Jerk,” Regina said quietly, as the door closed.
“Hmm,” D’John said. “Cute, though. If you like the rustic look.”
“Tate Moody,” she said thoughtfully. “What do we know about him? And why are The Cooking Channel execs in town to see him? I thought you called him a fisher boy?”
“You know as much about him as I do,” D’John said. “They usually shoot on location or over at Ajax Studios downtown, but Ajax is being torn down, so they’ve moved here temporarily. His producer, one of those ballsy New York–gal types, came by last week and said her talent needed some sharpening up because he was being considered for a network television slot. She said he spends a lot of time hunting and fishing for his show.” He opened a drawer in the counter and dug around among the hairbrushes and combs until he came up with a business card, which he handed to Regina. “Here.”
“Valerie Foster,” she read. “Executive Producer, co-creator, Vittles, a Southern Outdoors Network production.”
“Vittles?” they both repeated it at the same time.
“What kind of show is named Vittles?” D”John asked.
“Well, it must be a cooking show if The Cooking Channel is interested in him,” Gina pointed out. “According to the message Scott left on my cell, he’s the real reason this Barry Adelman is in town. I’m just an afterthought.”
“Never,” D’John said loyally. “He doesn’t have a prayer.” D’John gave a dismissive sniff. “He’s a goober. And that skin! He has the complexion of an eighty-year-old.”
“And the buns of an eighteen-year-old,” Gina said. “And don’t pretend you didn’t notice, D’John Maynard. I saw you watching when he walked out of here.”
“Oh, buns,” D’John said dismissively. “We’re talking about a cooking show, right? It’s all about the food, right? And despite your problem complexion and caffeine addiction, nobody’s food is better than yours.”
“Scott says it’s not about the food at all,” Gina said quietly. “That’s why he told you he wants to sharpen up my look. Make me blonder. Cuter. It’s why I can’t wear my glasses on camera, and I had to buy a whole new wardrobe for the new season. Low-cut tops, brighter colors. And obviously, Tate Moody’s producer is just as concerned about his looks, or she wouldn’t have sent him to see you.”
“I could help him,” D’John said, his face taking on a dreamy quality. “Give him a decent haircut, add some texture, some layers, maybe some chunky color around the face. And of course, the skin needs a lot of work. The clothes, too. I’d put him in earth tones—”
“D’John!” Gina said, punching him in the arm. “Whose side are you on here?”
“Beauty doesn’t take sides,” he said primly.
“Well, you’d better,” she said. “Or don’t bother to come slinking around my set looking to be fed anymore.”
“Bitch,” D’John said, giving her an air kiss so as not to muss her makeup.
“Pissy old queen,” she said fondly, air-kissing him back. “What time do you want me to come over tonight?”
“Make it eight,” he said. “You want Jade Palace or China Doll?”
“Jade Palace,” she said quickly. “But no moo shu pork for me. And no rice. Just some egg-drop soup and some steamed ginger shrimp.”
“B-o-r-ing,” D’John sang. “See you at eight, then.”