“All we had left are the ones we give to guest stars. Sorry,” she adds with a shrug that suggests she’s less than concerned. I take the apron anyway and pull it over my head, freeing my hairfrom the neck strap before I tie the strings behind my back. It fits much like a burlap sack would, too. Feeling better and better about my first and probably only brush with internet fame.
Maybe I can come up with a fake name for the video so it won’t follow me forever when anyone Googles “Reese Camden.” Better yet, if people who already know me stumble across the video, they’ll just think I have a doppelgänger.
As Benny and I wait for further direction, I notice that his apron actually looks good on him. It should, since he has to wear it every day, but does it have to lookthatgood? The off-white accentuates the tan on his muscular arms, and the muscles themselves are accentuated by the second skin that is his tight T-shirt.
I mean to look away, but my eyes catch on his, and on the cocky smirk playing over his face.Ugh.He knows he’s objectively attractive, and nowheknows thatIknow. I narrow my eyes at him, but his prideful look doesn’t falter.
“Now just relax and have fun with it,” Margie tells us. “Introduce yourselves however you want, then, Benny, why don’t you explain the scenario and kick off the rest of the show? It’s okay if it’s awkward or you fumble with words or whatnot, just keep going. We’ll edit all the extraneous stuff out later. Ready?”
No. Not even close. Those are the vaguest instructions that have ever instructioned. And I have to carry them out with a guy who, as far as I can tell, is a tool. Who thought this was a good idea?
Margie. Margie, my boss, who I very much want to like me.
“Yep!” My voice comes out as a squeak.
Benny’s gaze slides to me before he answers. “Lights, camera, action, baby.”
Okay, Spielberg. I barely curb my eye roll before Charlie the cameraman mumbles something that sounds like “That’s my line,” then starts counting down from three on his fingers.
The camera’s red light comes on.
We’re rolling.
“Hey, y’all, I’m Reese, marketing intern here at Friends of Flavor,” I say with a wave. I’m shocked that I’m even saying words. I have essentially mimicked the way my favorite Friend, Katherine, does her intro onFuss-Free Foodie.Plus a “y’all,” because I can’t help it.
“Hey, y’all,”Benny says in a high-pitched, exaggerated Southern accent. My eyes dart to him and my jaw drops, but he just laughs and eases back into his normal voice. “I’m Benny, culinary intern. We’re stepping in today because Nia and the other Friends had to run off to tend to some very important…food…things. But don’t worry: we are total nonprofessionals with very little experience, and they left us with zero direction.”
He’s good at this. Too good. I feel the instinct to clam up coming on and do my best to fight it.Channel Katherine.
“We met just a few minutes ago and he’s already making fun of how I talk,” I say. “All required ingredients in a recipe forsuccess.”
“Don’t get your petticoats in a twist, Scarlett O’Hara,” Benny shoots back. “I’m twice as rude to people I actually know. Now, let’s check out our ingredients.”
Oh, this is a game he wants to play, is it? Scarlett O’Hara? I just—I won’t even begin to engage with that. Nope. This guy is getting nothing from me. Only the minimum amount of interaction to get through this video and not make myself out to be a total bitch. And maybe afterward I’ll figure out a literary character to whom he would least like to be compared and throw it back at him. All in due time.
“Looks like we have some eggs,” I start, naming the most obvious ingredients first. “Green food coloring…flour…sugar…or maybe it’s salt, I can’t tell.”
Benny takes a pinch and tosses it in his mouth. “Sugar,” he declares, then reverts to his imitation accent and adds with a wink, “Darlin’. And some other not-yet-identifiable stuff, but from first pass, I’d guess they want us to make green eggs andham.”
I cross my arms, ignoring his cheekiness. “There’s no ham.”
“Ah, good catch. Back to the drawing board.”
“What if we—”
Before I can finish my thought, Benny plunges his fingers into the remaining bowls and licks the contents off one at a time.
“This one’s powdered sugar, not flour,” he says, then licks a different finger. “This one’s flour.”
Lick. “Vanilla”—lick—“salt”—lick—“butter,yum”—lick—“mmm, cream of tartar?”
I don’t even know what that is, let alone what it tastes like. With a flourish, he uses his clean hand to reach over and pluck a nut out of the last bowl. “Pistachio,” he declares, smiling obnoxiously at me with gross bits of green smeared across his teeth.
“Please go wash your hands,” I reply with a frown.
He turns to the sink, remarking over his shoulder, “You won’t get my cooties, Reese’s Cup.”
I roll my eyes at the camera. “We’re not at nickname levelyet.”
