by Aven Ellis
“Please, my pleasure,” I say, pouring myself a cup. I take a moment to grab some cream from the fridge and pour a smidge into my coffee.
I feel Skye staring at me as I swirl the rich cream into the dark brew. I’m sure she’s wondering why on earth I would add this kind of calorie count to my cup. She must think I need to lose fifteen pounds at a minimum, but I don’t care. Unless I’m having my beloved latte, I can’t drink coffee with anything but cream.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go brainstorm.”
A look of panic flickers in her blue eyes.
“Skye?” I ask. “Are you okay?”
She blinks. Her expression changes to one of sunshine, similar to the one I saw on the show whenever she went out with Wanker Tom.
“I’m terrific. Let’s get started!” she says eagerly.
Too eagerly.
I furrow my brow. I thought the apron story was weird this morning, but it appears things are about to get weirder.
We take the elevator down a floor to the breakout rooms. I’ve never had to use these before because when Angelique normally gives me assignments, I go straight to the test kitchen to work. On this floor, there are separate rooms with tables and chairs for private meetings. In the center, there’s an open space with a big cushy sofa surrounded by bean bag chairs. It’s very cool.
I find my name put up outside one of the rooms. “Here we are,” I say, opening the door and flipping on the light. This room has a little sofa, two easy chairs, and a coffee table.
Skye sinks down into one of the chairs, and I sit down on the sofa across from her.
I open her file on my iPad and glance up at her. She has taken nothing out of her purse.
“Um, are you ready?” I ask.
Skye nods. “Yes.”
Okay then.
I clear my throat. “All right. This is for the Valentine’s Day issue. We’re featuring your cupcakes and you as America’s Sweetheart, loving your life after the show. What kind of cupcakes did you have in mind?”
“Um . . . chocolate?”
What? I study her. Chocolate? That’s her answer? If she were a real baker, she would be rattling off her favorite flavor combinations or talking about her signature base recipe and what she likes to add to it.
“What type?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I thought you could help me with that.”
“Do you have a base recipe for your cupcakes that you want me to start with?”
“Base recipe?”
I freeze. Oh, dear God. She’s not a baker. Skye knows nothing about cupcakes. There’s no way in hell she could run a bakery unless it was in name only.
“I can develop one for you if you need one,” I say, realizing this project will indeed be true development.
Skye’s hands begin to shake. She drops her coffee cup, sending it splattering on the hardwood floor, and bursts into tears.
“I’m a fraud,” she sobs, burying her face in her hands. “I don’t know anything about baking! My agent told me I should pretend cupcakes are my passion so I would be cast on the show. Cupcakes are popular and people would associate their sweetness with me. And with my looks, it would be a no-brainer casting.”
Heavy sobs wrack her body, and I don’t know what to do except let her spill her heart out.
She looks up, and her mascara is smeared all over her face.
“Nothing has turned out like I thought it would. Nothing,” Skye cries, and I have a feeling the dam has burst open. “I sat in that meeting yesterday wanting to scream. I don’t know anything about baking. I’ve never baked anything in my life that didn’t come from a mix. I don’t want to own a cupcake shop. I thought I wanted to be a lifestyle reporter and the show would give me good exposure.
“But then I actually fell in love with Tom, and now I’m the biggest idiot ever,” she continues. “I believed everything he said. Meanwhile, he was saying the same things to the other girl. The exact same things! America laughed at me. People have made fun of me on social media. They’ve been cruel. People say I asked for it by going on the show, but I had no idea it would be so hard. I don’t ever want to be on TV again, but I have no other skills.
“My agent said this feature could possibly land me a baking show on a food channel, and I kept saying I don’t know how to bake. She assured me I don’t have to actually bake, just fake it, but I feel trapped! I’ve been sick over this, over the feature, over my future, over the way people see me as a dumb blond who is nothing more than Tom’s reject. My life is total shit.”
Then she bursts into tears again.
“Tom is a wanker!” I blurt out.
