The Accidental TV Star (18 page)

***

The Herrington’s home was imposing: huge, marble, chandeliers. Nothing like the suburban house Mrs. Herrington and Ashley had lived in back in Texas. The only comparable things between the two homes were the number of family photos and the amazing kitchen. The fact that I featured in a number of the photos lessened the intimidation factor. That and the kitchen. Mrs. Herrington and Ashley liked to cook too so the equipment and the layout were a dream.

Bray banged on his highchair, demanding more applesauce. I laughed and scooped some up for him. Cute kid.

Mrs. Herrington worked behind us, putting together dinner. Pot roast and vegetables. Comfort food. She’d refused to let me help, saying that when my hand healed completely, she had a ton of recipes we could do. I’d explained how I’d only be staying the one week like originally planned, but she’d brushed me off.

My ringtone sounded and this time I recognized the number. My father. I answered, “Hello?” and kept spooning up sauce for the baby.

“Hi.”

My stomach twisted with nerves. “I think I’d like to take you up on your offer. Dinner and a talk about tuition. I should be home early next week.”

“Next week?” Surprise colored my father’s voice. “That means you didn’t win.”

“I’m not allowed to say either way.”

“I can infer it.”

“We still have the wrap-up, reunion episode to film.” Not that I knew if I was invited to it.

“That’s fine. Look, it’s kind of good you had your test and you know cooking’s not going to work out for you. When you come for dinner, we can talk about some more options for majors.”

That shook me. I loved cooking. “I know my major.”

“Hard truth, Marissa, if you can’t win a cooking show, you need to be more practical. If I’m paying, I’m going to have a say in what school gets the money.”

“I’ll have to think about it. I have to go now. Bye.”

“Bye.”

The dial tone buzzed in my ear.

The baby spit some of his applesauce out and banged his fist on the table. More. I scooped up another mouthful. He sputtered, making half of it fall down his chin.

Mr. Herrington came in. He stole a carrot and kissed his wife, then Bray. The baby lifted his arms.

“Is he done eating?”

“Yeah.” I put the spoon down and wiped the baby’s face with a cool wet cloth. Bray squirmed and twisted his face away. His whole body rejected my attempts to make him clean. I ignored his protests and got his hands next. “Okay, he’s good to go.”

Mr. Herrington lifted him, and the baby who’d been grinning at me for thirty minutes as I fed him, clung to his father as if he’d been rescued from a dungeon. Ungrateful little beast. Good thing he was cute.

Mr. Herrington nodded to the doorway and raised his eyebrows at me. “Got a second to see some clips? I want your opinion on them.”

“Sure.” I rose to my feet and looked at Mrs. Herrington.

“You go on, dear. I’ll get this in the oven and join you.”

Mr. Herrington breathed in. “How much longer?”

“An hour.”

“Okay.” He jiggled the baby and led me into the study. His home office looked standard: desk, chairs. The one gigantic anomaly was the large screen TV on the wall.

Mr. Herrington grabbed the remote and cued up to a channel. He hit play.

On screen, Garrett sat across from an interviewer. He wore a white shirt, dark slacks, and shiny loafers. He looked polished, professional, gorgeous. I sank into a chair.

The video kicked on, clearly midstream.

“So the life of a movie star,” the interviewer said. “Is it truly party all day?”

“Day and night,” Garrett said.

Oh, Garrett. I glanced at Mr. Herrington and told him a portion of Garrett’s crazy schedule. “Garrett runs every morning and works eight to twelve hours, five days a week.”

Mr. Herrington nodded. He knew what a shooting schedule was like.

“How will this latest controversy, the rumors, affect your new release,
Haven Hill
? Will the audience come out and see it? Or will they believe the no show, no training, Garrett hates acting, rumors?”

Garrett held out his hands. “The fans know acting means the world to me. My girlfriend Marissa knows.”

I bit my lip.

The reporter leaned in, but she didn’t ask him about the depth of his career devotion or the lies or Karla. “Marissa from
Scoop Out
?”

“Aye.”

“Does the food she cooks taste as good as it looks on TV?”

“Better.” His eyes glowed, the same glow he got when I prepared a special dessert or kissed him. “She’s amazing.”

I rubbed a hand over my face.

The reporter reached over and rubbed her hand on his bicep. She looked at the camera. “I can put your mind at ease, fans. Garrett definitely hasn’t been skipping his workouts.”

