Can't Stand the Heat

by Peggy Jaeger

  Most of the occupants of the van had by now evacuated it and were watching Stamp’s tirade, as were most of the production crew who’d come to greet the chefs.

  “Dammit, girl, you know you’re supposed to let me know where you are at all times. That’s the one rule, the one thing I demand of you. You can’t go off on a whim.”

  Before she could reply, Stacy pushed forward.

  “Let me exp—” she said, trying to get between him and his daughter.

  Ignoring her, Stamp told his daughter, “Get back to the house, Melora. Now. And don’t argue with me. I’m in no mood.”

  The girl, tears in her eyes, face flushed, turned and ran from the scene.

  “And you,” Stamp turned his ire back on Stacy.

  “Please, Mr. Stamp—”

  “Don’t Mr. Stamp me. Do you have any idea how frantic I was when I couldn’t find her? Do you?”

  She opened her mouth to reply.

  He never gave her the chance. Looming over her, his face contorted with anger and something else that tugged at Stacy’s heart, he spat, “I don’t want you here. I don’t need you here, interfering. But it looks like it doesn’t matter to the network what I want or need, so I’m stuck with you. Fine. Just do your job. And only your job. Stay away from my daughter. She’s no concern of yours. Do you understand me?”

  “But—”

  “Do. You. Understand. Me?”

  Nothing she could say would make the situation any less volatile, so she simply nodded.

  Without a glance at the throng of people staring at him, or another word to her, Stamp stomped off in the same direction as his daughter.

  For a few brief seconds the silence surrounding her was deafening.

  A sick wad of bile churned its way up from her empty stomach, threatening to fly free. Stacy bit back the acrid taste and tried to breathe. She hated raised voices and heated confrontations—with anyone and of any kind—and to be castigated so loudly and so publicly was mortifying.

  Obviously, Melora had never asked her father’s permission to accompany her to the airport. The girl’s “everything’s cool” statement had made it seem as if Stamp was fine with her going. Stacy should have been angry, but she remembered all too vividly what she’d been like at the same age and couldn’t fault the teen for her actions. Melora was bored with her surroundings, robbed of her social media devices, and, having no one near her age to hang out with and simply be a teenager with, must have prompted her decision to omit asking her controlling father’s permission.

  Stacy got it. In spades.

  She just wished she didn’t have to suffer the wrath of that controlling father.

  Something shoved at her hands, pulling her out of her thoughts. Riley MacNeill was attempting to hand her back her device.

  “You dropped this,” he said, his voice low and to her hearing, tinged with shyness. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

  “Thanks.” She took it from him and managed a small smile. “It’s not the first time this thing has found its way to the ground. Probably won’t be the last, either. I think by now it’s indestructible.”

  His return smile was just as shy as the inflection in his voice.

  “So I guess, unlike a good wine, Nitro Nikko hasn’t mellowed with age,” Clayton Burbank said from behind her.

  The tension of the moment broke, and, along with everyone else, Stacy chuckled.

  “Okay, folks,” she said. She knew how she dealt with Stamp’s outburst, how she let it affect her in front of the crew, was important. They needed to know she could stand on her own and not fall apart whenever he had one of his famous outbursts. She had to be the proverbial calm in the storm that was Nikko Stamp so they could have someone to rely on, if need be. “Time is money in these parts. Let’s get you all settled and then fitted with your jackets.”

  * * * *

  By the time he got back to the house, Nikko had been able to tamp down his anger. Just knowing Melora was okay and not harmed or injured or, God forbid, anything else, had him breathing easier.

  But it didn’t get her out of being held accountable for going off without telling him.

  Christ.

  He’d never forget a moment of the blade-sharpened panic that had sliced through him when he couldn’t find her for lunch. The agreement the therapist had come up with for them was Melora would eat three meals every day with her father. No matter what. So far, the plan had worked. She didn’t eat much of what he cooked for her, but she did eat. And he made sure she didn’t run off and try to throw everything up when they were done.

  Things between them had been strained for the past few days, though, due to the unexpected flare-up of his leg pain and his irritation with being given another executive producer to deal with. Added in was Melora’s continued harping on—as she so colorfully put it—being forcibly dragged by her teeth all the way out to loser-land with no friends or anyone her age.

  Nikko realized she was smart enough to know he wasn’t going to leave her in Manhattan while he was two thousand miles away. She was too young to be left to her own devices for two months and too old for a nanny to watch over her. Her eating patterns needed to be monitored and she needed an adult’s presence to ensure she took care of herself.

  He cursed again, the limp in his leg growing more pronounced the closer he got to the house.

  If her mother hadn’t died, Melora would be with her right now. The eating disorder she was currently battling wouldn’t have formed, and she’d be a typical spoiled and obnoxious teenager instead of one hell-bent on destroying herself.

  But her mother had died, and it was his fault. The joint custody they’d agreed on during their bitter divorce was null and void now, with him as the sole living, responsible parent. And being the parent of a moody, mouthy fifteen-year-old girl with a devastating eating disorder she could lay directly at his door was just about the toughest job he’d ever had, hands down.