She freezes. “W-what?”
“Tom is an absolute wanker, and that is lower than low,” I say. “People are relieved for you, Skye. Don’t you see that? That’s why we want you for this feature. To showcase you because you were so sweet and lovely on the show.”
“That was real,” Skye insists. “Please believe me when I say that. The way I was with Tom, the other contestants, how I never said anything awful or catty to the other girls, even if they deserved it. That’s me.”
I see she is desperate for me to believe her. For someone to believe a real Skye exists underneath all the things she’s done to try to please others.
“I do,” I say.
“I think you’re the only one,” she says, jerking her hand across her face to wipe away her tears.
“Do you like cupcakes?” I ask.
Skye retrieves some tissues from her bag and looks at me confusedly, as if wondering how we went from talking about her mess of a life back to the topic of cupcakes.
“Um, yes, I do.”
“Then that’s another truth. You’re a nice person. You fell in love on the show. And you like cupcakes.”
Skye smiles. “I think you’re the first genuine person I’ve met in a long time. You’re really nice, Josephine.”
“You can call me JoJo,” I say. “It’s what my friends call me.”
“I’d like to call you JoJo, then,” Skye says, taking a moment to blow her nose. “Oh, that’s something they edited out of the show. I was a sobbing, snotty mess in the back seat of the limo after Tom dumped me. They had a psychologist there to help me deal, but of course, a camera, too. I kept blowing my nose and the producer said, ‘This will be on TV, please try to cry cleaner. No snot.’”
“Clean crying? Who does that after a broken heart?” I ask, incredulous. “I was a snotty mess, shoveling cheesecake down my throat, when my ex dumped me.”
“I couldn’t have cheesecake because I had appearances and my agent was telling me I couldn’t gain weight. It was a prime opportunity to land me a TV gig. She suggested a gossip talk show, but the idea of that made my skin crawl. I don’t want to talk about other people I don’t know. Not when I know how awful it’s been for me.”
“Skye, a food show would be completely different,” I say, leaning forward. “A lot of celebrity chefs are handed recipes. They play their part, they act like an authority on food, and it all comes together with TV magic. You know how that works.”
Skye runs a hand through her luxurious, beach wavy hair. “I can’t be something I’m not. It has to be authentic to me, which means I won’t be considered. I don’t have a job. I don’t want to do product placement on Snapchat or Instagram. I just feel . . . so lost.”
“This is temporary. I promise you it is. You’re only twenty-three! You have lots of time to figure out what you want to do. Would it hurt to do a cooking show for a while, if the opportunity came your way? If you could find a vehicle that represented your voice?”
For the first time since she arrived today, I see a hopeful glimmer in her blue eyes.
“Maybe,” she says slowly. Then she winces. “But there’s still the public. I know I can do a magazine article, but TV? I know I’m supposed to be on board with this, but for the first time in forever, I’m being honest. I don’t know if I want to go back to TV, where everyone is watching me.”
I have a flash back to last night, when Cade was talking about dealing with fans and backlash in the social media.
“I think I have someone who can help you,” I say, as an idea hits me. “This may be totally unprofessional of me, so please say no if you want no part of this, but are you available for dinner tonight? I have some people I’d like you to meet. I think they can help you.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Jude and Cade are on their way up,” Sierra says, reading a text message as I finish piping filling into the last cannelloni tube and place it on top of the tomato sauce on the bottom of my baking dish.
“Okay,” I say casually.
But inside, I’m anything but casual.
My anticipation rises at the thought of Cade being here in seconds. He and Jude agreed to talk to Skye over dinner tonight about dealing with fans and social media. In return, I promised them a homemade Italian meal.
I frown. Of course, I didn’t have time after work to make my own cannelloni shells, so I cheated. Hmm. Nonna would not approve of this cheat at all, I think.
I shouldn’t be feeding my future husband boxed pasta. In Nonna’s mind, that would be enough for him to reconsider this whole marriage-of-destiny thing.
