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Satisfied with that much, though my thoughts clearly make no sense whatsoever, I make my way around backstage. I pass a group of my cooking school students and get pulled into the conversation before I can slide by unnoticed.
“Drew!” I’m caught in a fierce hug before I can identify who it is I’m talking to. I lean back to see one of the most regular students in my classes. If I’m honest, she’s one of my favorites.
“Mrs. Weaver,” I say, finally hugging her back. “Good to see you again. Did you compete today?”
“I did,” she said, shaking her finger at me. “Those sneaky producers know what they’re doing, eliminating more than half the competition in the first round.”
“You made a smoothie, didn’t you?” I ask with a grin.
“Of course I did,” says Mrs. Weaver. “It was the only reasonable thing to do. Who knew you could actually cook with tea?”
“I know what you mean,” I say. “But wait. If you didn’t get past the first round, how did you get backstage just now? Security’s not supposed to let you back here.”
“Pish tosh,” she says, waving a hand. “I met that nice Mr. Greeley during registration and told him all about how much I love your classes at the studio. We’d barely started talking before he gave me this pass.” She indicates the All-Access tag draped around her neck. I can just imagine my boss’s reaction in the face of all of Mrs. Weaver’s… enthusiasm. She can be persuasive when she wants something.
“As long as you’ve got a pass, you’re good to go,” I say. “I hate to run, but I have to be somewhere. Will you be back to watch the rest of the competition this weekend?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” says Mrs. Weaver. “Before you take off, I wanted to ask you why you’re leaving.”
“Excuse me?”
“One of the ladies at registration said you’re leaving Sizzle. Said you’ve decided to pursue opportunities somewhere else,” says Mrs. Weaver, putting air quotes around it and looking disappointed. “Imagine my surprise, since I just signed up for your next session.”
“Mrs. Weaver, I don’t know why they told you that, but I promise you I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” I hug her again.
“That’s a relief,” says Mrs. Weaver. “I already paid up-front.” I laugh because she wants me to and she waves me off, already calling out to talk to somebody else.
What the hell was that about? There were only six people assigned to work that registration table. I know, because I assigned them myself. As I make my way back to the winners tent, one name sticks out.
Mila Hague.
Why would she make that up? I can’t think of any reason she’d have to lie about me, least of all to one of my cooking class students. And a well-known student at that—Mrs. Weaver’s been attending classes since before I started teaching them. Practically everyone at the network knows who she is.
Whatever Mila’s motivation was, I don’t have time for it now. I have to find Bailey. If she’s really with Cooper, I’ll... I don’t know what I’ll do but it won’t be good. My neck prickles at the thought of another scene like the one at the gala, the three of us going at it again. Not that I’d want that.
Maybe in a world without consequence. Not to mention common sense, or self-preservation, or any rhyme or reason. So if you deconstruct reality completely, then I could see it happening.
Bailey and me. Or Cooper.
And Cooper.
But that’s never going to happen in this universe or the next, so I shake the insane thought from my head, furious with myself for thinking about it at all.
The winners’ tent is small by design. It’s meant to keep the competitors corralled to one space so they don’t get in the way of the staff the rest of the weekend, a security measure more than anything else. Not to mention keeping the heat in against the rapidly cooling weather. Even so, there’s a line out the door of the tent. The music’s loud, the atmosphere festive.
At first glance I don’t see Bailey or Cooper anywhere. The statuesque redhead woman I vaguely remember standing next to Bailey before the competition is chatting with a group of people near the corner, so I head that way first.
The blonde catches sight of me as I approach the group. “You looking for Bailey?” she shouts over the noise.
I nod.
“Just missed her,” says the blonde. She jerks a thumb over her shoulder to the back entry and I catch sight of Cooper’s spiky dark hair, his arm around Bailey’s waist as they shuffle their way through the crowd.
So Mila was telling the truth, at least about that part.
