Nellie glances about the set before pinning her blue eyes on mine. “You suck under pressure.”
I choke out a laugh and yank my arm back. “Thanks a lot.”
“Don’t act like you don’t know.”
“Idoknow,” I assure her. “I was just talking to Mr. Bruce about it. He’s coming to test out the recipes, too.”
Nellie’s face hardens. “Good. We’re going to make darn…tootin’…sure you get this job over her.”
“Thank you,” I say, pulling her into a hug. “You’re the best. You know that?”
“Ofcourse,I know,” she says. “Now hurry and get ready. I can’t wait for those quesadillas.”
At the counter, I fetch another bunch of cilantro to chop during the segment. “I think this no-swearing thing is turning you sort of country,” I mention.
“How do you mean?”
I shoot Nellie a look. “Darn tootin’?”
“It’s a thing.” Her face turns thoughtful. “I wonder if Jude knows you’re auditioning.”
My eyes bulge because I can’t believe she brought him up so casually. “Nellie…”
“Iknowyou don’t like talking about him, but let’s face it—he’s a great connection. He could put in a good word. Plus, you’ll practically be working together if you get this job.”
I crack out a humorless laugh. “We will not. I’ll be shooting the segment down the hall; Jude never steps foot in this building.”
It’s not rare for production companies to share studio space, but unlikeWhat’s Cookin’, Jude’s show is shot from his own penthouse in a second kitchen—identical to the main—built strictly for recording. It’s gorgeous, of course—all marble and copper and warmth. I know just how it smells after he’s bakedmy favorite dessert—pavlova with freshly whipped cream and bright sliced kiwi.
I can hear the instrumental theme song now, regal brass, since he is, after all, the Culinary King. The opening scene features a balcony view of Virginia Beach’s shimmering horizon before panning to the warmly lit kitchen where Jude glares at his fast-working fingers on the chopping board. He glances up, his chiseled face softening the slightest bit, and flashes a wink that makes hearts go weak and gooey with desire.
I haven’t watched Jude’s show since the breakup, though it’s impossible to avoid it altogether. Jude Sting is Virginia Beach’s local celeb, which means it’s not uncommon to walk into a small café and find his show playing.
When Nellie drops the topic, I assume she knows it’s best if Idon’treach out.
Inwardly, I wish she could’ve talked me into it.
CHAPTER 3
Iconcoct three ginger cookie recipes incorporating trendy food items. I try Greek yogurt in one, avocados in another, and for the final batch, I try incorporating a vanilla protein drink into the dough.
I feel myself working on autopilot.
It’s like that for me in the kitchen. I know ingredients—flavors, textures, and the properties that help or hinder a dish. I know which ingredients are best friends and which are mortal enemies. I even know how to makesomeenemies play nice with just the right balance or twist.
But not today. For some reason, everything I know is absent, and I’m a bumbling beginner at a bake-off. Sure, I panic under pressure. I realize that’s probably all this is, but my inner voice says I’ve lost the magic for good.
It's the same voice that keeps replaying Nellie's suggestion that I reach out to Jude. I’m not considering it, but the mere idea makes my insides split wide open; I’m so desperate to piece myself back together that I don’t have space for anything else.
I sample the cookies before my company arrives. The one with Greek yogurt is a six out of ten. I’m not surprised. I bite into the avocado one next. The texture turned out all right, butthe greenish-brown tint is less than appealing, and it needs…something. My eyes go wide as I recognize exactly what it needs. “I forgot the salt?” I shout incredulously over the Christmas tunes. “Huh. I might as well go back to my eighth-grade foods class at this point.”
I bite into the last one, which is also the prettiest since I dunked half in dark chocolate before sprinkling crushed candy canes over the top. Sadly, it’s the worst one yet. I shiver. “Three out of ten.”
I toss the cookie in the trash and, since I’m already talking to myself, make a random declaration that evenIdon’t see coming. “I’m checking his profile.”
A rush of adrenaline surges through me as I grab my phone, open the social media app, and typeJude Stinginto the search bar. I’m not sure what’s gotten into me; I’ve resisted this urge for four-and-a-half months. The last time I looked was on August 3rd, Jude’s birthday. He’d been tagged by his mother in a trip to Sydney—a trip I’d been planning to go on too.
I hesitate as I stare at the search bar. Do I really want to do this? I know I’ll be stuck on clean-up duty—desperately working to flush the new Jude details out of my head.
