“No, it’s on my computer. Wait—my mail comes through on my phone. I can probably access it from there and forward it to you.”
“That would be great. Come on in. Charlotte and Alva are in the kitchen. We’re sampling harvest bread.”
“It smells amazing.”
Lani smiled. “Tastes even better.”
Dre hedged for another second, then went ahead and stepped inside. “Thanks.”
“Absolutely. The more the merrier.”
“I really am sorry for barging in, Chef.”
“It’s after eleven and you’re not on the clock. You can call me Lani.”
Dre looked at her. “That’s probably not going to happen.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the chef, Chef.” As if that explained it. With Dre, it probably did.
Lani shook her head and smiled. “Suit yourself.”
They stepped into the kitchen to find Charlotte and Alva behind the counter, mixers whirring and things being measured.
“I leave for five minutes—”
Charlotte lifted an unapologetic shoulder. She was getting very good at that, Lani noted.
Alva twinkled. “She’s showing me how to make individual serving cheesecakes in a muffin pan, like little cheesecake cupcakes! If they come out right, it’ll be just the thing for my dessert menu Friday. We can top some with blueberries, some with raspberries, and some with strawberries. Isn’t that just delightful ?”
“Delightful,” Lani echoed.
Alva looked past Lani. “Well hello, Dre dear. Care to give us a hand? We need someone to crush the graham crackers, then cut the butter into them and I’m afraid my wrists aren’t what they used to be.”
Dre shook out her apron and had it tied on in a flash. “Excellent.”
“Small crumb.” Alva handed Dre the package of graham crackers and a pastry blender. “Well, my word. What—or who—is that?” She was staring at Dre’s apron.
“Captain Jack Sparrow,” Dre said, as if unable to comprehend that anyone wouldn’t recognize the image. When Alva merely kept staring, she added, “Johnny Depp?”
Alva finally tore her gaze away and went back to blending. “I like pirates.” It was all she said, but there was an added gleam to the twinkle.
“Me, too.” Dre took the butter from Charlotte. “Okay if I use the table, Chef?”
“Sure.” Charlotte and Lani answered at the same time.
Dre smiled her dry half smile, said, “Thanks,” and got down to business.
“Something happened to my life when I wasn’t looking,” Lani said to Charlotte.
“Yes. You got one,” she said, not looking up from the handwritten recipe she was staring at.
“You’re one to talk,” Lani muttered, but went to the refrigerator and got out the cream cheese. If she couldn’t shame them, she might as well join them.
When she looked up again, Charlotte caught her eye and sent a nod Dre’s way with a lift of an eyebrow.
“She said tonight was recipe test. According to Bernard’s chart.”
“What chart?”
“Exactly,” Lani said.
“Why wouldn’t they send you the chart?”
“I have no idea. Bernard might be a little imperious about his job description, but the man misses nothing, so I can’t imagine it was an oversight. He’s like a human spreadsheet.”
“So ... are we—or were you—supposed to be testing the recipes for the first show or something?”
“I have no idea. If I was, obviously I didn’t make the meeting. And no one apparently missed me.” Lani stripped the wrappers from the cream cheese, then Charlotte chopped the soft blocks into smaller pieces. “We didn’t wrap up tonight until after six, and no one said a word, so maybe Dre just has her dates or times mixed up.”
“Still, Dre has a chart,” Charlotte said.
“Right,” Lani said.
“So?”
Lani looked at her. “So, what?”
“Aren’t you going to call? Find out what’s going on?”
“Call Bernard? At midnight? Um, gosh. No.”
“Not Bernard.”
Lani’s eyebrows lifted. “Baxter? You must be kidding. It’s torture enough having to be around him all day and that’s with a dozen other people crammed into the room, all talking at the same time. I don’t have any desire for there to be only two of us in any room at any time, or me doing any of the talking, unless it’s directed at a camera.”
“You should call him. It’s a good excuse.”
“I don’t need an excuse to talk to him.”
“Good,” Charlotte smiled. “So, what are you waiting for?”
“Pigs sprouting wings? I thought you’d come to the dark side with me on this and agreed. I must resist temptation.”
“You said he has sweet parts. Sounds pretty tempting to me.”
“I can be strong.”
“Let him be strong. Manly with sweet parts. Honestly, Lan, you’re an idiot to hold out. Life is unpredictable. You could suffer a tragic mixer accident, and then where would you be?”
“The hell with tea. I think we need more wine.”
“Who has sweet parts?” Alva wanted to know.
Charlotte just looked at Lani with a raised brow.
“Is Chef Dunne coming to our party?” Alva asked, with a hopeful smile.
