello? Is everything okay in here?

Arthur rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Once this wedding was done, and the owner of the Taste Network—who just happened to be the father of the bride—was impressed enough with everything to hand him the show Arthur had been lobbying for, the first thing he would use his star power to insist on was a lock on his kitchen door.

Everything is fine, he said, not looking up from the bowl he'd slid two eggs into. A goat cheese and chive omelet would be perfect for a little girl, right?

Do you…need more help in here?

Definitely not.

Then why is the next course still sitting there?

Arthur poured the eggs into the sizzling pan and waited for them to set. Because I'm apparently a short order cook, he grumbled.

The voice laughed. A musical, lilting sound that he'd been hearing all day today. You're definitely not that!

He flipped the pan, then let it set for another thirty seconds before rolling it up with the filling, making sure to tuck the ends up tightly so the little girl could eat it neatly in her dress. He plated it and turned to the intruder. Take this to the flower girl, he ordered.

The wedding planner had the biggest, bluest eyes he'd ever seen, and they went wide when he held out the plate to her. You're making…omelets?

Special request.

She pulled out the purple planner that was tucked under one arm and scanned something stapled inside. There's no mention of omelets in the menu, she fretted.

Art rolled his eyes. Cassie…

Cassandra.

Whatever. Just help me out here?

She shifted from side to side as she regarded Art with the same baleful look that she’d been giving him all day.

He'd heard of Cassandra Kelly, wedding-planner extraordinaire, before they started working together on this wedding. He'd figured that a woman on the top of her game like she was—in constant demand, always booked—would waltz around like the queen of all she surveyed. He wasn't expecting a tiny, pixie-ish woman with worried eyes and a nervous habit of checking her planner every five seconds. You carry that thing around like it's your bible.

It is.

Then what's that one? He gestured to the polka-dot planner tucked under her other arm. A new translation?

She blushed. Not that it’s any of your business, but it's where I keep my vision statements.

He tilted his head at her. Your.. what now?

Dreams. Plans for the future. Step-by-step lists on how to achieve them. She hugged the planner tightly to her chest before looking at him with an alarmed expression. I have planners for everything, which is how I know you're not supposed to be making omelets right now.

I know it's not on your list there, he teased. But, it's okay. Shit happens and a little girl is hungry. You going to let a little girl go hungry?

That's… She snatched the plate from him with an exasperated huff and disappeared out the door. Art allowed himself an appreciative glance at her retreating figure before turning back to his neglected appetizers. A cold fruit soup made from locally sourced stone-fruits topped with creme fraiche and a garnish of basil-infused fresh strawberries. Each bowl was to be presented with the strawberries fanned out in the shape of a heart on top. Arthur frowned at the line-up, so absorbed in making sure each serving was uniformly perfect that he didn't hear the door open until it banged against the wall.

Okay, the omelet has been delivered, and she promptly dumped it on her lap, Cassandra said with a trace of a giggle. But at least she has something to eat. The little girl won't go hungry. She narrowed her eyes. Unlike the rest of the guests. You're eight minutes behind schedule. She glanced at a slim watch on her wrist and frowned. Nine minutes.

I'd be done sooner if I didn't keep having interruptions. He placed the last strawberry fan. There. Done. Go call the waiters.

Cassandra leaned over and winced. What is that? It looks like mud.

The back of his neck heated up. He'd held his temper all day, but this was too much. Now would be the perfect time to blow his stack, maybe upend the entire tray of muddy soup onto the floor. Or onto her demure pink blouse. He'd definitely pulled a stunt like that in the past.

But he needed to keep himself in check. There was too much at stake here to let her insults get under his skin. You think so?

It's…not what I was expecting from a chef of your…

Caliber?

She ran her tongue along her bottom teeth. I was going to say…reputation.

You were expecting slabs of meat on skewers?

Isn't that your brand?

She had him there. The bad boy who dropped f-bombs while roasting pigs over a bed of coals was the corner, he'd backed himself into a long time ago. He'd been playing the part so long he could barely remember where his persona ended and his actual personality began. This wedding, and what he hoped would come from working it, was supposed to be his ticket out of the trap of his own making.

My brand is being good with food. Just like yours is being good with…vision statements?

She rolled her eyes. My brand is based on getting my clients the exact wedding they dreamed of. And my bride definitely did not hire you to serve her bowls of muddy looking…whatever that is.

What this is, is amazing. He leaned in and to his surprise, she didn't back away. Let me ask you something. Have you ever tasted my cooking?

She narrowed her eyes, then shook her head.

That surprised him. Most women who met him were quick to rave about a meal they’d had at his restaurants or beg him to cook something just for them. This woman not only hadn't eaten his cooking, but she also didn't seem too eager to try it. And even though he'd caught her glancing at his arms a few times today, she hadn't let his looks distract her once.

It was weirdly and annoyingly hot.

He leaned in, close enough to catch the scent of her skin. She was so poised and put together, a perfect little morsel he'd have no trouble devouring in one bite. So, you’re judging it without tasting it? he whispered, thinking he wouldn't mind doing some tasting of his own. Tell me, Cassie. How is that fair?

Cassandra, she corrected breathlessly. Miss Kelly would be even better. And I'm on a low-carb diet, Chef McClellan.

Mmm, pity. He let his eyes drop to take in her curves. She could do with a carb or two, in his estimation, though that would just be the icing on an already pretty delectable-looking cake. But today is a cheat day. Because I'm not letting you out of this kitchen until you taste what you call…mud. He tilted the bowl until a little fleck of soup landed on the spoon. Eat it.

She eyed the spoon, then shook her head.

All the fruit in this bowl was still on the tree this morning, Arthur said softly, letting the spoon hover a few inches from her mouth. The way she