She did a quick Google search for “gabriel brown producer plated”
And to her cautious delight, there Gabriel was, with LinkedIn images and an IMDb matching the same face she saw in the IG account. Gabriel, with the (limited) digital sleuthing she had done, seemed to be who he said he was. Apprehensively, Cierra wandered back to click on the first full message.
Gabriel: Hey! I think you know my mom, Miriam — from the market? She showed me your page and I think you might be a good fit for a show I work on. I’m a producer for Plated and we’re currently casting for our next season. Here’s the link to casting. Can’t guarantee anything, but if you submit, I’d personally put in a good word. Deadline is August 1st. Hope to hear back soon.
Cierra sat in bed for a couple of minutes with a slightly ajar mouth before clicking off her phone. Miriam’s son was a producer forPlated?! She rolled over fully onto her back and stared at the ceiling in disbelief. Since her failed audition for the previous season, Cierra had convinced herself that being on television wasn’t for her — being on social media was hard enough. But she wasn’t sure if it was because she stopped dreaming about it, or because the fallout the first time had been so mortifying, she closed off any chance of putting herself through that again.
A carousel of benign, humiliating moments flashed before her like a slide show. The amused way Melanie said her job was cute. Nadine’s comment about feeding the content monster. Four years of quietly hostile disappointment from Harry.
Then she pictured herself, face lightly covered in sweat, but in a way that made her look dewy and flushed. In a form-fittingapron, smiling with pride in front of a panel of well-groomed judges effusing admiration and praise. She thought of her dad’s cheerful face, and countless evenings spent in the living room, cheering on the contestants. It felt good.
With a hopeful smile, she turned onto her side, dreaming of her next moves. She would show everyone exactly what she was made of.
A buzz of fresh motivation flowed through Cierra. A producer of the top cooking competition in the nation had reached out to her.Her. On the way home from the airport, she shot a text to Julian with a wry smile and zero hesitation. Whatever had happened between her and Erik in the kitchen was probably a result of the heat of the moment, and she was eager to get her mind off it.
Cierra: Just landed. When are you free?
Putting her phone back in her pocket, she nestled herself into the crease where the backseat cushion met the car door, looking out at the bridge over Manhattan. The drive home from the airport was one of the underrated perks of New York City. Miles of glass and steel structures erupting from the ground, a testament to the titans inhabiting the island. The kind of people determined to make their mark on the world. Soon, she’d join them.
The cab bounced up and down, signaling they had turned off the highway and onto the pothole-ridden side streets of Harlem; she’d be home in no time.
And while she would normally feel exhausted after such an intensive work trip, she was already looking forward to tomorrow. After a good night's sleep, she’d make a fresh pot of coffee, sit at her table, and spend all day poring over the application. She’d tried reading through it while she was on theplane, but the overwhelming slew of information made her think it was better suited to when she was settled and could focus.
Upon arriving home, her back pocket buzzed just after tossing her purse and luggage by the door.
Julian: missed you too ;) what about tonight?
Cierra bit her lip and checked the time: not even five p.m. There was a huge art exhibition at a converted cathedral in the Upper East Side she had been wanting to visit. Everyone was going, and her social media feed had been infested with photos.
Cierra: what about the annual Botsky Art Exhibit?
Pulsing little dots persisted for about a minute on Julian’s end. For a moment, Cierra worried she had come on too strong or that her idea sucked. Both caused a spike in anxiety. But then the dots stopped, and her phone rang instead.
“Hey, Julian.”
“Hey. So uh, maybe I got a little excited before you left and already booked a couple things for tonight . . . just in case you were free and wanted to hang out . . .”
His hesitant, slightly embarrassed tone was endearing, and Cierra grinned.
“Oh yeah? What did you have in mind?”
“Well, there’s a film festival happening in Tribeca, and I got us tickets to a slot with a sci-fi theme, and then there’s a place a couple blocks from there where we could grab dinner that I’d think you’d really like. Low lighting, exposed bricks, wine-cellar, French staff who are a little mean but surprisingly informative—”
Touched by his thoughtfulness, something Harry would have never done, she had to stop herself from shrieking before responding. Her cheeks were flushed, and her feet wouldn’t stop fidgeting. The art show was now a discarded after-thought.
“It sounds great, let’s do that.”
“Whew.” He let out a nervous laugh. “I was scared you wouldn’t like it.”
“No, I love it.” At the use of the L-word, Cierra cringed internally, gritting her teeth. But Julian carried on, as if nothing was off.
“Ha, okay then. I’ll pick you up at 6:30?”
“Yeah, that’s perfect. I’ll see you soon.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JULIAN ARRIVED RIGHT on time, this time in his car, which she’d never seen: an all-black Alfa Romeo. He was leaning against his car door when a wide, hungry smile spread across his face upon Cierra coming out to meet him. She wore a cherry-red dress that had drawstrings near the bust and a cinched waist. Her hair was fully down, in a crown of coily curls that looked like a fluffy halo. Her skin had browned even more from her trip to Mexico, bringing out the richness of her cocoa-colored eyes.