Lani glanced over and noticed that Dre was paying special attention, too. “No. We’re not having a party, we’re just having an impromptu, um—”
“Bitch and bake,” Charlotte finished.
“A bitching what?” Alva asked.
“Leilani and I used to get together after hours when we both lived in New York and let off steam by baking. And bitching. About whatever was bugging us.”
“You know,” Alva said, “I was telling our Miss Lani May the other night how therapeutic it was to help her with her sponge roll.”
“Passion fruit roulade,” Lani said to Charlotte.
“Right,” Alva said, “the fruit roll. Anyway, I so enjoyed it. Then we had another chance to work on those cupcakes last Sunday morning. I can’t recall when I’ve enjoyed myself more. Until this evening.” With glee, she cranked the mixer on high and went back to doing ... whatever it was she was doing.
Dre merely nodded and went back to grinding cracker crumbs.
Lani looked at Charlotte. “Don’t even think about shrugging that shoulder. I’m not calling him. So, deal with it. If there’s a chart, I can get one from Bernard in the morning.”
“So,” Alva announced, as she flipped the mixer back off again. “If we’re having a bitching bake, then it’s probably okay to tell you the poker tournament was almost a complete bust. Laura Jo’s sangria was a lot more potent than any of us recalled it being the last time she made it. Add in those devilishly decadent volcano cupcakes and, well, things got a little out of hand. When Dee Dee flat out told Laura Jo that she thought Felipe was too good for her, and that it didn’t matter if she died her hair orange and stripped naked, well, Laura Jo didn’t take too well to that. I’m not sure exactly when the sheriff’s department arrived. That handsome Deputy Maxwell was the first one on the scene and let me tell you, no one minded being frisked by that one. We were lining up.”
“Twelve forty-five,” Dre said offhandedly. Everyone looked at her. “It was twelve forty-five. I won twenty-five bucks.”
“Good for you, dear.” Alva nodded with approval. “Dee Dee should have taken that bet. It would have helped with her bail money.”
Charlotte might have snickered under her breath.
Lani elbowed her in the side, but was having a hard time keeping her grin to herself. When did this happen? Lani wondered, standing in her tiny, crowded kitchen in the middle of the night. But, the truth was ... she didn’t mind really. In fact, she thought, with a smile to herself, it’s kind of nice.
“Welcome to Cupcake Club,” she murmured under her breath.
Chapter 12
“
Leilani, move your hand, you’re blocking—”
“Right. Sorry.” Lani shifted her hand so the overhead camera could clearly capture the contents of the mixing bowl, then belatedly realized she’d yet again spoken out loud in response to the instruction that had come through her earpiece and the director was once again calling to cut. “I’m sorry.” She smiled despite her frustration with herself. It was one o’clock in the afternoon and they weren’t even halfway through taping the first episode. And they’d started at six that morning. “I don’t know why I can’t get this.”
“It’s okay,” Baxter said genially. “It’s not a natural way to work, so it takes time. Don’t ask Rosemary how many times it took me during the first month of shoots we did, because she’ll tell you, in great detail.”
He’d been like that all day. Endlessly patient, good-spirited, consistently supportive.
Lani smiled briefly, grateful for the backup, but perversely wishing he’d get at least a little put out with her. Was it too much to ask for him to be human? Or at least not so damn perfectly ... perfect? Surely it would be easier if she could be irritated at him and therefore make herself believe that her screwups were all his fault.
It was impossible enough to remember everything she had to remember—where to look, where not to put her hands, how to handle things so the camera could see them, don’t forget to explain the steps and the smells, tastes, textures, and, oh right, by the way, be naturally charming and ad lib all of her dialogue banter with Baxter. Hadn’t they heard of cue cards?
On top of all that, he was standing right beside her and had been for going on their eighth hour now, being positively charming and gracious and sexy as all hell. And he smelled so good. The words sweet parts kept running through her mind.
Try as she might, she couldn’t find the center of the storm. She’d always been able to block out the insanity by focusing on the next step, then the next one. Chop, chop, chop, mix, mix, mix, bake, bake, bake. The rituals of measuring, blending, sifting, rolling were as soothing to her mind as a full body massage would be to her body. She could always depend on the confidence and comfort she found in the rhythm of it all, as if she was simply another piece of equipment, doing its job, producing the next product. As long as she kept on task, it didn’t matter what was going on around her.
The problem was, she couldn’t just focus on her own little world of creation. Her own little world was being filmed, so she had to find a way to invite the whole freaking universe into her quiet, focused place. And be bright, cheerful, and casually charming while she did so.
They’d spent the entire previous day blocking everything out, and teaching her where to stand, what to do, what not to do, where to look, what to say, what not to say. Clearly, one day of training had not been enough. At the moment, she wasn’t sure a master class on the subject would help.