Mr. Herrington paused the image.

I wanted to protest, to see if Garrett said anything else about me, and to see when that reporter got her hands off of him.

Mr. Herrington said, “That’s how you conduct an interview. You focus on the star’s strengths and you mention as many studio shows as possible.” He hit info and read the reporter’s name. “Macey Garcia.” Next, he went to menu and pulled up a
Tween In
segment. “Have you seen this?”

“
Tween In
? Yes.”

“Someone has let this reporter, this Karla Quintos, get out of hand.”

Karla came on. “It’s been rumored that Garrett won’t be at his own premiere. I’m not saying the words
European Studio
, but I have heard them around. Email me, and say how you feel about that. Thanks for tuning into
Tween In
. I’m Karla Quintos and you’re in the know.”

“She’s talking about one of
our
films. She’s forgetting who she works for, biting the hand that feeds her.” He exited the video. “Every year there’s a problem studio and this year its Studio Three. I don’t know what’s going on over there. Animal attacks. Sara Sims not showing up for work. Now this reporter thinks she can trash my film.”

“Garrett goes to work, and Ms. Sims shows up, just late.” I didn’t try to defend Karla.

“Sara didn’t show today. They’re moving the finale until tomorrow.”

Hope sprang through my chest, easing the tightness. “Really?” I sprang up. “Really?” Bray started to babble at my high-pitched response. “Thank you, Mr. Herrington, I’m so sorry I missed the taping this morning.”

“Well, you’ll be there tomorrow. Mrs. Herrington will see to it.”

Mrs. Herrington called from the hall. “Marissa, honey, you have a guest.”

I hurried out to her, my steps lighter, my heart lighter. I hugged her. “Finale tomorrow.”

She grinned at me and pointed through the lead crystal doors in the foyer. I saw a Land Rover parked outside. Garrett. I headed out and down the white marble steps that led to the driveway.

Garrett stood there, leaning against his passenger door. He was holding my studio badge.

“A movie star for a courier. Now, I know I’ve made it.” I took the badge from him. “Thanks. It appears I’ll need this for the finale after all.”

“I knew they’d wait.”

My smile wavered. I didn’t.

He glanced behind me. I knew what he was seeing, the Herrington’s mansion. “Nice house.”

“Yeah. Ashley said her Mom put in all the roses and the arbors. The grounds are as nice as the house.” I focused on the mundane to avoid the earthquake in the yard. “So big weekend for both of us. The
Scoop Out
finale tomorrow for me. Saturday, your premiere and the press.”

“Aye. I’ll meet all the old cast in the morning and they’ll give us a rundown on expected questions. The PR department prepped answers for each of us.” Garrett’s eyes rose heavenward. “As if we can’t think of our own response.”

I thought it was a good move on the studio’s part. Not everyone had his fondness for words. I looked at his jeans and un-tucked blue button down. “Like, what are you wearing? That’s easy. It’s a kilt. From Scotland.”

“And stuff like, ‘Did you expect a turnout like this?’ Then they’ll give us answers for either way. If huge, I’ll say, ‘
Oh yes, we knew this would be a hit with Russell directing
.’ Or the more likely scenario given Karla’s crap, is that I’ll have to say, ‘
Oh yes, we knew this would appeal to a select fan base. But once the audience has a chance to see Russell’s efforts, I believe the numbers will surprise you.’
” He looked at me and his tone grew more serious. “You’ll be there, right?”

“Of course.” I held up the badge. “Put my name on the list, and this will get me in.” I noted that the lanyard was damp and ran the strap through my fingers. “What happened to it?”

‘It may have gotten wet.” Garrett’s gaze shifted away. “Nice garden. Fair amount of upkeep, unless Mr. Herrington imports wee other worldly creatures to till the soil and plant the roses. The size alone implies magic or a force such as which we’ve never seen. The purple ones are a color driven purely from the mists of some ancient—”

“You threw it in the fishbowl, didn’t you? By Karla’s article.”

“Umm. Maybe, my temper may have not been in the best position when you left.”

“How am I the Karla in this?” My voice rose.

Garrett’s eyes widened at my tone and he didn’t answer.

“I want to know.”

“I dug it back out.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t hide the sarcasm.

Garrett straightened and his voice lost its teasing edge. “I want you back, Marissa.”

