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“You should go,” I tell her as I step forward. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Is Chef Jackson here?” she asks as if she hasn’t heard my question.
“You should go,” I repeat. “Please?”
She falls silent as she studies me. Then her eyes grow wide as they fall on my hand.
“Oh my God. You’re her, aren’t you? You’re Chef Jackson’s new manager who he got recently engaged to?”
What? How does she know that?
I hide my hand behind me before she can take a picture of it. Her camera flashes in front of my face, though.
“Hey.” I put a hand on her camera. “Who told you that?”
“Don’t touch my camera.” She wrenches it away.
“Sorry.” I lift my hand. “I…”
Why am I apologizing when she was the one taking my picture without asking my permission?
“Who told you about the…”
“About the engagement? It’s on the site.”
“Site?” What site?
“The one for all Chef Jackson’s groupies.”
Groupies?
She rolls her eyes. “God, you don’t know we exist, do you? You don’t have any idea how amazing Jackson Holloway is. You don’t deserve him.”
I frown at the insult. “Well, I don’t know you. And you don’t know me, so you have no right to – ”
“You’re not even as nice as Evelyn,” the woman says.
Evelyn?
“She tried to get along with us. She didn’t mind sharing Chef Jackson.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“You’re not worthy to take her place,” the woman adds.
Her place?
Now I get it. She’s talking about Jackson’s first wife. I didn’t even know her name was Evelyn.
“He’s not going to marry you anyway,” the woman tells me. “He’s married to food now. He’s only experimenting with you now, like he does with his dishes, but he’ll throw you away eventually. Everything spoils.”
My jaw clenches. Now she’s gone too far.
“I don’t know who you are, but if you’re not going to leave right now, I’m going to call the cops,” I threaten her.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” I hold my chin up. “Or don’t. Like I said, you don’t know me.”
For a moment, she just stands there with her lips curled like some dog about to attack. Then she turns and bolts.
I let out a sigh of relief as I touch my nape.
Well, that was crazy. She was crazy. What did she call herself again? A chef groupie?
I guess I’ll have to ask Jackson about that.
Chapter 8
Jackson
“Yup. That’s what they call themselves,” I tell Cathy as I set a bowl of ice cream in front of her. “Chef groupies. They’re fans of chefs in general or one particular chef. They follow their social media accounts, buy their books, try to replicate their recipes, go to their restaurants.”
“And insult their fiancees?” Cathy suggests.
I frown as I sit beside her. Cathy hasn’t told me exactly what the groupie said, but I can tell it offended her and I can’t help but feel a little guilty. I should have known this could happen. I should have warned her.
“I know I’m not your real fiancee,” Cathy goes on. “But they think I am. How do they even know?”
I shrug.
“She said it was on their site. I tried to look for it, but I can’t find it.”
“I can give you the link and the password,” I offer. “They sent one to me.”
Cathy sighs. “I just don’t know how they know.”
I say nothing as I eat my ice cream. She slips a spoonful into her mouth and then turns to me with the spoon still between her lips. She pulls it out.
“You don’t think Betty told them, do you?”
“That’s possible,” I say. “Like I said, she’s capable of many things. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s pretending to be one of my groupies on that site. She might even be an administrator.”
Cathy frowns. “But why would she tell them?”
“Because she knew this would happen,” I answer. “She probably wanted them to scare you off or at least cause you some trouble. Maybe it’s a test. Maybe she wants to see what kind of woman you really are.”
“Well, I don’t like it.” Cathy puts down her spoon. “I don’t like being tested or being insulted. I don’t like the world meddling in my affairs.”
“I know.” I place my hand over hers. “I don’t like it either. I didn’t ask to be a celebrity or to have groupies. I mean, I’m okay with the fact that they buy my books and go to my restaurants, but I don’t like it when they cross the line and try to get personal.”
Cathy looks at me. “So they’ve caused you trouble before?”
“One of them tried to get a lock of my hair once when she came to my restaurant and took a picture with me.” I touch my head. “That hurt.”
Cathy frowns.
“And some of them send me messages, asking me to come to their house and cook for them or saying stuff like they want to eat me all up.”
