She pushes her long brown hair back over her shoulder, her blue eyes locking on me. I know that look. I also know what she's about to say. "You're stressing over nothing, Den. You're going to walk onto that kitchen set tomorrow morning and knock the culinary socks off every single one of those millions of people watching you."
"I don't need you to remind me how many people watch that show." I smile overly sweetly, grateful that Sophia left her office at a reasonable time tonight so she could be my taste tester.
We've been close since she moved in with me shortly after she arrived in New York almost two years ago. I put out some feelers with friends asking them to keep their eyes and ears open for anyone, preferably a woman close to my age, looking for a room to rent on the Upper West Side.
When I got Sophia's number from a friend of a friend, I sent her a short text asking if she wanted to see the place. An hour later, we were sitting in this kitchen, sharing a beer and talking about what fuels our passion. For me it's obviously food. For Sophia, fashion is her life.
She's helped me understand how to dress my tall, slim frame. She's even given me tips on what colors complement my pale green eyes and medium length blond hair. Even though I spend the majority of my life in a chef's jacket, I now know how to rock a killer dress and heels when I actually do find the time to go out.
"I had a professor in college who told me that the best way to handle speaking in front of a group of people is to …"
"Imagine everyone in their underwear?" I interrupt her. "I've heard that too, Soph, it's not going to work."
"That's disgusting." She shields her eyes with her hands. "Now I'm thinking of my professor in his boxers."
"That's a bad thing?" I swallow the final bite of food that was left in the bowl. "What did he look like?"
"Like someone you don't want to see naked." Her arms fold over her chest. "I wasn't going to say that. I was going to tell you that you should pretend you're here, cooking for me. Forget about the cameras and the lights. Cook from your heart, the way you did just now."
I turn off the burner on the stove and slide the next batch of gnocchi into the empty bowl. "I can't do that when Tyler is standing next to me. If I fuck up, I'll lose my job."
She reaches to pick up the fork before she tugs the bowl back into her hand. "In the case of Tyler Monroe, I'd go with that advice about imagining him in his underwear, or better yet, nothing at all."
***
I give Tyler a once-over when I walk onto the set after spending more than an hour in hair and make-up. I'd shown up to the studio in Midtown before dawn broke. An assistant producer on the show called me last night, right after Sophia and I finished our dinner, to tell me when and where to be. She was clear that they didn't want me in a chef's jacket. They wanted me dressed in something casual but appropriate. She suggested dark wash jeans and a white blouse to offset the color of the emerald green apron they'd give me to wear. The apron, emblazoned with the show's logo, is a requirement for me, but apparently not for Tyler. He's dressed in black slacks and a black dress shirt, open at the collar with the arms rolled up past his elbows to reveal his colorful tattoos.
That's not the only striking difference since I saw him yesterday. His hair is shorter. It's been trimmed and his face is clean shaven. He looks every part the successful restaurant owner and chef.
As a man approaches me with a microphone pack in his hand, Tyler glances in my direction. His gaze slides slowly over me, from the black heels I'm wearing straight up to my perfectly styled hair.
I drop my eyes, instead focusing on the sound guy as he makes small talk while we wait for the producer to hand me the apron I have to wear. I put it on, tying it securely around my waist.
The microphone is clipped into place on the front of the apron, the pack secured to the back of the waistband of my jeans. I follow the vocal prompts that they give me to test for sound quality. I'm assured, calm and if I didn't know better, I'd think that I'm at ease.
My heart doesn't agree with that though. It's beating a million beats per minute, anticipating the moment when the director signals that we're on the air.
"Are you ready to show the country the best of what Nova has to offer?" Tyler asks as he approaches, his eyes narrowing.
"I am, Chef. Once we're done there won't be an open reservation at the restaurant for at least the next year. "
CHAPTER 3
I step into place next to Tyler as soon as the male host of the show, Percy, appears on the set. He shakes Tyler's hand before he reaches for my shoulder, tugging me into him. His lips touch first my left cheek and then the right. I smile as he pulls back. He's as handsome as he looks on television.
Since it's on so early in the morning, I don't catch the program often, only on the days when Sophia needs a pep talk before she heads to lower Manhattan to her job as assistant to the CEO of one of the world's premier fashion empires.