“Yes. At least I used to be.”
“And they’re letting you go because you don’t have television experience?”
She blinked. Damn! He’d gone too far.
Her expression turned guarded. “Do you make a habit of eavesdropping on others’ conversations?”
“Sorry. I didn’t have much choice. Couldn’t get past you and your pal.”
She glanced back at the street. “Whoever you are, this isn’t a good time. I just want to get out of here, go home and fall apart.”
“Looks like you’ve already started that last part.”
“Cut the counseling act. I don’t want anything from anyone right now.” She resumed her attempt to snare a cab. Almost as an afterthought, she added, “Unless you’re here to offer me another job?”
“Although I sense sarcasm, as a matter of fact, that’s why I followed you.” He extended a hand as she jerked her head around to stare at him. “I’m Nick Coltrane. I host a cooking show called
And He Cooks Too
—the executive producer’s title, not mine. Ever heard of us?”
She studied him a moment. “I don’t watch much television.”
He moved a little closer. “Even if you did, you’d be hard-pressed to find us. We’re on a local cable channel.”
Geez, Nick, can you make it sound any less enticing?
“But we’ve built up a respectable following.”
She didn’t respond. But she didn’t dismiss him either as she kept scanning the street.
“Can’t offer you anything in front of the camera,” he went on. Couldn’t offer her anything period, since only Leonie and Jasper, their supervising producer slash director, did the hiring. But that was beside the point at the moment. “We do need a production assistant, though. Probably doesn’t pay as much as the job you just left, but it would add television experience to your resume. Sounds like you’re going to need that to stay competitive.”
“How do I know you’re for real?” she asked, her eyes narrowed. “You could have invented that story just to pick me up.”
He waggled an eyebrow, attempting to lighten the situation. Like he could. The woman had just quit her job and her former boss had threatened retaliation. “Any guy in his right mind would consider that possibility, but the offer’s legit.” He pulled a card from his tailored black Hugo Boss jacket. “Here, take this. Watch the show. This gives the time and channel.”
She took the card. “This doesn’t mean I’m interested. I’m being polite, which is about all the civility I have left.”
“Got it,” he replied, stifling an amused grin.
“Like you overheard back there, I expect people to mean what they say. This had better not be a scam.”
He did the thing with his eyebrow again, attempting to reassure her. “Don’t worry. I’m bona fide.” He stepped into the street and stuck his arm in the air. Least he could do for the lady in distress. An approaching cab screeched to a stop in front of them. The female driver behind the wheel smiled seductively at him.
“My friend here will give you the address.” He turned back to the unemployed chef. “Hey, wait. I need your name and number.”
She stared at him a moment. “Reese. Reese Dunbar.” She let down her guard enough to give him her cell phone number as well.
He took her hand, just for a fraction of a second, but that’s all it took. A reckless charge of electricity coursed up his arm on its way to other parts of his body. Uh oh.
Watch yourself, Nick
. “Nice to meet you, Reese.” He opened the back door of the cab and tucked her in. “Take care. Things are going to get better. Especially if you sign on with us.”
****
“Blacklisted! I’m being blacklisted in the city’s top restaurants, Mom. I thought I’d never live down the scandal when I learned that Henri Pellier was married. And now, thanks to that lying creep, Louis Fronton, my career’s in trouble again.”
From her home out in Connecticut, Maureen Grandquist said, “You’ve barely been job hunting a week. Why do you think you’re being blacklisted?”
“When none of the places I contacted would even talk to me, I called some friends who own a food market downtown. Georgio and Lucia are privy to gossip from some of the best eating places in town. They told me he’s saying I couldn’t work with the other staff. That I pulled a major tantrum and walked out in the middle of service.”
Silence filled the airspace. “Uh, didn’t you more or less do that?”
“Under duress! I had just discovered that my boss was a lying wimp.” The mere thought of Louis’ dishonesty ignited her blood. “I know, I shouldn’t have given in to my anger. Probably not the wisest thing I’ve ever done.”
Her mother left that alone. “What are you going to do? Take him to court?”