I shake my head. Our crazy conversation about the apron is still lingering in the back of my mind. Thank God Cade knows nothing about it. He would probably ask his coach to be traded just to get away from the crazy girl whose nonna is claiming he will marry into the family because he saw her in THE APRON.
I reach for my ladle and pour the rest of my homemade tomato sauce over the top of the pasta, nearly laughing out loud at the thought of Cade trying to explain his reason for leaving to the coach. Yes. I’m very glad that we are in Denver and my family is a thousand miles away in Chicago.
A knock at the door signals their arrival.
Whoosh! The butterflies flutter madly in response. Last night was pure magic, and I want more of it. Our texts back and forth today were exactly like our conversation last night: intelligent and flirty. And while tonight is about helping Skye, I can’t help but think I’m lucky to have more time with Cade, too.
“I’ll get it,” Sierra says, putting aside the whisk she was using to make salad dressing.
She goes to the door and opens it, and I turn to find Cade and Jude stepping inside our apartment.
My heart flutters. Cade is wearing a simple gray T-shirt and distressed jeans with brown chukka boots finishing off his casual vibe.
The second his eyes meet mine, a smile lights up his face, revealing that dimple in his cheek. Every nerve I have jumps when I see it. Cade makes his way over to me in the kitchen, and anticipation builds in me with each step he takes.
Finally, he’s in front of me and, as I wonder how to greet him, Cade draws me against his body for a hug.
I relish the warmth of him, the glorious combination of soft cotton fabric and hard muscle, and the rich scent of his skin. Oh, this feels so good. I close my eyes and breathe him in.
Cade dips his head down next to my ear.
“You look beautiful,” he whispers to me, his sexy voice vibrating against my ear.
My pulse jumps with his compliment. Once again, I’m in my apron, and once again, he thinks I’m beautiful.
Joy sweeps over me. It feels so natural, so right, to be held in his massive arms, inhaling the sensual sage and citrus scent lingering on his powerful, athletic body.
Cade presses a quick kiss against my cheek, and his stubble scratches deliciously against my face. An image of us kissing flashes through my head, and heat rips through me.
To my dismay, he lets me go and stands straight up. Of course, it’s for the better because my thoughts were teetering further and further into dangerous territory the longer I stayed pressed against him.
“It smells amazing in here,” Cade says.
“Yes, you do,” I say without thinking.
“What?”
GAH!
I feel my face burn hot. “Um. I mean, um, it’s sauce.”
Cade cocks an eyebrow at me. “I smell like sauce?”
“No! You smell hot!”
Shit! When did I turn into a babbling idiot? When?
“I smell like hot sauce?” he asks, his eyes shining wickedly at me.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I say, shaking my head. “I meant to say, you smell the tomato sauce for cannelloni napoletani,” I say, adding the Italian emphasis on the words. “Which means cannelloni with meat and ricotta filling.”
“Say ricotta again.”
“What?” I ask.
“Just do it.”
“Okay, ricotta,” I say, using Italian pronunciation on the word.
“I love how you say it all Italian-like.”
“You say it,” I challenge.
“Ricotta.”
“Wrong.”
“I’m speaking English,” Cade declares.
“Your pronunciation is incorrect,” I declare. “I’ll have to teach you the proper way to say it.”
“Oh, is that so?” he asks, leaning against the counter.
I smile flirtatiously at him. “Yes.”
Sierra returns to her salad dressing, and Jude stands on the other side of the breakfast bar counter.
“We’re really counseling Skye Reeve tonight?” Jude asks while reaching for the antipasti I set out on the countertop. He selects a piece of prosciutto and pops it into his mouth.
“Yes,” I say. “And I can’t thank you enough for helping her tonight. She is having a rough time dealing with the trolls on social media.”
“But she had to know this would happen by going on the show, didn’t she?” Sierra asks as she adds a bit of salt to her dressing. “JoJo, taste this.”
