Too Hot to Handle (Romancing the Clarksons #1)

  TOO HOT TO HANDLE

  Tessa Bailey

  New York Boston

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  Table of Contents

  A Preview of Too Wild to Tame

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  For Violet

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Too Hot to Handle is a love story between Jasper and Rita, but it’s also very much a love story among four siblings. Between a mother and her children. It’s a common belief that we need to love ourselves before we can love another—and family can often bully, shove, and argue us into recognizing our true selves in the mirror, whether we like what we see or not. But sometimes all it takes is seeing their reflections, standing at our backs in that same mirror, to realize we’re worthy. I hope you’ll hitch a ride with the Clarksons as they move across the map toward New York, falling in love, changing lives, and resolving their shared history—which has only begun to reveal itself—along the way.

  To my grandmother, Violet, for the stories you’ve told our family over the years, thank you. Your timeless grace and class will stay with me forever. I hope I did (and continue to do) the names Belmont, Peggy, and Rita proud, as they belonged to your siblings. Sorry I couldn’t use Violet. I don’t think Poppy would want you in a kissing book.

  To my husband, Patrick, and daughter, Mackenzie, for being my foundation, my happiness, the loves of my life, thank you for celebrating my triumphs and comforting me in defeat. I’m sorry that sometimes you are talking directly at my face, I’m nodding, and nothing is going in.

  To my editor, Madeleine Colavita at Forever Romance, for wanting this series and believing in this rather tricky concept of writing four complete love stories over the course of one road trip, thank you. I do not take your faith for granted! I can’t wait to take the rest of this journey with you and the Clarksons.

  To my agent, Laura Bradford, who never bats an eyelash, thank you for not only helping me make this concept more cohesive, but for helping me find an excellent home for the Clarksons. I’m still coming down from those phone calls.

  To Eagle at Aquila Editing, thank you for beta reading this book and giving great notes, as always. Your insight means a lot to me.

  To Rebecca Stauber, my high school journalism teacher, thank you for telling me I had some talent, but not enough to pat myself on the back. That was a great lesson, and I’m still holding on to it.

  To Jillian Stein for always being the person who says, “Yes! I love this idea! You must write it!” Thank you. Everyone comes to you for encouragement for a reason. It’s always constructive and never forced. You’re truly one of a kind, and I value you so much as a friend.

  Prologue

  Miriam Clarkson, January 1

  If you’re reading this, stop. Unless something bad has happened, in which case, screw it. I’m obviously not there anymore to stop you.

  I hope I didn’t make a big deal out of dying. Hope there were no last minute confessions or wistful wishes that I’d seen more sunrises. If I did succumb to those clichés and killed everyone’s vibe, I’m sorry. If I didn’t? Well, bully for me. But I’m succumbing now, in this book, because I’ve had too much bourbon.

  Oh, come on. At least pretend to be scandalized.

  So, here goes. I love my kids. I love that I didn’t have to say it every day for them to know it. To be comfortable in it. But looking back—hindsight is more like 40/40 when you’re about to croak—I know I only fixed minuscule problems and ignored the mammoth ones. I never cooked family dinners, which is pretty damn ironic when you think about it. I am—or was—a culinary genius, after all.

  People make dying wishes and their loved ones carry them out. That’s how it works, right? Well, I don’t wish to put that weight on my kids. But I have no such qualms with a cheap notebook I bought at Rite Aid. So here it is. My. Dying. Wish.

  Please be patient and try to remember that I often have—or had, rather—a plan.

  When I was eighteen, I spent a year in New York City. On New Year’s Day in 1984, I jumped into the icy waters of the Atlantic with the Coney Island Polar Bear Club. I was a guest of a guest of a guest, as eighteen-year-olds trying to make their way in New York often are.

  Now here’s where shit gets corny—apologies to my daughter, Rita, who of my four children, will likely find and read this first. See? I paid attention sometimes.

  As I was saying.

  When I walked back up onto that Coney Island beach, dripping wet and exhilarated, I could see my future. It wasn’t perfect, but I glimpsed it. It glimpsed me back. I could see where I was going. How I would get there. Who would be beside me.

  My life changed that day. If I had one wish, it would be for my four children, Belmont, Rita, Aaron, and Peggy, to jump into that same ocean, on that same beach, on New Year’s Day.

  Together.

  Knowing I’m right there with them.

  And no, Rita, I’m not joking. How dare you question a dead woman.

  Chapter One

  The roof! The roof! The roof is…literally on fire.

  Rita Clarkson stood across the street from Wayfare, the three-star Michelin restaurant her mother had made a culinary sensation, and watched it sizzle, pop, and whoosh into a smoking heap. Some well-meaning citizen had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders at some point, which struck her as odd. Who needed warming up this close to a structural fire? The egg-coated whisk still clutched in her right hand prevented her from pulling the blanket closer, but she couldn’t force herself to set aside the utensil. It was all that remained of Wayfare, four walls that had witnessed her professional triumphs.

  Or failures, more like. There had been way more of those.

