defines you, but it doesn’t. And I have a feeling it never did.”
Chapter 7
About half an hour after leaving Seth’s, we pulled into an underground parking garage that serviced the suite of offices where Todd Caliban filmed his local cooking show.
Like Gran, Caliban had found a sense of purpose in the Here and Now that had been lacking in the rather restrictive story he’d been a part of. The Tempest was technically a comedy, but there was nothing funny about the part he’d been forced to play. He’d been treated with derision and contempt—and called a monster because his circumstances pissed him off.
But in the Here and Now, he was an incredibly talented chef and restaurateur who had finally become a nationally recognized rising star in the world of gourmet cuisine, thanks in large part to the success of reality television. He’d come a long way from the greasy spoon where he’d started out bussing tables when he first came over. His upscale café, Tempest in a Teapot, had just earned him a rave review from one of the most renowned food critics in the country.
Unfortunately, as you can imagine, Todd had a lot of emotional baggage he couldn’t seem to offload no matter how many therapy sessions and anger management courses he took part in. And, in spite of the way he’d been treated, he still hung with the Shakespeare set. The Willies, as we called them at the FMA, were a group of melodramatic attention whores who couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble.
“So, how did you meet Caliban?” Nate asked as we headed toward the elevator.
I grimaced inwardly and adjusted the collar of my leather trench coat. “Stalking case.”
Nate blinked at me. “You got involved with a stalker ?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I insisted, punching the elevator button with more vigor than necessary. Of course, it stubbornly refused to respond. “Caliban and Miranda had a thing. Her father got pissed about it—nobody’s good enough for Daddy’s little girl and all that—so she lied about Caliban stalking her to maintain Prospero’s delusions.”
“When were you two together?”
I glanced at the lights above the elevator, wondering if the damn thing was even in service. “It was after that. He made me dinner.”
A smug grin slowly curved Nate’s lips. “So, the way to your heart is through your stomach?” he quipped. “I thought that was just a guy thing.”
I squared my shoulders and mentally pleaded with the elevator to get its ass in gear. “Girl’s gotta eat.”
Nate crossed his arms and leaned casually against the wall, regarding me with open amusement. “So since I made you breakfast . . .”
I shot him a deadly look as the elevator finally arrived. “Don’t even go there.”
Nate chuckled as we stepped inside, but by the time we reached the fifteenth floor he was all business again, his jaw pulverizing a fresh stick of gum.
As the elevator door slid open, a cacophony of noise greeted us. I exchanged a frown with Nate, then picked up the pace as another loud crash sounded from the studio set.
“What the hell is this ?” roared a furious voice. “I said I wanted pork belly—who was the fucking moron who brought me pork cutlets? What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? Get my producer! I can’t work in these conditions! This is ludicrous! Where’s Sebille?”
“Ah, the famous rage of Caliban,” Nate muttered. “No wonder you found him so charming.”
“He was a victim of circumstances,” I snapped. “I could relate.”
A familiar scene greeted me as we entered the kitchen where Caliban was supposed to be filming. Well, it had once been a kitchen anyway. Pots and pans were strewn about the floor as were various ingredients that had been set out for whatever recipe he’d intended. On the countertop, a lone bowl of shallots had somehow escaped his tantrum. The rest was in shambles.
“I’m sorry, Todd,” a smartly dressed woman with titian hair and painfully pointy shoes
Chapter 7
About half an hour after leaving Seth’s, we pulled into an underground parking garage that serviced the suite of offices where Todd Caliban filmed his local cooking show.
Like Gran, Caliban had found a sense of purpose in the Here and Now that had been lacking in the rather restrictive story he’d been a part of. The Tempest was technically a comedy, but there was nothing funny about the part he’d been forced to play. He’d been treated with derision and contempt—and called a monster because his circumstances pissed him off.
But in the Here and Now, he was an incredibly talented chef and restaurateur who had finally become a nationally recognized rising star in the world of gourmet cuisine, thanks in large part to the success of reality television. He’d come a long way from the greasy spoon where he’d started out bussing tables when he first came over. His upscale café, Tempest in a Teapot, had just earned him a rave review from one of the most renowned food critics in the country.
Unfortunately, as you can imagine, Todd had a lot of emotional baggage he couldn’t seem to offload no matter how many therapy sessions and anger management courses he took part in. And, in spite of the way he’d been treated, he still hung with the Shakespeare set. The Willies, as we called them at the FMA, were a group of melodramatic attention whores who couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble.
“So, how did you meet Caliban?” Nate asked as we headed toward the elevator.
I grimaced inwardly and adjusted the collar of my leather trench coat. “Stalking case.”
Nate blinked at me. “You got involved with a stalker ?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I insisted, punching the elevator button with more vigor than necessary. Of course, it stubbornly refused to respond. “Caliban and Miranda had a thing. Her father got pissed about it—nobody’s good enough for Daddy’s little girl and all that—so she lied about Caliban stalking her to maintain Prospero’s delusions.”
“When were you two together?”
I glanced at the lights above the elevator, wondering if the damn thing was even in service. “It was after that. He made me dinner.”
A smug grin slowly curved Nate’s lips. “So, the way to your heart is through your stomach?” he quipped. “I thought that was just a guy thing.”
I squared my shoulders and mentally pleaded with the elevator to get its ass in gear. “Girl’s gotta eat.”
Nate crossed his arms and leaned casually against the wall, regarding me with open amusement. “So since I made you breakfast . . .”
I shot him a deadly look as the elevator finally arrived. “Don’t even go there.”
Nate chuckled as we stepped inside, but by the time we reached the fifteenth floor he was all business again, his jaw pulverizing a fresh stick of gum.
As the elevator door slid open, a cacophony of noise greeted us. I exchanged a frown with Nate, then picked up the pace as another loud crash sounded from the studio set.
“What the hell is this ?” roared a furious voice. “I said I wanted pork belly—who was the fucking moron who brought me pork cutlets? What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? Get my producer! I can’t work in these conditions! This is ludicrous! Where’s Sebille?”
“Ah, the famous rage of Caliban,” Nate muttered. “No wonder you found him so charming.”
“He was a victim of circumstances,” I snapped. “I could relate.”
A familiar scene greeted me as we entered the kitchen where Caliban was supposed to be filming. Well, it had once been a kitchen anyway. Pots and pans were strewn about the floor as were various ingredients that had been set out for whatever recipe he’d intended. On the countertop, a lone bowl of shallots had somehow escaped his tantrum. The rest was in shambles.
“I’m sorry, Todd,” a smartly dressed woman with titian hair and painfully pointy shoes
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