But it’s more of a struggle by the day. He’s just sonice,so consistent and clear in his intentions, in the fact that he enjoys my company and wants to know me better. The feeling is mutual, but I’m still too afraid of everything I have to lose if I give in to it. So I continue to roll my eyes at his flirtiest efforts, hoping it hides how, little by little, I’m melting into the Puddle of Goo Formerly Known as Reese.
Still riding the high of the logo and the break fromAmateur Hourfilming, I’m feeling good when it’s time to make our next episode. So good that I’m not even especially bothered by my lack of any damn clue as to how to make soft pretzels. I think that whoever planned this “challenge” thought that Benny and I would get creative with gourmet toppings or special flavors, but they didn’t count on basic pretzel dough being its own challenge for me.
I was able to come up with something somewhat doughlike and semi-pretzel-shaped, but it ain’t pretty. My ugly dough babies are baking in one of the ovens right now, and Benny’s just put his in—after fishing them out of some boiling water concoction; since when do you boil baked goods?—so Charlie pauses filming and we start to relax.
Until Aiden marches onto the scene. “Reese, can I speak with you for a moment?”
My brows lift in surprise, but I nod.
“I already know you’re winning this one, but at least make sure those don’t catch fire, please,” I say to Benny as I follow Aiden into the hallway.
“I’m gonna need you to be a little nicer on camera,” Aiden announces without preamble, before we’ve even come to a stop.
My head jerks back involuntarily. “Um. Be nicer?”
“Mm-hmm.” He nods like this isn’t strange or awkward or in earshot of most of the office. “Had a conference call with the suits. Feedback is you’re too b—er, mean. Intense. People think you aren’t cheery or perky enough, or nice enough to Benny, and it’s off-putting. They like your look, but they want you to smile more, try to appear a little upbeat, more energized. Perky. Like Benny, but feminine.”
I make a noise of pure disbelief, but try to cover it with a cough. Off-putting?Smile more?Perky? And I am 90 percent sure he was about to say “bitchy” before he stopped himself.
“I told them you could manage,” Aiden says, giving my shoulder a go-get-’em-champ pat. But he can’t help but ask, “Am I right?”
I nod wordlessly, because what else am I supposed to do when confronted with this kind of feedback? Ask for specific dialogue recommendations? Other directions so that I meet expectations? Clarify whether ever-serious Katherine has been given such directions before, or quiet, subdued Seb?
But I don’t have the chance, as Aiden marches into the kitchen and I follow in a daze.
Benny leans in and catches my gaze. “Everything okay, blondie?”
I shake my head and give him a withering look for thenot-so-endearing endearment. Then I check myself—be nicer, happier—and try to turn my expression into something at least neutral, if not pleasant, smiling and offering a less-than-believable, “Fine!”
I’m embarrassed to have been given a talking-to, even though I think it was for a stupid reason, and I worry that it’s a sign of worse thoughts the suits have about me. That they wish I was more like my costar in every way—i.e. male—but this was the only criticism they could acceptably say aloud. This is definitely a point in the Benny column. Which, with my omelet win and Benny’s imminent pretzel victory, brings us toBenny—3, Reese—2.
My oven beeps with the arbitrary time I set, bringing the conversation to a halt as Charlie sets the cameras up to start filming again. I bring my non-pretzels out to cool, but my mind is still reeling even as I try extra hard to paste on a smile. I feel my pulse pounding, the beginnings of a headache coming on. I thought I was keeping up so well—learning more around the kitchen every day and holding my own onAmateur Hour.It was the furthest thing from my mind, whether I looked happy enough while doing it. Because Iwashappy.Amhappy.
I think.
It’s hard to tell what my real feelings are anymore, as I focus intently on the arrangement of my every facial expression and gesture, the tone of my voice, the brightness of my smile.
Benny’s laugh brings me back to the moment as he gives me some deserved but still good-natured ribbing. I’ve ended up with what are essentially dinner rolls that tried to dress as pretzels for Halloween. Benny’s, meanwhile, are mall-food-court-level perfection. Apparently the boiling part—plus baking soda—is what gives pretzels their tough, dark brown exterior. Add that to the ever-growing list of things I didn’t know that I didn’t know about cooking.
I try to seem like a good sport about the loss, since this really isn’t what’s upsetting me today. By the time we’ve wrapped up, I’ve let out enough nervous chuckles that I probably sound like a broken Tickle Me Elmo. Benny can clearly tell something’s up, and he pulls me aside before I can run and hide in my marketing corner for the rest of the day.
“Hey, no hard feelings about the pretzels, okay? Your weird-shaped dinner rolls were bomb. Ten out of ten would serve at Thanksgiving.”
That gets a genuine, if small, laugh out of me. “It’s fine—I had no chance on this one.”
“Everything else okay, then?” His expression is soft, his eyes concerned and searching mine.
I cross my arms over my chest, discreetly tucking my clammy palms against my sides. “Yep, all good. Just, uh, been a long day.”
My voice comes out less steady than I’d prefer and I’m fighting a chin wobble with everything in me. Benny frowns, stepping a bit closer and softening his voice even further.
“You’re not a very good liar, Reese’s Cup. You know you can talk to me, right?”
Squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, I summon all my strength to lock the feelings down. Then I give Benny my most serene, no-really-everything’s-fine look, because you know what? Things could be a lot worse. I can buck up and smile more if that’s what they want, and pretend to be the fun, easygoing girl that I’m not. I can do my best to avoid Aiden, until I don’t feel so much like biting his head off, and eventually my bruised ego will heal.
“I appreciate that,” I answer, because it’s true. “But I don’t need to today.”
“Well, the offer stands.” He looks sincere, but I can see the hint of a sardonic smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “The offer to talk about your problems. Or to share our hopes and dreams, or hang out platonically or not so platonically, or really just about whatever you need, any time. You know where to find me.”
