I stared at him. “A morning segment of what.”
It wasn’t a question, it was more of a warning. I was annoyed and tired enough not to be too cautious.
“My show,” he said, waving a hand in the vague direction of the crew. “They wanted to get some candid footage. Authentic kitchen atmosphere. You know. Rustic charm.”
At that exact moment, a man holding a boom mic walked behind me and nearly knocked my elbow with it. When I turned, the microphone hit my shoulder and the man jerked it back so quickly he lost his balance and stumbled into a camera operator. The camera operator swore. The director cheered.
“That is great energy,” the director said. “Can we get that again, but maybe with a laugh from Jane.”
I didn't laugh. I folded my arms instead.
James clapped his hands lightly. “We will just do a little cooking demonstration. Nothing complicated. You don't mind.”
That wasn't really a question either. James took it for granted that I would let him take over. When had I ever objected to anything he wanted in the past? The closest I had come tosaying no was when I literally ran away from the city to come here. He had already commandeered half the kitchen. I noticed he had moved my spices, this time in a pattern that made zero sense. Paprika sat next to vanilla. Garlic powder had been pushed behind cinnamon. My eyes twitched.
I walked toward him slowly. “You are in my apron.”
He looked down at himself, then back at me, smiling. “Yes. It looked better on camera.”
“It’s tied wrong,” I said.
He shrugged. “It’s fine.”
It wasn't fine. It looked like it was trying to strangle his ribcage. My shoulders slumped as I accepted the situation. James was just going to run roughshod over anything I said anyways.
“Hi,” she said cheerfully, shoving a microphone pack into my hands. “Can you clip this to your waistband? We want to catch your reactions.”
“My reactions to what?” I wondered.
“Oh, you know,” she said vaguely, “whatever James does.”
I closed my eyes and took a slow breath through my nose. The woman clipped a microphone onto my shirt, twisting the fabric. I was pretty sure it was going to leave a hole, or at the very least stretch the fabric.
At least it was an old sweater.
I was wearing an old faded sweater with pilling and a loose thread on James’ nationally shown cooking show. My shoulders slumped further.
Outside, the sun still had not come up. Inside, the day already felt too long.
James reached for my flour bin to demonstrate a technique and pulled so hard on the lid that it popped off. Flour erupted everywhere. It spread onto the counter, the floor, and the cupboards. The air turned white.
Someone coughed dramatically. Someone else sneezed. The director whispered, “Beautiful.”
I stood very still as flour settled on my eyelashes and hair. It drifted down the front of my sweater until I looked like a ghost who baked for a living.
“Are you alright?” one of the camera guys asked, probably noticing the scowl on my face.
No, I was absolutely not fine.
I forced a smile. “Fine.”
The moment the word left my mouth, the kitchen door opened. Braxton stepped in and stopped. He took in the scene slowly, his gaze sweeping from the flour snowstorm to James' smug grin to the film crew scrambling to capture footage.
His eyes finally landed on me. I felt my face heat even though it was already covered in flour.
“You have something...” He gestured vaguely at his cheek.
“I know,” I said.
