“Apparently the hiring freeze is over. Are you the other production assistant?”
“PA. Yeah, Trudy Grabowski.” The somewhat dumpy young woman wiped her hands on her apron, pushed up her glasses, then shook hands with Reese. “How come I’m just hearing about this? News like that usually spreads faster than spilled milk.”
Uh-oh. Her pledge to keep mum about the details of her employment was already being put to the test. “I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask Mr. Walters. He’s the one I’m to report to.”
“Walters? Jasper Walters? Since when does he hire anyone?”
Reese’s fingers began to tingle. That was the name she’d been given, wasn’t it? “Why do you say that?” Although it would be silly to let an idle comment from this underling worry her, something about her new job wasn’t adding up.
“On other shows, the supervising producer, like Jasper, usually does do the hiring,” Trudy explained. “But here,” she glanced over her shoulder as if to check who might be near enough to hear, “the executive producer calls those shots.”
“Oh.”
Whatever.
As long as she had the job, she didn’t care who hired her. But if she wanted to keep the job, she’d better get to work. “I need to discuss my duties with Mr. Walters. Any idea where I can find him?”
Trudy considered briefly. “Should be here by now.” She shoved a box of strawberries toward Reese. “Here. I could use some help prepping these while you wait. We’re doing a pie today.”
Reese bit back the suggestion that Trudy cover the clunky rings she wore on eight of her fingers with disposable gloves. Where did they keep the cooking utensils? Better ask Trudy. Except, where had she gone so fast?
Reese placed the box of berries on the stainless steel counter next to her and set off to catch up with her cohort, who’d stopped at a large sink across the room to peel potatoes.
Without taking her eyes off the vegetable in her hands, Trudy said, “Done already?”
Not until she found a colander.
“Who abandoned these strawberries?” a low, throaty woman’s voice demanded from behind them.
Trudy gulped. “Uh-oh.”
Like a championship wrestler displaying his newly-acquired belt, in the center of the studio, a tall, thin red-haired woman of about fifty held aloft the box of fruit Reese had left behind. The woman appeared none too pleased. All action stopped in both the prep kitchen and the adjacent set, everyone motionless like a Christmas tableau.
“Tell me that’s not the box I gave you,” Trudy whispered.
“What’s the big deal?” Reese shot back. “I set it down for less than thirty seconds so you could show me around the kitchen.”
Trudy gripped Reese’s arm and pulled her closer. Keeping her voice low, she said, “Newbie or not, no one leaves a food item by itself in the studio. Too easy for someone else to use it. Or worse, to do anything to it.”
“Like what? Add poison? You’ve seen too many murder mysteries.”
“Not me, the devil in the kelly green pantsuit over there. That’s our executive producer, Leonie McCutcheon. It’s one of her rules. Better get a list and memorize them fast.”
“That’s Leonie McCutcheon?” Reese squeaked. Damn! The woman was the only reason she’d considered working on this show and she’d already managed to irritate her.
“You’ve heard of her?”
“Well, yes. Her catering business has been around for years. Staff at my restaurant would work for her on occasion, when she needed extra help for large events.”
“You’ve got restaurant training?” Trudy’s voice softened, awestruck.
“Of course. Don’t we all?” What a strange thing for someone on a cooking show to say.
Trudy cocked her head, her expression patronizing. “You sure are new. But about Leonie. Even though we’re just a local show, she’s quite a prima donna.”
“A local show in the Big Apple,” Reese reminded her, compelled to defend the caterer.
“Whatever. Be on the alert.”
The advice came too late. The offending container of fruit suddenly appeared in front of Reese, as if suspended by its own volition. “I’m told you’re the one responsible for leaving this fruit unattended.” Leonie McCutcheon’s designer attire accentuated the green of her eyes, eyes that pierced through Reese, daring her to deny her transgression.
Okay, she’d stood her ground with more than her share of angry head chefs, but this woman was different. Better not blow it with her. Especially on her first day. She attempted a cordial smile. “I wasn’t aware of your rule, Ms. McCutcheon.” She reclaimed the orphaned berries.
