CHAPTER 1
Nothing ruins a good mood like the hypnotic lull of your ex-boyfriend’s world-famous voice. Especially when you recognize that distinct Aussie accent over the Christmas song you were singing along with.
Someone in the studio is watching Channel Foodie’sCulinary King, and I know exactly who that someone is—my work bestie and shameless traitor, Nellie.
I clench my jaw and chop the cilantro with fresh aggression. "Nellie…"
"I'm turning it down,” Nellie hollers, “I'm turning it down.” She’s seated in the studio living room, which sits just off the kitchen where I film my live cooking segments.
I shake my head and finish chopping the herbs. “It hasn’t even been a year since the breakup. Can’t you at least wait and drool over him when I’m not around?”
Nellie hurries into the kitchen. "I thought the volume was low enough, so kill me."
I scrape the chopped greens into the bowl with the gleaming knife blade. "Don't tempt me." Honestly, I have bat ears where Jude’s voice is concerned. I could recognize that husky tone, rich with that knee-weakening accent anywhere.
Mr. Bruce strides in wearing one of his holiday sweater vests with a matching bowtie. "Hey, Ginger, would you mind meeting me in my office?"
My stomach threatens to bounce into the blender. “Sure,” I squeak. “I’ll be right there.”
Nellie gasps and follows me to the sink. “I bet it’s about the position. You better get it overBratty Patty. That bleep can’t even cook.”
I ignore thebleepthing; Nelly’s doing a Don’t-Swear-December Challenge. I dry my hands and release a shaky breath. I’m more qualified than Patty; everyone at the station knows it, but since Patty has aCorporate Daddy—she’s got the advantage.
“Wish me luck,” I say as I hurry toward the hall.
“Good luck. Wait,” Nellie adds.
I stop and glance back, hoping she’ll calm my nerves.
She cups her mouth. “Ask if the elves spun today’s sweater from mystical thread.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop it.”
I take the corridor, recalling the way Jude used to encourage me before an audition. ‘You’ve got this, Lady G. Make ‘em melt.’
The accompanying image that floats to mind is high-broil hot. Those deep brown eyes, that glint of mischief, the trademark quirk of his lip, present in every gif or meme that features him.‘Who’s ready to get saucy?’
He’s mastered an expression that makes him look like he’s got a secret you’d do anything to uncover.
Bruce Nancy, who prefers Mr. Bruce over the alternative, is at his desk when I walk in. His sweaters habitually feature cats; today’s holiday theme is his favorite breed: hairless felines with sunken faces, pointy ears, and freakish eyes. Tiny elf hats rest wobbly on their shriveled heads.
I shiver. “You’re outdoing yourself with the matching bowtie.”
He grins. “Looks like my little Jinxy, doesn’t it?”
“Yep.” I hope my expression reads admiring more than repulsed. I don’t know what all the fuss is about with the hairless cat craze. It’s like someone took a stuffed animal, shaved off the fuzz, sucked the life out of it with a vacuum hose, then shoved pipe cleaners into its limbs.
Mr. Bruce sniffs. “Is that cilantro I smell?”
“It is,” I say. “Low carb quesadillas with pot roast. I made a double batch.”
“I can’t wait. There’s no turmeric in them, is there?”
I shake my head. On Halloween, I added turmeric to my ghost chili, and Mr. Bruce sampled some before the live segment. His face swelled so badly he barely looked human.
“No turmeric,” I say. “I know now to warn you.”
“Atta girl.” He inspects the papers on his desk. “Now, about theGet Cookin’position with Channel Foodie…”