Sierra grabs a spoon and dips it into her dressing, handing it to me. “Enough basil?”
I feel Cade’s eyes on me as my palate goes to work.
“Yes, there’s a nice balance of basil, but I still get the orange,” I say. “It’s good.” Then I look at Cade, whose beautiful jade eyes are locked in on me. “What?”
“You,” he says simply. “I love watching you work.”
Sierra smiles and goes back to chopping some romaine for the salad. I turn away before I become a big melted puddle in front of everyone.
“Can I do anything to help you?” he asks.
I’m struck by how considerate he is. Marco would already be on the sofa with a beer popped open by this point.
“You can open the oven for me,” I say.
“I see you don’t trust me with anything complex,” he teases.
“It’s because she’s smart,” Jude interjects, as he moves next to Sierra to help with the salad. “Did he tell you he caught our microwave on fire last year?”
I slide my baking pan into the oven, and Cade shuts the door. I set the timer and turn to Cade.
“No, I haven’t heard about this oven fire,” I say, lifting an eyebrow at him.
“You can shut up now, Jupe,” he teases.
Sierra turns around, pointing her knife at me. “You told him about Jupe?” she accuses, referring to the drunken night of texting that led to his nickname.
“No,” I say, pointing at Jude. “Jupe told Cade about Jupe!”
Sierra begins laughing, and we join in.
“Okay, let’s not revisit that part of history,” Sierra declares.
“But it gave Jupe his nickname,” Cade teases. “You know at practice, he’ll only pass me the puck if I call him Jupe.”
“Really?” Sierra asks.
Jude grins. “It’s a lovely nickname, sweetheart. I had to keep it going.”
I see the biggest smile pass over Sierra’s face, and I know she treasures his little public nod to her.
Sierra clears her throat. “Okay. We were talking about Skye, remember?”
“Right,” I say. I move next to Cade, and to my delight, he slides his arm around my waist. Goose bumps instantly prickle my skin in response t
o his touch. “Skye knew she was going on the show to get publicity. And she knew there would be some negativity because of it, but she was caught off guard by the reality.”
“Sometimes knowing it and living it are two different things,” Cade says. “You have to learn to ignore the trolls.”
“See, that’s the thing,” I say. “I don’t know if she wants to learn to deal with it or simply pursue something out of the limelight. I knew you guys could at least be able to give her some ways to cope if she decides to stay in television.”
“I told you she was in it for TV,” Cade teases.
“Okay. Yes. You were right about that. But Skye really fell in love,” I say firmly. “That part was genuine. Sometimes love happens when you aren’t expecting it. Skye said she never dreamed she could fall for Tom, but she did.”
I look up at Cade, and his eyes lock with mine.
“I guess that can happen,” he says, his gaze holding on my face. “When you aren’t looking at all, I mean.”
Ohhhhhhhh!
“But she shouldn’t let fear drive her decision,” Jude says, interrupting our moment. “If her dream is to be on TV, she needs to follow through. Especially now that she has all this publicity.”
Sierra grabs some wineglasses. “I agree. She can’t let other people have that kind of power over her life. Hey, do you guys want some wine? I have some that is decanted.”
“I love that my girlfriend is a foodie,” Jude says, smiling at Sierra. “I get home-cooked meals and decanted wine. A vast improvement over boxed macaroni and cheese at home.”
Sierra blows him a kiss and begins to pour some red wine into glasses for us.
The doorbell rings, and we stop talking.
“I’ll get it,” I say, knowing it’s Skye.
I slip out of my apron and hang it on the wall hook I put up for it in the kitchen. I can feel Cade’s gaze on me, taking in my jeans and chambray off-the-shoulder blouse.
Happiness fills me as I know he’s staring. I add a little swing to my hips as I walk, just for his enjoyment.
I head to the door and verify it is indeed Skye before unlocking it and pulling it open.
“Hi, Skye, I’m so glad you could make it,” I say. “Come on in.”
