As soon as Scott was gone, Gina jumped up and hurried to the vending machine in the staff lounge. She fed the machine eight quarters, and it fed her a stale pimento cheese sandwich.
Her last three quarters went to another Diet Coke. On a normal night, she would have sought privacy in her office. But Scott had swiped her last soda. Besides, everybody was gone for the night. She had the place to herself. She sank down into the chair she’d just abandoned and ripped into the sandwich wrapper.
But wait. The stinkin’ satin blouse with the drippy sleeves. She’d somehow managed not to splash anything on it during the taping, but she wasn’t going to tempt fate by eating a sandwich while wearing a $560 blouse. It would probably cost twenty-five bucks to have the thing dry-cleaned. She was wearing a perfectly modest beige satin camisole underneath, so she unbuttoned the blouse, took it off, and draped it carefully over the chair back next to hers, enjoying the feeling of the air-conditioning on her bare shoulders.
Gina chewed happily, letting the saltiness of the processed cheese spread wash over her, an absolute balm for her jangled nerves, which she washed down with a hearty slug of caffeinated chemical-laden carbonated beverage.
She reached into her tote bag and brought out the next day’s script and her reading glasses. She perched the glasses on the end of her nose and began skimming her notes.
Before all the fuss about The Cooking Channel had erupted, and before her life had been ruined, she and Scott had planned a Valentine’s Day segment they were calling a Heart-Healthy Dinner for Lovers. The menu had sounded sexy when she’d concocted it: roast Chilean sea bass with a citrus salsa, cold poached asparagus, and an herb-crusted gallotine of new potatoes. She’d envisioned a dessert of crème caramel—made with reduced-cholesterol eggs, of course, with a garnish of fresh raspberries.
But now, as she chewed and sipped, the menu seemed to lack…something. Zip? Originality? She wanted this show, probably her last, to be the best she’d ever done.
Suddenly, she heard footsteps. Somebody was coming this way. Crap! She hoped it wasn’t Scott again. Or one of the crew kids. She was too darn tired to deal with their childish problems tonight. She was just crumpling the cellophane sandwich wrapper when Tate Moody strolled into the break room.
“Hey,” he said, clearly startled. “I thought everybody had gone home for the night.”
“Almost everybody,” Gina said.
He stood in front of the snack machine for a moment, studying the offerings, and finally made his selection. An apple.
Uninvited, he sat right down at her table and bit into the apple. He chewed and stared at her.
She blushed violently, realizing for the first time that she was basically sitting there in her underwear. But she was doggoned if she’d make a big deal out of it. Let him think the camisole was a tank top. It looked almost like one.
“Hey, Reggie,” he said, when he was finished chewing. “You always go topless around here late at night? Man, if I’d known that, I would have moved in months ago.”
“Don’t call me Reggie,” she said. “And I am not topless. I happen to be wearing a camisole.”
“What’s a camisole?” he asked, taking another bite of the apple. “Kinda like a bra?”
“Forget it,” she said, refusing to be baited by him. “I was just leaving.” She swept the script and the crumpled-up wrapper into her tote bag in one swift motion, but in her haste, several pages floated toward the floor.
“Don’t go on my account,” he said, bending over to retrieve the pages.
But instead of handing them over to her, he leaned back in his chair, took another bite of apple, and to her absolute horror, started reading aloud.
“Hmm,” he said. “A Heart-Healthy Dinner for Lovers.”
She held out her hand and snapped her fingers impatiently. “Give that to me.”
He grinned and pressed the script to his chest. “I would tell you to keep your shirt on, but it’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
She grabbed her blouse from the back of the chair and began putting it on. But the left sleeve was turned inside out, and as she struggled to fix it, he stood up and, unasked, yanked her arm out of the sleeve and turned it right side out.
Gina recoiled at his touch, and, of course, he noticed.
“Relax, Reggie,” he drawled, sitting back down again. “If I was trying to undress you, I’d pick a better place to do it than here.”
“Butthead,” she said. Her fingers were shaking as she fastened the blouse’s tiny satin-covered buttons.
“Roast Chilean sea bass?” he said, resuming his reading. “With a citrus salsa? Are you for real? Is this what you and Scotty-Wotty consider sexy?”
In answer, she snatched the pages out of his hands.
But it seemed he’d read the whole menu and memorized it instantly.
“You know, of course, there’s no such thing as Chilean sea bass. It’s really just Patagonian toothfish. And poached asparagus? Reduced-cholesterol crème caramel? Sounds like hospital food if you ask me. Why not serve some red Jell-O and runny oatmeal while you’re at it?”
She knew he was deliberately baiting her. Knew she should ignore him and walk away. But the temptation was too great to resist.
“Just what would you consider an appropriate menu for Valentine’s Day?” she asked, trying to sound condescending. “Pickled pig’s feet washed down with a nice chilled six-pack of malt liquor?”
“Usually I start with oysters,” he said, taking another bite of his apple and chewing slowly. “I ice ’em down good, and serve ’em on the half shell, with just a squeeze of lemon juice. You know what they say about oysters, right?”
“I’m aware that they are considered an aphrodisiac,” she said.
“Eat seafood, live longer,” Moody quoted. “Eat oysters, love longer. You might want to remember that, the next time you’re cooking for Scotty-Wotty.”
“You’re repulsive,” Gina said. “And I’m leaving.”
“So soon? And just when we were getting to know each another. But maybe it’s for the best. You really don’t like me, do you, Reggie?”
“I asked you not to call me that,” Gina said. “Anyway, I don’t like or dislike you. I don’t know you.”
He had to push it. “But if you did know me?”
She considered the question. “I like your dog.”
“We’re not talking about Moonpie,” he reminded her.
“Look,” she said, adjusting the shoulder strap of her tote. “We are very different people, you and I. That’s fine. My daddy says it takes all kinds to make this world go ’round. You just need to know one thing about me, Tate Moody, and we’ll get along famously. This cooking show of mine isn’t some hobby. It’s not some whim. This is my career here. I have a degree in home economics. I’ve been a food writer for a major metropolitan daily newspaper, I’ve taken classes at La Varenne and Le Cordon Bleu. I’ve been working toward this moment my whole life. I want this TCC show. Period. So you just stay out of my way, all right?”
Head held high, cheeks aflame with emotion, she started to walk out.
“Hey, Reggie.”
She whirled around.
Tate put down the apple, which he’d reduced to little more than a core. “I’ll stay out of your way. But since we’re getting all acquainted here, there’s something you need to know about me. You’re playin’ with the big boys now. This ain’t some high school popularity contest. I may not have your fancy chef’s credentials. I’m not sleeping with anybody important. But I am damned good at what I do. I want this show just as much as you do. So don’t expect me to step aside, or bow out, or play by the girls’ rules. It’s winner-take-all, baby. And as my daddy always says, if you can’t run with the big dogs, stay on the porch.”
He gave her a dismissive nod, picked up the apple again, and casually tossed it toward the trash can six feet away. She heard rather than saw it hit its mark.