Gina shrugged. “I’m meeting with them in September to discuss our five-year contract.” She emphasizedfive yearsas if that meant ChefAid was locked in.
Sawyer knew most endorsement contracts could be nullified if the personal life of the company’s representative embarrassed the shit out of said company. That gave Gina less than six weeks to brush up her image.
“Please don’t tell me that’s how long you’re staying?” He tried to sound as if he were joking, but he wasn’t.
The oven timer dinged and Gina gingerly pulled out her soufflé. It was impressive. Puffy and a pale shade of yellow.
She examined the egg dish and pulled a face.
“What?” he asked. It looked perfect to him.
“It could’ve risen more and it’s sinking too fast. Floppy egg whites and I left it in a tad too long.” She turned it slightly, examined it some more, and then, as if to herself, said, “I’m so damned out of practice.”
“Why’s that? Don’t you have to do it every day as part of your job?”
She let out a bark of laughter. “You mean for my show? Here’s a little secret for your exposé. I have twenty assistants. By the time I walk onto the set, everything is done for me.”
He wasn’t surprised and since they were being honest was tempted to ask if she had a body double for the cleavage shots. But decided against it, fearing that the soufflé would wind up in his face.
“It looks pretty good to me,” he said. “You think we can eat it any time soon?”
She reached into one of the top cabinets for two plates and dished them each a serving. He took one bite and thought maybe they could be friends after all. Because if this was what “out of practice” tasted like, he wanted to be around when she got her groove back.
“It sucks,” she said. “Dry and overpowered by the basil.”
Dry? He’d thought it was quite moist. And the basil…well, he’d only caught a hint. He thought it was just right. Better than right. Superb.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He forked up another bite. “I’m managing to choke it down.”
She shot him a dirty look. “You also just admitted that you’ll eat anything.”
That wasn’t exactly what he’d said. He ate like shit, no question about it. But he’d also dined all over the world in Michelin-starred restaurants, at nearly all of Michael Bauer’s top 100 restaurants in San Francisco and anything the late Jonathan Gold or the living Bill Addison, of theLos Angeles Times, liked. Some would even call him a foodie.
“Okay, you’re right, it sucks. You should redeem yourself by making something I can bring to my cousin’s barbecue this evening.”
She perked up. “What kind of barbecue?”
Wasn’t there only one kind? “It’s a thing here in…I think you called it Timbuktu. We light up a grill, put meat on it, drink a couple of beers, and eat. People do it all over the country, especially in summer.”
She shot him another one of her looks and he was mesmerized by her blue eyes. They were like topaz.
And before he could stop himself he said, “You’re invited if you want to come.”
That seemed to fluster her. “Today? I’ve got a thing.”
A thing? He hitched his brows but withheld comment. What the hell did he care whether she came? “Okay. It’s over at the big ranch house if you change your mind. Can I have more of the soufflé?” He’d cleaned his plate.
She pushed the crock toward him and stirred her pot on the stove. “Knock yourself out.”
“What’s the soup for?”
“It’s not soup, it’s stock. It’s good to have as a base.” She put her spoon down and came back to the breakfast bar. “How come you live here instead of LA?”
“Like it here better,” he said as he wolfed down his second piece of soufflé.
She took a visual stroll down his Levi’s to his cowboy boots. “Why? You seem more sophisticated than your average cowpoke.”
“You know a lot of ranchers, then? Because beef is a two-and-a-half-billion-dollar industry in California. We cowpokes are pretty damned sophisticated.”