  Tonight’s dinner-service plans had been ambitious. After a three-week absence from the restaurant, during which she’d participated in the reality television cooking show In the Heat of the Bite—and been booted off—Rita had been determined to swing for the fences her first night back. An attempt to overcompensate? Sure. When you’ve flamed out in spectacular fashion in front of a national TV audience over a fucking cheese soufflé, redemption is a must.

  She could still see her own rapturous expression reflecting back from the stainless steel as she’d carefully lowered the oven door, hot television camera lights making her neck perspire, the boom mic dangling above. It was the kind of soufflé a chef dreamed about, or admired in the glossy pages of Bon Appétit magazine. Puffed up, tantalizing. Edible sex. With only three contestants left in the competition, she’d secured her place in the finals. Weeks of “fast-fire challenges” and bunking with neurotic chefs who slept with knives—all worth it, just to be the owner of this soufflé. A veritable feat of culinary strength.

  And then her bastard fellow contestant had hip-bumped her oven, causing the center of her divine, worthy-of-Jesus’s-last-supper soufflé to sag into ruin.

  What came next had gotten nine hundred forty-eight thousand views on YouTube. Last time she’d checked, at least.

  So, yes. Pride in shambles, Rita had overcompensated a little with tonight’s menu. Duo of lamb, accompanied by goat-cheese potato puree. Duck confit on a bed of vegetable risotto. Red snapp
er crudo with spicy chorizo strips. Nothing that had existed on the previous menu. The one created by French chef and flavor mastermind Miriam Clarkson. Had the fire been her mother’s way of saying, Nice try, kiddo? No, that had never been Miriam’s style. If customers had sent back food with complaints to Miriam’s kitchen, she would have poured bourbon shots for the crew, shut down service, and said, Fuck it…you can’t win ’em all.

  For the first time since the fire started, Rita felt pressure behind her eyes. Twenty-eight years old and already a colossal failure. Not fit to compete on a reality show. Not fit to carry on her mother’s legacy. Not fit, period.

  In Rita’s back pocket, Miriam’s notebook burned hot, like a glowing coal. As if to say, And what exactly are you going to do about me?

  A hose-toting fireman passed, sending Rita a harried but sympathetic look. Realizing an actual tear had escaped and was rolling down her cheek, she lifted the whisk-clutching hand to swipe away the offender, splattering literal egg on her face.

  “Oh, come on.”

  Denial, fatigue, and humiliation ganged up on her, starting in the shoulder region and spreading to her wrist. Secure in the fact that no one could hear her strangled sob, she hauled back and hurled the whisk, watching it bounce along the cobblestones leading to Wayfare’s entrance.

  No more.

  She felt Belmont before she saw him. It was always that way with her oldest brother. For all she knew, he’d been standing in the shadows, watching the flames for the past hour, but hadn’t felt like making his presence known. Everything on his terms, his time, his pace. God, she envied that. Envied the solitary life he’d carved out for himself, the lucrative marine salvage business that allowed him to accept only jobs that interested him, spending the rest of his time hiding away on his boat. When Belmont sidled up beside her, she didn’t look over. His level expression never changed and it wouldn’t now. But she couldn’t stand to see her own self-disgust reflected back in his steady eyes.

  “They won’t save it,” came Belmont’s rumble.

  Her oldest brother never failed to state the obvious.

  “I know.”

  He shifted closer, brushing their shoulders together. Accidental? Maybe. He wasn’t exactly huge on showing affection. None of the Clarksons were, but at least she and Belmont had quiet understanding. “Would you want them to save it, if they could?”

  They were silent for a full minute. “That’s a million-dollar question.”

  “I don’t have that much cash on me.”

  His deadpan statement surprised a laugh out of Rita. It felt good for two-point-eight seconds before her chest began to fill with lead, her legs starting to wobble. The laugh turned into big, gulping breaths. “Oh, motherfucking Christ, Belmont. I burned down Mom’s restaurant.”

  “Yeah.” Another brush of his burly shoulder steadied her, just a little. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

  Exasperated, Rita shoved him, but he didn’t budge. “And they call me the morbid one.”

  Belmont’s sigh managed to drown out the sirens and emergency personnel shouts. “She might be dead. But her sense of humor isn’t.”

  Rita once again thought of the journal in her jeans pocket. “You’re right. She’d be roasting marshmallows over there. Starting a hot, new upscale s’more trend.”

  “You could start it yourself.”

  No, I can’t, Rita thought, staring out at the orange, licking flames. She’d already started quite enough for one night.

  * * *

  Rita and Belmont were sitting silently on the sidewalk, staring at the decimated restaurant, when a sleek white Mercedes with the license plate VOTE4AC pulled up along the curb, eliciting a sigh from them both. Rita shoved a hand through her dyed black hair and straightened her weary spine. Preparing. Bolstering. While Belmont’s modus operandi was to hang back, take a situation’s measure, and then approach with caution, her younger brother, Aaron, liked to make a damn entrance, right down to the way he exited the driver’s side. Like a Broadway actor entering from stage left into a dramatic scene, aware that eyes would swing in his direction. His gray suit boasted not a single wrinkle, black shoes polished to a shine. His golden-boy smile had made him a media sensation, but for once it was nowhere to be seen as he approached Rita and Belmont.