“Already considered and rejected that idea. I couldn’t win. Drawing attention to my dispute with Louis would only appear to confirm his charges.” With a hitch in her voice, she added, “I’m not sure what to do, Mom. That’s why I called you. My plan to become Super Chef in the next few years is in shreds.”
“Maybe you should take a break from that career plan? You’ve set such lofty expectations for yourself, trying to live up to your father’s success.”
Not this argument again
.
“Not
live up to
his success, Mom. Pay tribute to him. Celebrate the name that came so close to superstardom.” She probably should’ve told her mom why she was so driven to become the city’s super chef. Still too ashamed. Maybe someday but not yet.
“Fine. But you don’t have to get there by the same age he was when he died. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”
Subject change needed. “Back to my current situation, what should I do?” Did that come out like a whine?
“O-kay,” her mother replied tentatively. After a bit, she suggested, “Why not call that TV chef? The one that followed you from the restaurant and offered you a job?”
“That Nick guy? I only told you about him because I thought his proposition was a hoot.”
“That was then. Now, it’s a different story. You need a job, and his seems to be the only one on the table at the moment.”
Surely her mother was kidding? Taking that job would be such a step down career-wise. If word got around that she’d become a production assistant on a local cooking show, it would annihilate what was still left of her professional reputation.
“Even long distance, I can sense you turning up your nose,” her mother surmised. “Before it goes too high, think of it this way—you’d be diversifying your experience. Making yourself more marketable.”
“You actually made that preposterous idea sound logical.”
“You could call it cutting edge culinary training. Let other chefs cook or sleep their way to the top, like that woman who got your job. You’d simply be taking a different path.”
“I appreciate the humor. I needed a laugh today.”
“Hey, wait! I was serious.”
“Television’s not my thing,” she said, dismissing the idea. “But you did get me to thinking. Maybe I could use my cooking skills in another venue. At least until this current embarrassment dies down.”
“Like…?”
“Like sign on as some billionaire’s personal chef. Or take up catering.”
“As long as you’d enjoy yourself. But promise me one thing. Watch that show first.”
“Oh, all right.” Anything to get her mother off the topic.
But viewing the show wasn’t a priority. It wasn’t until the next day, bored enough to clean out her purse, that she discovered the business card. According to the copy on it, the weekly episode aired in thirty-five minutes. She shrugged. How copasetic. Why not?
On the tube, he appeared to be holding court in the set designer’s idea of a bachelor’s urban kitchen. “Bachelor’s,” because it lacked any frills and was decorated in a palette of grays and blacks. “Urban,” because the window over a stainless steel double sink at the back featured a backdrop of the nighttime Manhattan skyline.
His blue oxford cloth shirt emphasized great shoulders and pecs. And accentuated incredible dark blue eyes. Mesmerizing blue eyes, like the depth of the ocean.
Watch the show, Reese. Not the man.
Nonetheless, the guy really was a hunk.
That’s probably what brings in the audience. All female, I bet.
But he was too good looking with his perfectly-trimmed black hair and male model chiseled face. No man could be trusted, but this one, with looks like that, even less.
Pretty one-dimensional. Just Nick Coltrane solo, preparing a meal. But the camera really liked him. She had to admit, there was a certain charm about him that said, “Difficult to prepare, yes, but if I can do it, so can you.”
Appealing manner. Great looks. But those didn’t change her mind about the job offer. Other than earning a pittance of a paycheck, no benefit in joining the outfit.
She reached for her remote to end the program and any further consideration of becoming part of
And He Cooks Too
. Then the credits ran. Leonie McCutcheon, executive producer. Could it be the same sought-after caterer she’d heard so much about? It had to be. That name was too distinct for there to be more than one. She’d never met the woman. Only heard of her by reputation from fellow culinary students and various patrons.
Catering. Her mother hadn’t taken her seriously when she’d mentioned it as a possible new career direction. Realistically, it probably wasn’t such a great idea, since she wasn’t equipped financially to start her own business. But, if she could team up with an established entity, that was different. In fact, it was reason enough to change her mind about that job in order to make the connection. Why not give it a couple months—that’s all the time she could spare in her grand plan—and see what she could work out with the caterer?
