I shook my head and took a deep breath before addressing Margot. “I don’t think I’m meant for this.” My eyes took in the entire kitchen, most parts of it clicking along at a normal pace, but my area crowded with people and cameras and boom mics and forced emotional scenes. “I told Avery from the beginning that I wouldn’t tolerate dishonesty.”
I saw a flicker of hardness flash through Margot’s eyes, but it was gone before it settled into anything tangible. “I understand,” she said, her voice crisp and professional. “You need a break—you’ve been working every day since we started filming. I’m going to suggest to Avery that you take the next two days off. It’s midweek, so he can manage fine here without you until the weekend. Go somewhere, relax, and we can resume filming of the pastry segments when you return.”
More than anything, I wanted to let my head roll in a slow half-circle in an attempt to get rid of the kinks and strain that had gathered into a huge orb of tension at the top of my shoulders, but I was not about to show Margot how tired I was. “All right, I’ll think about it,” I agreed. “A couple days off does sound good.”
Margot nodded quickly, then motioned for the crew to move out. “Rest well. You deserve it.”
I returned to the bowl of piecrust, deciding to finish it off with cinnamon-dusted apples and an inch-high streusel. I knew just the man who would appreciate a homemade pie.
“Sorry about the outburst, Charlie,” Tova said quietly when she stood again by my side. “And I do want you to know I totally listened to what you said about lard and butter. It made perfect, awesome sense.”
I raised my eyebrows in her direction. “I’m on to you now, Tova. And I’m willing to guess that compliment wasn’t exactly genuine.”
She started to speak and then stopped, her pretty painted lips parting in a smile. “Okay, fine. But I do like pie. That much is true.”
I shook my head but found myself giving Tova a pass. “You fit in around here way better than I do.”
“Thanks!” she said, effusive. “You’re so sweet. And Charlie!” She beamed. “I think we’ll have a super emotional reconciliation on screen, don’t you?”
I closed my eyes and took my time counting to three. Then I texted Kai. I was hoping it wasn’t too late to get in on the day trip to sun and orchards and a bossy sister or two.
Kai picked me up the next morning after the breakfast rush at Howie’s, and we were on our way out of the city by ten.
“Hey,” he said, holding the car door ajar for me. He leaned in to kiss me softly on the cheek. “Mmm,” he murmured into my hair, “you smell delicious.”
“You too,” I said, my nose in his warm neck, still damp from a shower. “How do you scrub all the kitchen smell out of your skin? I always feel like it’s a losing battle.”
He pulled back and took me in with his eyes, making me feel a little exposed and a lot happy. “I use a very special soap made only here in Washington. And Tibet. Washington and Tibet. The secret is sandalwood.”
“Seriously?” I said, all ears. “Can I have some?”
He shut my door and jogged around to the driver’s side. “You know,” he said while turning the ignition, “for such a city girl, you believe lots of things told to you by nervous men on all-day dates. I use Dial soap. And you can certainly have some. I buy it in bulk at Target.”
“See now,” I said, shaking my head, “it’s highly irritating that you set me up to feel like a total idiot and then you soften the blow by being humble and transparent. Shrewd, Malloy.” I reached over and took his hand. “Why are you nervous?”
“Well, first, because you are breathtakingly pretty. The dress … ” He stopped, took a deep breath, stole a look at me, even though we were in heavy traffic. “The hair, your face … you can be intimidating, Garrett.”
I stifled a smile, secretly giving Manda props for convincing me to buy the dress. It was a maxi, insanely soft and comfortable while also feminine and beautifully cut along the bodice. The blue-gray on top slowly faded to a deeper blue by the time it brushed the tops of my new strappy sandals.
“I would think I’d be more intimidating in my chef’s whites, my gelled-back bun, and my I’m-a-girl-and-I’m-angry kitchen face.”
He sniffed. “No way. I could totally take you down in the kitchen.”
I raised one eyebrow. Then I cleared my throat. He ignored me and kept his eyes on the road.
“But,” he added, “hit me with wavy, day-off hair, freckles, and a feisty smile, and I’m a goner.”