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Maybe I should ask to be set up with someone too. Anything to take my mind off Jessie.
Celia’s eyes land on me and light up. “I’ll email you the details,” she says into the phone. “I’ve got to go.” She glances down to end the call and when she looks up, there’s a wolfish smile on her face. “Nic.”
I freeze, coffee at my lips, my brain screaming to drop the mug and run.
Celia turns to Amanda. “The kitchen looks good on him, don’t you think? Sexy.”
Amanda snorts. “Mom. Settle down.”
She rolls her eyes. “The flour on those forearms, a little on the stomach. That dark, broody scowl. He’d be a fantastic cohost.”
“No,” I say, taking a sip of coffee. Did she put Bailey’s on her cereal this morning? I’d be an awful cohost.
Celia grins. “He’s Nigella. Oozes kitchen sex appeal.”
Amanda wrinkles her nose but turns to me, apologetic. “She’s gone full cougar. Run.”
I laugh. Celia says a lot of stuff, but she’s never given off cougar vibes.
“Here.” She hands Amanda her phone. “Take a video of us.”
I straighten as she comes around the island. “You know this will have to go through my team before you throw it online.”
Celia ignores that, her eyebrows knitting together as she tousles my hair. “Undo that button on your Henley,” she says, dipping into the butler’s pantry. After sharing a brief shrug with Amanda, I do as instructed and pop the button. Celia comes back with Jessie’s frilly purple unicorn apron, tossing it over my head.
“Do I look like Nigella?” I ask Amanda, holding my arms out.
“Put a sultry look on your face, talk about chocolate with a husky voice like it’s sex, and you’re golden.” Amanda advises.
I tug at the apron, suddenly self-conscious. No one would want to watch me cohost a cooking show. Unless I was clad in leather and glaring at predetermined fixed points on set.
Celia drops the rested rough puff dough and more frozen shredded butter on the island. “I need a sexy cohost for a show we’re developing. We’ve been looking at some of these young hotshot chefs—”
“The Colton Craigs of the world.” Amanda interjects.
Prick. I accept the rolling pin from Celia. Colton Craig’s face could benefit from a good, solid thwack of a rolling pin. Five years ago, he hit it off with Jessie at the Christmas Eve Folly. The last time I saw her before this holiday, she was walking upstairs with him.
Celia nods at Amanda as she continues, “—but they’re all about ego. We want to go more in an ‘everyday, sustainable, ethically-sourced, and affordable’ direction. Big flavors, smaller budget, shopping by season, traditional skills, et cetera. But chemistry. We need it to come through, especially for a younger audience. Unfortunately, these young bucks are all a bunch of inaccessible hipsters who think they should call the shots on my project. The assholes.”
I laugh, offering her the rolling pin. “Do you need to hit something? Make a graham cracker crust for a cheesecake?” Pulverize Colton Craig’s face so I don’t have to?
She laughs, pushing it back at me. “Shut up and roll. Anyway, I’m wondering if we should consider a new direction.”
“Huh.” Amanda smiles, phone in hand, presumably recording as I roll out the dough. “Warwick’s bulging muscles as he rolls out rough puff in a frilly apron with a sexy look on his face. I can see the appeal.”
She’s overestimating my appeal. I place the first portion of butter on the lower two-thirds of the rectangle I rolled out, folding it in thirds before turning it. Roll, fold, turn. More butter. Roll, fold, turn.
Celia keeps talking, asking me questions, a dry run for her show that makes thinking about anything other than what I’m doing impossible. Eventually, I relax into the easy banter. She’s grinning when she takes the dough from me and places it in the freezer.
I am too.
“I’ll talk to the higher-ups,” she says. “Show them the video if I have to, and see what they think about ditching the trendy chef in favor of a sexy celebrity to pair with the smoking hot, far more accomplished—and experienced—lady chef.” Celia fluffs her hair, giving me an exaggerated wink.
I cross my arms and lean against the island. “I do have a job, you know.” As much as I don’t like it, I already know I won’t leave it. Not for an uncertain future on a show that probably won’t make it past the first season.
Celia throws a dishcloth at me. “It doesn’t have to be you. We could take some muscle-head from a reality show. Or some former professional athlete. Or we could make it a guest spot. But, honey”—she pauses to rest her hand lightly on my arm for a few seconds—“you know I’d welcome you into any of my kitchens, anytime.”
“Video looks pretty good.” Amanda gets to her feet. “Mind if I show Hazel? She can give it a light edit.”