“Who. Are. You?” Though smoky, the older woman’s voice also carried a lilt, an educated tone, like that of a socialite accustomed to having her own way.
A thin blonde in a black mini-skirt who’d been following in the wake of the executive producer raised a hand. “She’s the new production assistant, Leonie.”
The executive producer screwed up her face, appeared confused. “Why didn’t I know about this, Deborah?”
The female flunky bit a lip. “Actually, you did receive notice. Last week, right after she was hired.”
Apparently deciding not to air the communications slip-up further, the executive producer returned her attention to Reese. “And you would be?”
“Reese Dunbar.”
“Then Reese Dunbar, dispose of these berries post haste, because we can’t use food items that have been left unattended. And hurry. You’ve already put us several minutes behind schedule.”
Diva alert. Was saluting required? Never mind. Groveling was in order. She kept her smile in place until the verdant lioness pivoted suddenly and stormed away.
The executive producer stopped abruptly and then turned back to her, adding, “I only allow one mistake per person on this production. You’ve just used your quota.” Then, swiveling, she clicked off in her stilettos.
Don’t you think you’re something, lady?
Too bad. No quaking in the boots here. She knew all about prima donnas. They permeated the food industry. She probably fell into that category herself on occasion.
Her colander search, which now included a new box of berries as well, was yet again disrupted, this time by a male voice behind her. “Ms. Dunbar?”
She turned to find a suave, silver-haired gentleman staring at her with furrowed brow. “Yes, I’m Reese Dunbar. Did I break one of your rules too?”
The wrinkle on the man’s square-set face rose a half inch. “Rules?”
“I seem to have gotten off to a poor start with the executive producer by leaving these berries alone for half a minute.”
He motioned for her to follow him to a less occupied part of the set, all the while shaking his head. “I’m Jasper Walters. Call me Jasper. I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“I should have been here to welcome you. Of all mornings to get tied up in traffic. Having your own driver is not the perk it’s supposed to be. The guy’s more interested in auditioning for Broadway than getting me here on time.”
“You’re the one who hired me?” She lifted a brow, as if to suggest she was in on their little secret.
But Jasper played it straight, extending his hand. “That’s right. Sorry we weren’t able to meet until now. And that you had to deal with Leonie before I got here to run interference.”
“I can handle her.”
The furrow on his forehead reappeared. “I, uh, am sure you can. But,” he momentarily glanced away, “you are aware that you’ve been hired as a production assistant?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not a chef.”
She knew that. What was he getting at?
“That means you follow orders. You don’t give them, like you did as a chef.”
“Oh.” She knew that coming in. Nick Coltrane had gone out of his way to establish that point during their phone call. She’d just been denying that part of the job as long as she could.
Jasper eyed her, his mouth turned down. “Is that going to be a problem?”
She cocked her head. “Probably.” She summoned a tepid smile. “But I’ll get over it. I’ll remind myself what it was like as a student at the culinary institute where the instructors were minor gods.”
He smiled too. “Up that a bit for Leonie. She thinks she’s a major god.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got her number.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She chuckled. “No, really. I’m here to gain TV experience.”
And convince that woman she wants me on her catering team.
“If that means biting my tongue, so be it.”
As long as it’s only for a few months.
“She’s actually an old friend of mine. But she’s also what you’d call…extremely focused. Creating an empire for that nephew of hers.”
“Nephew?”
“Nick. Nick Coltrane, our star, the host.”
What had he said? “The executive producer is the host’s aunt?”
Jasper pressed his lips together and nodded.
“Oh.” She swallowed. Then she swallowed again. Shouldn’t have quit her research on Nick Coltrane and this show quite so soon. Nick Coltrane wanted her to be part of the show, but no one, i.e., his aunt, was to know he hired her. Nor was Leonie McCutcheon to know she was a chef, though that was the only way she could approach the woman about catering. This was getting way too complicated just to be able to put “television experience” on her resume. What had she gotten herself into?
Jasper continued to explain, “Nick’s a big reason why this show has managed to stay on the air this long, despite his aunt’s interference,”
Interference?
That didn’t sound good either.