  “Melora!” he shouted as soon as he came through the front door. “Where are you?”

  He wasn’t surprised when she stalked from the kitchen, arms folded defiantly over her small chest, a look of absolute hatred crossing her thin face.

  “Where I’m supposed to be. Chained, like a mad dog, in the kitchen, dutifully waiting for you to watch every crumb that goes in my mouth.”

  He winced at the hurt and anguish laced through her words.

  “Melly, please. Don’t talk like that.”

  “It’s true.”

  Nikko crossed the room, his leg hurting almost to the point he thought he might pass out, and crumpled into a cushioned chair. His hand immediately flew to his thigh. He rubbed it, praying now that his weight was off it the pain would dissipate.

  “No, it isn’t. Now please, can you come sit with me? We need to talk.”

  “I know what you’re gonna say.” She stomped to the chair opposite him and collapsed into it, slouching to the point it looked as if her butt would fall off the edge. “I should never have left the ranch without telling you first.”

  Nikko shook his head. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

  “Oh? Shocking.”

  He bit back his temper. “I was going to say you should never have left the ranch without asking me first.”

  “I tried to find you,” she said, scooting back up the chair and into a more comfortable-looking position. “You were, like, nowhere, and it was time to leave. If I’d had my phone I could have shot you a text, but I don’t have my phone, do I?”

  “For a very good reason, Melora, and if you think I’m going to give it back to you now, after this little stunt, you’re dead wrong.”

  “Typical!” She bolted up from the chair, but before she could run from him again, he said, “Sit down. I’m not finished.”

  “Of course you’re not.” She slammed her body back down and
onto the edge of the chair again.

  “Do you have any idea how worried I was when I couldn’t find you?” he asked. “I thought something happened, that you were injured, maybe all alone somewhere where you couldn’t call for help.”

  “Oh, come on. That’s just too dramatic, even for you.” Her eyes rolled up and around. “Where would I go where I couldn’t be found out here? And what could possibly happen? There’s nothing to do around here that I’d get hurt doing.”

  “Oh, no? You like walking in the wooded area down by the water, right? Taking pictures?”

  Her bony shoulders pulled up, then fell again.

  “And did you know that bobcats, grizzly bears, and coyotes are indigenous to Montana? That Amos Dixon and the rest of the ranch hands drive around with shotguns in their trucks because they’ve seen these animals roaming a time or two around the property lines?”

  This time the shrug wasn’t as emphatic.

  “Well, maybe you’d like to know, then, that a coyote was spotted close by the main stock barn a week before we got here. They still haven’t captured it. Dixon isn’t sure it’s still in the vicinity, waiting to attack the livestock, but they’re all prepared just in case one of them sees it.”

  He had her total attention now. Her light whiskey-colored eyes, twins to his own, had widened to half dollars, and despite the nonchalant way she was sprawled in the chair, he could see her hands were tensed on the tops of her thighs, her chest was moving in and out a little more rapidly than it had, and her mouth was slowly forming an open O.

  His voice softened. “So I’m not really being as dramatic as you think.”

  He reached across and pulled her hand into his own, his pulse jumping at how cold her fingers were.

  “I know you’re unhappy being stuck out here for the summer, Melly. You miss your home. You miss going out and doing things in the city. I get that. But I couldn’t leave you alone for two months. I just couldn’t. Not only would I be unbearably lonely and missing you, I’d be worried constantly.”

  “I’m here and you’re still worried,” she shot back, but her voice had gentled from the antagonistic timbre of a few moments before.

  “True, but at least here I can still check up on you and make sure you’re okay. Until this morning, that is.”

  Her bottom lip disappeared under the top one. “Sorry I left without telling you—asking you. Stacy told me to make sure I had permission.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “She did. Honestly. She wanted to make sure you were okay with it.”

  “And yet she still took you even though she knew I hadn’t given my permission.”

  “She didn’t.” Melora shook her head. “Know, I mean. I... well... I kinda—you know, I didn’t.” She took a deep breath and avoided his eyes. “I told her it was okay. With you. For me to, you know, go.”

  He waited a beat. “So, you lied to her?”

  “Not exactly”

  “Melora Penelope Stamp.”

  “Uh-oh.” Her neck disappeared as she scrunched her shoulders up.

  “Did you or did you not tell Miss Peters that I gave you permission to leave the ranch?”

  “Well, what I said when she asked was that everything was cool. I never said, exactly, that it was cool with you. Just... cool. You know?”

  “So she assumed you’d spoken to me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wrap it up any way you want, kid. What you did was lie.”

  Nikko dragged his hands down his face. And because his daughter had lied, he’d exploded, taking his wrath and worry out on Stacy. Publicly.

  Even through his fury he’d seen the sympathetic looks and nervous side glances she was being given by the chefs as they alighted from the van to witness his outburst.

  But the look that had the most impact on him was the one on her face as he’d towered over her.

  Fear. Stark, white, bold fear.

  Of him.

