“Shhh.”
Michael lunged at Rona, pulling her into a tight bear hug that lifted her off her feet and smeared still wet paint onto her chest. She laughed, a high, trilling sound that made Michael smile. It was the first time I’d seen him smile in a week. It was the last time I’d see it for over a month.
But that’s what the color reminds me of now; my brother and my best friend laughing late at night.
“You’re the girl who won’t sign the release?”
The host of Tastetastic has appeared on the other side of the counter from where I stand daydreaming. He’s a round old guy with big green eyes and a shiny bald dome. An entourage follows him everywhere he goes, even when he says he’s going to the can, and I think how freaking stupid fame is. How ridiculous it makes people.
This guy, though, I can’t figure out if I’m supposed to know who he is or not. If he was a celebrity before he started hosting this show. Cooking shows have started using stars from sitcoms that were on when I was a kid, like they’re aware that we all grew up and have responsibilities now. Like they think because we enjoyed watching these people pretend to go to high school and have it better than we did we’ll want to watch them now in better kitchens than ours eating better food.
I put on a patient smile that sinks no deeper than my lip gloss. “That’d be me.”
“Why not? Are you camera shy?”
“Sort of.”
The truth is I don’t care for celebrities or cameras. It’s a shit deal when you live next door to Hollywood, but it’s the city’s fault I feel this way. It made the monster that burned me and I’ll never forgive it for that. The city or the monster.
“You’re a beautiful girl,” baldy insists. “The camera will love you.”
“Thanks, but that’s not what I’m worried about.”
“What are you worried about?”
I pull my smile tighter, feeling it grow thinner. “I’m worried I’ll look fat,” I lie, looking for an easy exit from this conversation. “I have to check on things in the back, excuse me.”
“Alright, but you look great, honey! Phenomenal! I’ll look fat enough for the both of us!” he laughs wetly.
I chuckle politely before pushing through the swinging double doors leading to the kitchen. It’s a little quieter back here. No cameras or boom mics. No crowds. Just a producer with an overworked clipboard, Rona, and a makeup artist painting her face. Her palette is spread over the stainless steel island where I paint our cakes.
Rona looks afraid. She’s not even trying to hide it. She smiles through it, though, giving me a genuine grin when she sees me, bright and happy as always.
I envy her that.
“How’s it going out there?” she asks.
“Crowded, but good.”
“We’ll be setting up most of our shots back here,” the producer informs me. She’s an older woman with proudly gray hair, warm, brown eyes, and a name I can’t remember. “After the establishing shots of the interior, the display cases, and the outside of the building, we’ll focus mainly on your process. We’ll be out of your hair soon.”
“Take your time.”
“She doesn’t mean that,” Rona teases.
I smile. “I’m trying to.”
“Lilly does most of the bookkeeping. Having our doors closed makes her nervous.”
“Trust me, you’ll have a boost after the episode airs,” the producer assures me, checking her cell phone.
“That’s what I keep telling her. That and I wish you guys could have been here yesterday.”
“I heard you had a big job.”
“We did.” Rona’s eyes sparkle playfully. “Plus, Lilly met a guy.”
“Here we go,” I groan.
The makeup artist turns her darkly shadowed eyes to me with a curious grin. “Ooh. Is he hot?”
“Smoking,” Rona confirms.
“He’s not that hot,” I protest feebly.
“Seriously? You’re gonna try to downplay Colt Avery?”
“Colt Avery?!” the makeup girl exclaims. She whips her phone out of her back pocket, her short, black lacquered nails flying over its surface. She turns it to Rona. “This Colt Avery, from the Los Angeles Kodiaks?”
“That’s him. I mean, I think he was wearing a shirt when she met him, but—oh no hold on. Still looking,” she objects when the makeup girl goes to take her phone away. “Aaaaaaaand I’m good. Thanks. I get why you keep him as your screensaver.”
“I’d have him as my breakfast if I could.” She stows her phone, giving me a wicked grin. “Did you sleep with him?”
“Three times in thirty minutes,” I deadpan. “It was epic.”
“Are you for real?”
“Are you? No, I didn’t sleep with him. I talked to him. That’s all.”
“You’re crazy! You don’t talk to a guy like that. You hop on and go for the ride of your life.” She picks up a brush, giving me a cursory look. “You’re cute. I bet he would have banged you if you asked.”
“Well, shit, if I’d known that I would have asked.”