I freed my lip from my teeth. “You’ll find another chef.”

“Not as a chef. As my girlfriend.” He paused. “And as my chef. At least to make desserts sometimes. And dinner.”

I wrapped my arms around my waist. “It won’t work, Garrett.”

“I know I screwed up last night.” Garrett tightened his fists. “It never should have happened. I shouldn’t have let that woman in my house.”

“Karla’s not your fault. But I can’t afford these kinds of mistakes. I can’t afford to live here and I won’t live off my friends or date my boss. That’s just wrong.” I licked my lips so I could finish the rest. “I’m going home next week. To Texas. And the long distance thing just doesn’t work.”

His head jerked. “You’re not leaving until summer’s end.”

“Yeah, I am. After the finale and the reunion show, I’ll stay another week, visit with Ashley and her family, then go home.”

“Marissa, you’re going to win the finale tomorrow. Are you saying you won’t take the job at Sara Sims’ restaurant? You won’t get a flat here?”

“Win. There’s a big
if
there.”

“And
if
you win?”

“I’d take it and transfer to college in California.”

“You could take another job here,” Garrett said. “Transfer schools anyway.”

“I can’t afford California. Or out of state tuition. I won’t live off you guys.”

Garrett stood there silent a moment, then said, “You asked me something once. You said, ‘What do you see when you see me?’ When I gave you the answer before it wasn’t complete.” He touched my cheek. “I see lots of things. You’re not a quitter. When you can’t get a recipe right, you keep digging in. Then you test on me for confirmation. When I pick the right one, I see that
got it
, satisfied expression on your face. I love that look. My favorite expression has nothing to do with cooking though. When you see something that hits you as funny, your eyes sparkle like fire that glows green and your mouth curves. I know your observation’s coming and it’ll make me laugh or see the world differently. I want that sparkle and that satisfied look around me, all the time.”

I dropped my arms and stepped closer to him. The dry cool air of California wrapped around me with his words.

“I want you to cook for me. Not only the perfect dishes, but the wildly inventive and bizarre dishes too. I want you to watch me try them, waiting intently, like you care about my opinion. I want you to watch movies with me and admire the actors and look at me with those same admiring eyes.” He closed the distance between us. “I see someone I want around. I want you close. I want to kiss you and touch you and watch your emerald eyes brighten, and then I want to touch you until I’m aching and dying and want to kiss you again. You. Marissa. I want you.”

I felt overwhelmed by his reply and the reality of my situation. I wanted him too. I crossed my arms back around my waist so I wouldn’t reach for him.

“What do you see when you see me?” Garrett asked.

“Loyal. Steady. Dedicated. Sincere. Talented. Passionate. Hot.”

“Okay, but one more point in my favor.” He moved closer, cradled my face between his palms and lowered his lips to mine. He kissed me, a slow sexy kiss. I put my arms around his waist and Garrett raised his head. “Do you think everyone has that?”

No. I’d kissed Evan much longer, much more thoroughly, but had never felt such a connection as this. I shook my head.

Garrett arched his eyebrows.

I didn’t want to talk. I wanted him to kiss me again. I wanted to press against him. I wanted his hands on me so I wouldn’t think.

As I remained mute, his green eyes stared into mine. “Are you going to give us a chance?”

If I’m here
. My hands clenched and I forced my gaze away. “I guess it all rests on the finale.”

***

No matter how cold they had Studio Three today, I didn’t care. I was working hard, using the speed and efficiency I’d learned from the Fry Hut. My intensity kept me warm. I stood at my preparation table rolling out fondant for the top tier of my wedding cake while keeping an eye on the countdown clock and my competition.

Will had created a formal square wedding cake: grey icing, black ribbon. It appeared oddly sophisticated, but no bride in her right mind would want it. She’d want my cake: ice white fondant, whimsical blown sugar violets, tiny edible white crystals.

“Two minutes, contestants,” Sara Sims said.

Focus. I ignored the pain in my hand and picked up my pace. I had to get the last tier on the dowels and place the cake topper. I’d spent four hours last night carving a white chocolate bride and groom, detailing them with icing. Now was their time. I placed the topper and brushed the whole piece with shimmer powder. When the last curve was dusted, I sank onto my stool. Whew! Love it or hate it, I’d given my all to this project. I breathed out and allowed myself to look at the front of the room.