Page 12 of Priest (Confessions 3)

This wasn’t the kind of function Priest would generally attend, the L.A./Hollywood social scene not really his deal. But as he sat there in his car staring at the invitation in his hand, he knew exactly why he was there, and it had nothing to do with socializing and everything to do with one of the contestants of the show—Julien Thornton.

It’d been months since Priest had last seen the Frenchman—five, to be exact—and he had honestly thought he’d never hear from the man again. So when an invitation to attend tonight’s event had arrived at his office, Priest had almost thrown it out until he’d flipped the envelope over and read who it was from: Your friendly neighborhood car thief.

His reaction to those five words would’ve been somewhat shocking if he hadn’t had the exact same one every time he saw, or thought about, the man. His pulse had skyrocketed, and his cock had been in a state of semi-arousal since reading the words, and that had been nearly two weeks ago, which explained why he was now sitting outside this studio at eight o’clock on a Thursday night, trying to convince himself that going inside would not be the biggest mistake of his life.

Priest drove his car forward to where a young man stood waiting for him, and as he came to a stop, he folded the piece of paper in half and slipped it inside his shirt pocket under his jacket. As he climbed out of the car, Priest handed over his keys and thanked the man before he headed toward the front door that was lined on either side with a red velvet rope.

There were no fans to be held back tonight, since this season of Chef Master had not yet aired—just those “in the know” people who somehow or another were always aware when a party was going on and managed to score an invite.

Priest walked up to the front door, and when it was pushed open for him, he was instructed to head inside to the hostess stand. As he waited behind two women dressed up for a night on the town, he overheard them talking and caught the blonde of the pair say, “I heard the winner this year is French.”

Her friend smiled and nodded, her eyes practically glittering at the comment. “Oh, I know. I did too. Can you imagine snagging him as your boyfriend? Bonjour, chérie, what would you like for breakfast?” she said, and then laughed at her basic imitation of the French language.

“Um yes, a French chef with a delicious accent? Sign me up.”

Now that’s interesting, Priest thought. Julien had won the competition? The same man Priest had bailed out of jail? Huh. He hadn’t known that. But one thing he did know for sure was the second these women got a glimpse of the French chef they were speaking of, they would melt into a puddle at his feet.

Yes, Julien Thornton was that attractive, and unless there was another French-speaking contestant this season, he had to be whom they were referring to, which again had Priest wondering why he was even bothering with this in the first place.

It wasn’t like this thing, this simmering sexual awareness they’d had for one another, could go anywhere. He didn’t get involved in relationships for several reasons. But one of them was how intensely private he was about his life.

That came from years of keeping one’s identity—their real identity—a secret from the rest of the world, which couldn’t exactly happen if the person you were interested in had just won the biggest cooking show in America and would soon be a household name.

Priest shook his head. He’d known this was a bad idea from the get-go. The fact that he was even thinking about a relationship in the first place was completely unlike him, and yet another reason he knew he should leave—Julien made him go against his common sense, and that was never a good thing.

He was about to turn around and get out of there while he still could, but before he got one foot in front of the other, the woman behind the hostess table said, “Good evening, sir. Can I please see your invitation?”

Shit. It was too late now. Unless, of course, he told her that he didn’t have one—that would be a surefire way to get thrown out of there, but it would also draw a lot of unwarranted attention.

Priest reached into his jacket and pulled out the invite. Once he handed it over, the woman looked for his name on a computer and said, “You’re at table seventeen. Drinks are being served in the bar area before appetizers, so if you’d like to head through those double doors over there, that’s where you’ll find the rest of tonight’s guests, the contestants, and, of course, Graham himself. Have a wonderful evening, Mr. Priestley.”

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