She retrieved the business card from the garbage can. “Okay, Nick Coltrane. It’s your lucky day.”
She got him on the third ring. “Is that offer to work on your show still open?”
Pause on the other end. “Sure is. Does this mean you’re interested?”
“If we can work out a deal.”
“This could be exactly what you need to bolster your career.”
“It can’t hurt your show either with one more chef on board.”
“Yeah, uh, that. Remember, this a production assistant job. Not a chef’s job. In fact, until folks get to know you, it would be better if we kept that detail just between us.”
“Excuse me?” Was that a small red flag going up?
“You okay with that?”
“Absolutely not! That’s what I do. Who I am.” She’d raised her voice. Better watch that. She didn’t have the job yet.
“Here’s the thing. The executive producer is very budget-conscious. Even if we’re paying you as a PA, we don’t want her to get nervous.”
“Leonie McCutcheon doesn’t know I’ve been hired?”
“You’ve done some research since we met. Good sign. But you, uh, won’t be reporting to Leonie. Not directly, anyhow. Jasper Walters, the supervising producer and director, will be your boss. Show up next Friday.”
“Oh.” She’d hoped for a closer relationship with the caterer. “When can I see the contract?”
“Only the on-air talent—me—has a contract.”
Was that typical? Though this low-paying job was only temporary, until she’d regained her cred with the top restaurants in town, she needed to safeguard her continued employment. “It’s just that, well, you heard me with my former boss. Promises were made and then broken. That can’t happen again.”
“Sorry. No promises.”
“Except a job. And television experience.”
“Well, yeah.”
“What about hours and pay?”
“Probably should have gone into those immediately.” He laid those out for her. “Doable?”
Doable? Yes. Desperate circumstances called for desperate actions. Desirable? God no. “The pay leaves a lot to be desired, but I knew that. However, the hours are shorter than I’m used to. And, it won’t be forever.”
Another pause. “You do plan to stick around awhile?”
“Awhile.” No need to let him know her plans.
“How long?”
“No specific time period. I thought I’d see how things worked out first. I’ve built up a small rainy day fund that will support my reduced salary but not forever.”
“You know, that promise thing goes both ways. We need to know we can depend on you too.”
“Thought you said there were no promises,” she reminded him. “If a great offer from some restaurant comes along, I’m likely to accept.”
“Right. Got it. But give us some lead time.”
Probably not such a bad idea, since it wouldn’t help her career to repeat history. She clicked off without giving him a chance to reply.
Chapter Two
Reese arrived at the studio the following Tuesday, a half hour earlier than reporting time. Many of the technical crew had already arrived, going about whatever “technical” things they did. The activity produced a certain din, not unlike the restaurant cacophony she knew so well. The area even smelled a bit like a restaurant kitchen, with the tangy fragrance of cinnamon and apples mingling with other less recognizable smells. Paint? Epoxy? Those must be coming from the production side.
“You report to Jasper Walters,” Nick Coltrane had told her. “Remember, no one else is to know that I hired you or that we’ve even met. Don’t mention you’re a chef, either.”
Why the secrecy? She’d agreed, but it was sure going to make it more difficult to make herself known to Leonie McCutcheon. Reese surveyed her new digs. Directly in front of her, she recognized the kitchen set from the episode she’d viewed. The larger, more utilitarian room off to the side must be the prep kitchen. A stainless steel counter loaded with produce, boxes of foodstuffs, and several bottles and jars of spices ran down the center.
A small, glass-enclosed room that spanned the rear of the studio must be the control booth.
What a cavern. And no friendly faces to greet her. When no one approached, she drifted over to the only other person wearing a white jacket, a short, slightly overweight young woman with blue-rimmed eyeglasses. “I’m Reese Dunbar, the new production assistant.”
The young woman spun her head Reese’s direction. “No kidding? I thought they were going to leave that slot open to save money.”