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When a perfectionist deli chef and a passionate MMA fighter get stranded together in a blizzard at a nutrition retreat, the two opposites will find all the common ground they need to spark an intense love affair and an unexpected professional partnership.

Chapter 1: Hex, the Man Meat


“Make those man-titties pop,” the director says, squeezing his wiry arms together as if he could make his narrow chest in a black turtleneck provide an example of what he wants.

I sigh. Objectification. I get it now. I will never compliment a woman on anything but her sparkling wit and confidence ever again.

But today, this is my job.

Male beefcake.

I turn from the line of searing lights, the crew, and the director, concentrating for a moment on the set in front of me. A long counter is covered with a colorful spread of fruits and vegetables.

Time to get this done. I draw my biceps in toward my chest—no easy feat since my elbows haven’t connected with my waist for years. My chest pops.

“That’s it!” the man calls. “I want nipple! More nipple!”

I glance down at the thin white tank that barely functions as clothing. I’ve seen tissue paper with better coverage.

Yup. All those years of ogling the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue are coming home to roost. Now I’m the show.

But I’m here to prove what can allegedly be done with proper nutrition and a robust meal plan.

Right. Like I haven’t done brutal workouts and excruciating diet regimens for years. Cucumber ain’t gonna cut it, but critiquing the company I’m representing in this commercial isn’t my job.

“Stick that chest out!” the director says. I can’t remember his name. Avon, Arid, something like that. All I remember is that his name starts with an A.

I cut my eyes to the right, beyond the cameras to my best bud Max Pickle, who watches with amusement. “Nipples,” he mouths, tweaking his through his T-shirt.

I’d throw something at him if the colorful bounty in front of me wasn’t prepped by the very reason I agreed to this ridiculous assignment.

No way am I going to mess up her perfect trays of food.

“Don’t look over there,” the director says.

What was his name? Aglet?

He’s frowning at me. “Get your eyes back on the camera. Place that apple inside your elbow. Can you squash it? Now that would be something.”

“Squash it!” Jeannie’s irritated voice cuts through the whir of the fans keeping the lights cool. “That is the most perfect specimen of a Red Delicious in Greater Los Angeles, and you want him to squash it?”

“Get her off the set,” orders Ahab, Avant, whatever his name is, his mouth in a line.

Anger rushes at me like a tidal wave. “If she goes, I go.”

Jeannie’s head snaps up from the cooler where she waits with replacement food. Her eyes flash and I can’t help feeling a little turned on.

But man, she is mad. “I don’t need a hero. I just need my hard work not to get squished by your man meat!”

This sets off a round of titters. I have to work hard not to crack a smile with the others. Getting close to Jeannie was my sole motivation for doing this commercial, and I will not be the one to upset her. Not by squashing her apple, or messing up her food, or laughing when I shouldn’t.

I’m focused.

Doing this gig was Max’s idea. Pickle Media got the contract to promote Eat Play Win, a new health website launching with splashy ads all over the Internet and TV.

Jeannie is Max’s head chef, and an absolute tyrant when it comes to perfection in their food. Her work has been in tons of magazines and ads before.

She throws me out of the kitchen any time I visit, citing my “man germs” and “sweaty athletic presence” no matter how well I clean up before I come.

Max thought forcing us together on a commercial might give her a better impression of me, if that was possible.

“Do you have an uglier apple for me to squash?” I ask her.

Her face contorts, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. Big time.

Her voice rises as she speaks. “Mr. Hex, no middle name, no last name, MMA fighter, pain in my side. What makes you think I’d allow a blemished apple in my kitchen?”

I shrug. “Maybe give ugly fruit a chance?”

The laughter on the set erupts, louder than before.

I’ve screwed up.

“Oh! You are the worst!” She spins on her heel and pushes through the kitchen door.

Arson, Ajax, whoever he is, turns to me. “Crush the apple.”

“No.” I’m spitting mad now. I’m here to woo Jeannie, and I’m blowing it.