  Nikko absently rubbed his thigh and shook his head. So far, he’d blown up at her two separate times, both in front of other people, and she’d taken it. She hadn’t stormed off, or cried, or even given it back to him, as he’d expected. Every other underling he’d dealt with had, and had then quit, refusing to ever work with him again.

  As far as he knew, Stacy Peters hadn’t quit. Yet.

  At this moment, he couldn’t decide if that was a good sign or a bad omen.

  First things first. He’d think about his EP later. Right now, he had a daughter who needed to eat and he needed to get prepped for the production meeting.

  “Come on, Melly.” He rose and winced once when the impact of his foot touching the floor shot straight up to his thigh.

  Melora’s eyes tracked his movements as he tested his balance, but she stayed silent.

  “Time to eat,” he said.

  “The highlight of my existence,” the teen muttered as she too rose, arms crossed over her chest, that perpetually dour teenaged pout on her face he was coming to detest.

  Chapter Five

  Nikko glanced down at the text from Stacy.

  Chefs all settled in. Wardrobe fitting complete. What time do you want everyone gathered for production meeting?

  Professional and succinct, just like the woman herself.

  A quick glance at his cell phone’s clock and he texted back:

  One hour. Main dining hall. Arrange it. No one exempt.

  Commanding and arrogant, he thought.

  Her response was immediate. Will do.

  He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d answered him with a yes, sir and then an emoji for a military salute.

  He sat with his leg propped up on an adjoining chair in the room he’d turned into his makeshift production office, his hand squeezing his thigh every few seconds. The hammering pain had quieted, to be replaced by a subtle, continual ache from his groin straight to his knee. He could tolerate this much more than the pounding. The pain had become a constant companion since the series of surgeries he’d undergone to repair the multiple breaks, and he was able to ignore it most of the time.

  Since the long plane ride, then the unending car trek to the ranch, and the added hours he’d spent on location scouting, his friend had made her presence known more and more over the past year. And yes, he realized he was being a jerk thinking of the pain as female in gender, but at the end of the day, after harping on him without end and invading his almost every thought, the reference was more than an accurate one to his mind.

  Nikko adjusted his notes and shifted back in his chair. He could see Melora through the doorway in the next room, lounging on the couch and reading. Surprisingly, she’d eaten the late lunch of grilled salmon salad he’d put together for her without any of her usual arguments or stall tactics.

  Granted, she only ate about a third of it, but it was 100 percent more that what she’d been eating a few months ago.

  As the therapist he’d consulted had told him to, he’d praised what she had eaten and then made sure he kept her in his line of sight for at least an hour after. He’d been so wrapped up in his battle against his leg pain after the accident, he hadn’t noticed his daughter’s declining weight until it was almost too late to do anything to correct it.

  While he’d been overwhelmed with trying to heal from numerous surgeries and deal with his professional life as well as settling his ex-wife’s tangled estate, Melora had been battling a psychological war. Father and daughter were abruptly thrown together full-time and neither knew how to deal with the other’s demons, let alone their own.

  Melora had always been an exceptionally smart, intuitive, mature child, and Nikko had thanked God more than once after the crash that she’d handled her mother’s death as well as she had.

  But she’d been adept at hiding her starvation and purging behaviors from him while he’
d been recuperating. It was only after she fainted in school after not eating for three days that he’d realized how blind he’d been to what she’d been doing. When he saw her lying in the hospital bed, her skeletal shoulders and sternal bones peeking out from underneath the johnny gown, her face pale, the deep circles under her eyes she’d hidden well with concealer, did he realize how close he’d come to losing the one person who mattered to him more than life itself.

  When she’d tearfully confessed what she’d been doing to herself, the anorexia coupled with bouts of bingeing and then purging through vomiting and laxative use, Nikko’d had to choke back tears at what she’d been going through, both physically and mentally. He’d thought she’d handled her mother’s death well. The truth was as far from that as possible.

  She’d literally been starving herself to death.

  Why she’d resorted to such a profound technique to cope with her mother’s loss was heartbreaking. Nikko still struggled daily with trying to identify how much of her emotions and behavior were normal and age appropriate, and how much were a factor of her eating disorder.

  Watching her now, carelessly flipping through the pages of the book, a look of complete boredom across her face, he wished for nothing more than to go back a few years in time and have everything be the way it was before the accident.

  Knowing wishes were for fools, he went back to the papers on his desk.

  * * * *

  After making sure all the chefs were assigned to their individual show producers and handlers and that everyone was fitted with their chef jackets, Stacy snuck back to her room for a few minutes of reprieve.

  The headache that had been threatening on the way to the airport had fully grown and was pounding like a heavy metal-drummer on acid behind her eyes. After taking twice the dose of over-the-counter pain reliever recommended, she removed her contact lenses, opting to wear her glasses to give her eyes a rest. The dry air on the ranch made wearing them for more than a few hours uncomfortable and she didn’t want to be seen with red and watery eyes by the crew. Especially since they might interpret it to mean she’d been crying—which she hadn’t.