“Get rid of those berries,” Jasper directed. “Consider today your orientation. Before taping gets underway, I’ll introduce you to the crew and explain how this crazy production gets put together.”
He gave the prep kitchen short shrift and spent the rest of the “tour” showing her the technical side of the production.
When do I get to see my kitchen? That’s all I care about.
As they approached the corner of a back corridor, they heard what sounded like whimpering. “I can’t put up with that woman much longer, Nick.”
Jasper pulled up, holding out an arm to stop Reese.
Nick
? Nick Coltrane? Finally.
“Sure, you can, Deb. She doesn’t mean half her threats.”
Deb? Short for Deborah, Leonie’s lackey?
“Her threats don’t scare you,” Deb responded, “because you’ve got her wrapped around your little finger. Her pinkies are not available to the rest of us.”
“Direct confrontation doesn’t work with a control freak. Just makes her more combative. You have to go with the flow, work around her.”
“Be passive-aggressive? Tell her one thing and do another?”
A chuckle. Warm, reassuring. “You’ve been watching too much Dr. Phil. Give yourself an hour or so to calm down. By then, she’ll probably seek you out to apologize.”
Strong, melodious voice. It coiled around her like a velvet caress. So calming, persuasive and at the same time…what? Commanding? Was it affecting Deb the same way?
“O-Okay, Nick. Thanks.” Apparently it had.
Muffled sound of retreating footsteps.
Jasper put a finger to his mouth, indicating they should remain silent. A second later, Nick came around the corner. Involuntarily, she gulped air. Even more attractive than the last time she’d seen him. Probably because her mascara wasn’t puddling her eyes today.
“Jasper! I wasn’t expecting to see you.” His voice trailed off as he noticed her. One brow shot up. “Hello?”
No indication of recognition in those indigo eyes. That was how he was going to play it? Okay. She hated pretense, but she could play that game too.
How could any one person receive so much in the looks department? Little fish-flutters in her stomach signaled she should tread carefully around this man. Still, she couldn’t take her eyes away from him.
Get a grip, girl
.
Where is your self-control?
He tilted his head, giving her the once over. “Who’s this?”
“Meet our new production assistant, Nick, Reese Dunbar. Reese, this is Nick Coltrane, our host. Reese used to be a chef at
Solange
, that place in Midtown.”
The hypnotic blues that were making her shiver inside her chef’s jacket blinked. “Really? My aunt and I dined there not long ago. What a coincidence.”
Coincidence, indeed
.
The supervising producer added, “When I heard Reese was available, I jumped at the chance to sign her.”
Nick Coltrane’s expression changed to that of a rock star, the magnetic kind of smile young girls swoon over. “Ms...?”
“Dunbar.” Though no longer a teenager, her knees did feel a little wobbly. She shifted her stance. He was playing this to the hilt. For whose benefit, though? Hers or Jasper’s?
“Dunbar.” He reached for her hand. The heat generated by the brief contact counteracted her goosebumps. “Welcome aboard.”
Jasper leaned closer to the show’s host. “We heard you with Deb. Is she okay?”
Nick glanced back over his shoulder. “Yeah, I guess so. Leonie apparently read her the riot act for not informing her about, uh, her.” He stopped, gave Reese a sheepish look.
Winning over Leonie McCutcheon was rapidly turning into more of a challenge than she’d anticipated.
“Then you’ve already heard about Reese’s run-in with our esteemed executive producer?
Nick shot Jasper a strange look. “Something about cherries?”
“Strawberries,” Jasper corrected.
She replayed the forgotten fruit incident for Nick.
Nick rolled his eyes. “Leonie and her crazy rules.” He shifted his eyes back to Jasper. “Best to stick with this guy and keep your distance from the executive producer.”
Good advice, but it wasn’t going to get her any nearer a partnership with the caterer. For now, though, it might not be such a bad idea to lay low where Leonie McCutcheon was concerned.
Chapter Three
In his dressing room, Nick popped a can of diet soda and downed a gulp. Only one. Sometimes he allowed himself a second, if he needed the extra jolt, but Leonie drew the line at two sips before a taping. She had this thing about unscripted belches.