“That’s great,” I manage. “You must’ve mentioned it before, right? That you were looking to, uh, take something bigger?”
She frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Just—people are talking. Saying you told the staff you were taking over the kitchen here. That this was practice for your next big gig.”
Her expression shifts—hurt first, then disbelief. “Wait. What? Who would even?—?”
“I don’t know,” I say too quickly. “But the story’s out there. You should’ve told me before it blew up.”
Her eyes flash. “Thereisno story, Chase. I never said that. Ever.”
“Then why?—”
“Why do you assume I did?” Her voice breaks on the question, sharp and soft at once. “Because it’s easier to believe I’d betray you than to believe someone else is lying?”
I flinch. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair is how fast you went from trusting me to accusing me.”
“I didn’t accuse?—”
“Yes, you did.” She takes a shaky breath. “For the record, that call? It was about a pilot. A real one. They want me in L.A. next week. I was going to tell you tonight.” She swallows hard. “But maybe it’s better this way.”
“Katelyn—”
She shakes her head. “No. You made it pretty clear what you think of me.”
She steps back, wiping at her eyes, and it’s like watching the light go out of the room.
“You don’t have to worry about me taking your job, Chase. You don’t even have to worry about seeing me again.”
The door closes behind her before I can stop her. The sound echoes, hollow.
I stand in the quiet, the scent of caramel still hanging in the air, a pan cooling on the stove, and the taste of her kiss suddenly miles away.
Outside, the wind rattles the windows, and all I can think is how fast warmth can turn to cold.
EIGHT
KATELYN
My suitcase lays open on the motel bed, half-filled.
Lanie perches on the arm of a chair, folding one of my sweaters like she’s done this before. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call Tricia? She’d handle the travel details for you.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. The network will send a car for tomorrow morning. All very glamorous.”
She catches the sarcasm and sets the sweater down. “You don’t sound thrilled, Katelyn.”
I pick at the zipper of my bag. “I should be. This is what I said I wanted—cameras, lights, someone else washing the dishes after.”
“But?”
“But they don’t actually care about what I cook.” I laugh, brittle. “They want me to maketheirrecipes. They don’t want me to teach the audience so much as give them something to aspire to. I asked about creative control and the producer said, ‘We’ll see how the audience tests.’”
“That sounds… not like you.”
“It’s a step,” I say, repeating the words from my manager as she talked me into at least doing the pilot. “Maybe a steppingstone to something better. Or maybe it’s just another failure waiting.”