“Crush it,” he says, a warning in his voice.

I will not obey this asswipe. Every muscle tenses as I prepare to take him down like he’s my opponent in a match.

Then something juicy drips down my arm.

I look down.

Great. I’ve crushed the apple.

Acorn claps his hands. “Terrific.” He turns to the camera operator. “Please tell me you got that.”

“Got it,” he says.

“Sweet. He’s such a brute.” Armpit looks delighted.

I’m beginning to think this humiliation isn’t worth it. I let the crushed apple roll down my thick forearm to my hand. “I’m going to wash this off.” I leave before anyone can stop me.

I cut a path through the crew, sighing with relief at the coolness away from the lights, and push through the kitchen door.

Jeannie is alone at the chopping table, slamming a butcher knife through a pickle like she’s imagining it’s Aioli’s dick.

Or mine.

She doesn’t look up as I drop the crushed apple into the compost bin, then head to the commercial sink. I use the sprayer to hose down my arm. I’m sweatier than I’d like to be after sitting under the lights, so I spray my other arm, too.

This outfit is all wrong, the thin shirt and skin-tight biker shorts. Showing off assets won’t work with a woman like Jeannie.

She wants someone like her. Professional.

Not man meat.

But I won’t give up.

Her heavy knife continues its thwack, thwack, thwack.

I grab a handful of brown paper towels from the metal wall dispenser and carefully dry my arms and the back of my neck. I’m sweating beneath my beard, but I can’t do anything about that without messing up the work of the makeup artists.

I try to watch Jeannie in the reflection of the gleaming stainless steel, but it’s too distorted for me to get a good view.

Time to fix this. I turn around. “I’m sorry I insulted your apples.”

There’s a break in the rhythm of the cuts, then they continue.

“Your food is gorgeous.”

And so are you, I want to say, but I remember my new resolution about complimenting the important things rather than the superficial ones, and keep that to myself.

Thwack, thwack, thwack.

I have to keep trying. “Nobody likes Areola.”

The chopping stops. “Who?”

The sight of her looking at me snatches my breath. Her dark hair is tucked into a short white cap. Her cheekbones are high and sharp, and when her eyes meet mine, I feel like I’m drowning in their ocean blue.

I forget what we’re talking about.

She sets down the knife. “Are you talking about Adriel, the director?”

“I’ve been making up A names in my head.”

She almost smiles. I see it. My heart leaps.

Her voice is cutting, though. “And you went with Areola?” Her gaze snaps to my paper-thin shirt for a millisecond before she reverts to the chopping block, but I saw it.

She looked!

I take a step closer. “Areola, Arid, Avon, Asswipe.”

Her dark, arching eyebrows lift. “That last one fits.”

“I only did the commercial as a favor to Max.”

“Same.”

“So we have something in common.”

Her mouth quirks to one side, revealing a dimple I didn’t know existed. This is the longest conversation we’ve ever had, and worth every objectifying minute I’ve spent flexing my muscles this morning.

“Apparently.” She slides the perfect cuts of pickle into a clear bin. “Are you going back?”

“Only if he’s nice to you.”

She pops the cover on the container and tugs off her plastic gloves to replace them with a new pair. “I can defend myself.”

“I like having a common enemy with you.”

“Why me?”

I want to confess everything. How much I think about her, how often I make up excuses to come into this kitchen, how many times I’ve asked Max about her.

But I only say, “Because I’m ready to rumble, and Acne is the mark.”

I’m blessed by a full-on grin. TWO dimples. I feel lightheaded.

She straightens the dish towel tucked into the top of the apron over her chef jacket. “Okay, let’s go out there and be the most difficult talent he’s ever had to deal with.”

I hold out the crook of my arm. “Shall we?”

She grimaces. “I’m not touching that sweaty man-flesh. I have food to prep.”

Back to old Jeannie.

I don’t mind. Walking beside her is good enough for me.