Too Hot to Handle （Romancing the Clarksons #1）
Tessa Bailey
For Violet
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Too Hot to Handle is a love story between Jasper and Rita, but it抯 also very much a love story among four siblings. Between a mother and her children. It抯 a common belief that we need to love ourselves before we can love another梐nd 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抮e worthy. I hope you抣l 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梬hich has only begun to reveal itself梐long the way.
To my grandmother, Violet, for the stories you抳e 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抰 use Violet. I don抰 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抦 sorry that sometimes you are talking directly at my face, I抦 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抰 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抦 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抦 still holding on to it.
To Jillian Stein for always being the person who says, 揧es! I love this idea! You must write it!?Thank you. Everyone comes to you for encouragement for a reason. It抯 always constructive and never forced. You抮e truly one of a kind, and I value you so much as a friend.
Prologue
Miriam Clarkson, January 1
If you抮e reading this, stop. Unless something bad has happened, in which case, screw it. I抦 obviously not there anymore to stop you.
I hope I didn抰 make a big deal out of dying. Hope there were no last minute confessions or wistful wishes that I抎 seen more sunrises. If I did succumb to those clich閟 and killed everyone抯 vibe, I抦 sorry. If I didn抰？ Well, bully for me. But I抦 succumbing now, in this book, because I抳e 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抰 have to say it every day for them to know it. To be comfortable in it. But looking back梙indsight is more like 40/40 when you抮e about to croak桰 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梠r was梐 culinary genius, after all.
People make dying wishes and their loved ones carry them out. That抯 how it works, right? Well, I don抰 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梠r had, rather梐 plan.
When I was eighteen, I spent a year in New York City. On New Year抯 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抯 where shit gets corny梐pologies 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抰 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抯 Day.
Together.
Knowing I抦 right there with them.
And no, Rita, I抦 not joking. How dare you question a dead woman.
Chapter One
The roof! The roof! The roof is卨iterally 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抰 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抯 dinner-service plans had been ambitious. After a three-week absence from the restaurant, during which she抎 participated in the reality television cooking show In the Heat of the Bite梐nd been booted off桼ita had been determined to swing for the fences her first night back. An attempt to overcompensate? Sure. When you抳e flamed out in spectacular fashion in front of a national TV audience over a fucking cheese souffl? redemption is a must.
She could still see her own rapturous expression reflecting back from the stainless steel as she抎 carefully lowered the oven door, hot television camera lights making her neck perspire, the boom mic dangling above. It was the kind of souffl?a chef dreamed about, or admired in the glossy pages of Bon App閠it magazine. Puffed up, tantalizing. Edible sex. With only three contestants left in the competition, she抎 secured her place in the finals. Weeks of 揻ast-fire challenges?and bunking with neurotic chefs who slept with knives梐ll worth it, just to be the owner of this souffl? 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抯-last-supper souffl?to sag into ruin.
What came next had gotten nine hundred forty-eight thousand views on YouTube. Last time she抎 checked, at least.
So, yes. Pride in shambles, Rita had overcompensated a little with tonight抯 menu. Duo of lamb, accompanied by goat-cheese potato puree. Duck confit on a bed of vegetable risotto. Red snapper 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抯 way of saying, Nice try, kiddo? No, that had never been Miriam抯 style. If customers had sent back food with complaints to Miriam抯 kitchen, she would have poured bourbon shots for the crew, shut down service, and said, Fuck it厃ou can抰 win 抏m 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抯 legacy. Not fit, period.