  Aaron shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “Fuck. Right?”

  “Yep,” Rita said, swallowing hard.

  Her politician brother did a scan of the dire scene, brain working overtime behind golden-brown eyes inherited by all the Clarksons. Except Belmont, whose eyes were a deep blue, on account of him having a different father. A fact that Rita forgot most of the time, since Belmont had been there—an unmovable presence—since the day she was born. Aaron had come later. The second coming.

  “Are you all right?” Aaron asked her abruptly, a suspicious twinkle in his gaze. “You must have been in there a while with the smoke. The soot around your eyes—”

  “Hilarious, dickhead.” Her heavy black eye makeup and general fuck off appearance were a constant source of amusement for her clean-cut younger brother. “You have a funny way of showing concern.”

  “Thank you. What do I need to handle?” Aaron adjusted the starched white collar of his shirt. “Did you make a statement yet or anything?”

  Rita allowed the steel to leach from her spine. “I’ve been kind of busy just sitting here.”

  “Right.” Aaron feigned surprise at finding Belmont on the sidewalk with them. “Jesus. I thought you were a statue.”

  “Ha.”

  “You smell like the ocean.”

  “You smell like the blood of taxpayers,” Belmont returned.

  “Well.” Rita finally found enough presence of mind to yank the smoky apron over her head, chucking it into the street. “I think I just remembered why we haven’t hung out since Mom died.”

  Truthfully, even before that rainy afternoon, the time they’d spent together as a family had felt mandatory. Organized by their mother and fled from in almost comical haste.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  At the sound of their youngest sibling, Peggy’s, voice, all three of them cursed beneath their breath. Let the family reunion officially begin. It wasn’t that they didn’t love their baby sister. And in many ways, Peggy, a personal shopper to San Diego’s elite, was still a baby at twenty-five. Her big Coke-bottle curls and cheerleader appearance guaranteed that she got away with just about everything. Including neglecting to pay her cabdriver, if the irritated-looking man following her with a receipt clutched in his fist was any indication.

  “How did this happen?” Peggy hiccupped, playing with the string of engagement rings dangling from her neck, as Belmont wordlessly paid the cabdriver. “I just had dinner here two weeks ago. Everything seemed fine.”

  Rita battled the compulsion to lie down on the sidewalk in the fetal position. Oh God. Her mother had bequeathed her an award-winning restaurant and she’d burned it down. On Rita’s first day back.

  Aaron was busy scrolling through his phone, the screen’s glow illuminating his perfectly tousled dark blond hair. “Look at the bright side, Rita. Now you can pursue your dream of being a Hot Topic register girl.”

  Rita barely had the strength to flip him the bird. “Jump up my ass.”

  When Peggy approached Rita couldn’t look her in the eye, so she focused on her younger sister’s toes, which were peeking out of strappy silver sandals. “Hey. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  Rita’s throat went tight. “Thanks, Peggy.”

  “I’m sorry about the restaurant, too. I know how much you loved it. How much Mom loved it.” Her youngest sibling nodded and cast a discreet glance over her shoulder, turning back with a charming half smile. A smile responsible for four marriage proposals over the past three years. “Mom probably would have wanted me to talk to those firefighters, though. Am I right?”

  Rita groaned up at the sky.

  Meet the fucking Clarksons.

  Chapter Tw
o

  Unable to stand the undercurrent of blame radiating from her siblings any longer, Rita came to her feet and walked toward what remained of Wayfare. She hesitated for the barest of seconds when she reached the yellow tape, but shrugged and ducked beneath it. Her Doc Martens crunched in the charred debris, which had cooled overnight as they sat across the street, watching the smoke dissipate. Even demolished, she knew which rooms she walked through, exactly which table numbers the black metal legs belonged to. She toed aside a burned piece of wood and spied the wrought-iron Bonjour! sign Miriam had brought back from Paris on one of her many trips.

  Rita turned at the sound of footsteps behind her. Her siblings were wading into the restaurant’s remains with varying degrees of caution. Aaron followed behind Peggy, giving her a quick poke in the ribs then pretending he hadn’t done it when she whelped. Where Rita and Belmont had quiet understanding, Aaron and Peggy—the two youngest—made merry when together. They weren’t necessarily close, but they liked one another and had developed a way to show it without sliding into dreaded emotional territory. They made it look so effortless.

  What must that be like?

  Aaron’s usually smirking mouth moved into a grim line. “It’s safe to say rebuilding is off the table.”

  Belmont drew even with Rita, kicking aside some splintered wood to pick up the Bonjour! sign. “Just tell me what you want. I’ll tell you if it’s possible to save it.”

  “Right,” Rita said quietly. “This is what you do, salvage man.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Remember when I got the job working for Senator Boggs? Mom threw that cocktail party and invited three of my ex-girlfriends, who quickly figured out there’d been some relationship overlap.” Aaron crouched down and tugged a wedged picture of Miriam standing in the French countryside from beneath a charred produce crate. “She laughed as I ran out the door.”