“Let’s go again,” Rosemary called out. “Overheads only. Then sides, then we’ll do steps.”
Good, Lani thought. Overheads meant she didn’t have to talk, just let them film from above. All she had to do was keep her hands in the right places so as not to block anything. Surely she could manage that. She’d learned there would be multiple takes of the same exact section of the recipe they were demonstrating, from different angles, along with additional film of the discussion and explanation, as well as the dreaded casual banter, which would all be spliced together afterward to produce the seamless episodes she’d taken entirely for granted when watching cooking shows on television.
Lani thought about the late night hours when she’d unwind with her television chef pals, whom she’d never met. Those she was certain would be her very best friends if they ever did. She’d relax as she enjoyed the lovely soothing background music, and Giada in her kitchen, cooking so happily, and so competently. All by her sweet, charming, relaxed little self. In her serene, beautiful kitchen.
Yeah. Turned out it wasn’t like that.
Of course, Lani had known that. Intellectually. But the reality went so far beyond what she’d imagined went into the making of a single episode. Just the time spent choosing which recipes were going to be re-created, then breaking down exactly how to show the pastries being assembled in as entertaining and understandable ways as possible. Plus the testing, the tasting, the prep work, the camera angles required and how her hands—which felt enormous to her now—were always, always blocking every shot. How did Giada, Bobby, and the Contessa do it? How?
Baxter ... well, she knew how he did it. Effortlessly was how he did it. Which was why she smiled at his attempt to make her feel less of a dork, but didn’t buy it for a second. To look at him, a person would never know he didn’t cook on the hastily assembled set every day of his life, and that he hadn’t been doing it all in front of the camera for decades, rather than just a few years. The camera loved him, the crew loved him, Rosemary—despite being pretty scary with her barking orders and charging about—Lani could tell, adored him. Privately she thought it was probably more because Rosemary looked at him and saw dollar signs cha-chinging in her head, but whatever the motivation was, he was the golden child in this arena every bit as much as he had been in the kitchens they’d worked in together.
She, on the other hand, felt a lot like the ridiculous, clumsy sidekick. She glanced down, took a calming breath. Yeah. Wearing her Roald Dahl Charlie & the Chocolate Factory apron for inspiration seemed a bit laughable. Definitely a bit of a reach. She’d even make the Oompa Loompas cringe at her performance thus far.
“Rosie, let’s get this section in the can, then break,” Baxter said. “We can do the sides and the final reveal after we get something to eat, yes?”
Lani glanced at Rosemary, who nodded, albeit seemingly reluctantly. Lani still could not fathom anyone calling the director-producer Rosie.
“Gus,” Rosemary directed the cameraman, “from the top left. Lani, left hand on the counter, use your right to tilt the beaters up from the mixing stand, then take out the bowl so the overhead can get the shot. Baxter talks. Then you both use the ice cream scoops to fill the cups, and into the oven with the trays.”
“We’ve got it,” Baxter said, and looked at Lani, who nodded and smiled gamely.
Sure thing, she thought. Right. Piece of cake. Ha.
Rosemary clapped her hands. “Okay, quiet please. And? Go.”
To everyone’s pleasant surprise—and great relief, she was sure—Lani managed to get through it in a single take. A short cheer went up from the crew as lunch was announced. Given the remote location, they’d hired on Laura Jo to cater during the shoot. Tents had been set up across the street in the park and within minutes, Lani’s kitchen and shop were deserted. Except for Baxter. She turned to follow the guys out, not so much hungry as mentally exhausted. All she wanted was to find a place to sit and do nothing more complicated than contemplate her navel for the next half hour.
“Leilani, wait.” Baxter untied and took off his Some Like It Hot movie poster apron.
Dre had shown up yesterday afternoon near the end of the actual recipe testing time—Lani had found both the original and the updated schedule on her office fax the next morning—to bring Baxter a few aprons to wear during filming. She and some of her graphics classmates had custom designed the aprons for him, making them longer to accommodate his above-average height.
He’d gotten a kick out of them, as had Rosemary, so they’d gotten the go ahead. Dre had been so thrilled she’d straightened from her typically slouched frame, to practically skipping when she’d headed out again.
Lani smiled briefly at the memory as she slipped the neck loop of her own apron over her head, then groaned a bit at the tight muscles in the base of her neck. She was used to standing, hunched over a worktable, for very long hours, but it had been a while since she’d been so tense while she did so. And the last thing to help reverse that was alone time with Baxter. “Can I catch you la—oh. My.”
Baxter had stepped up behind her and put his warm, wide palms on the upper p
art of her shoulders and started massaging the muscles at the base of her neck with his thumbs.
She should politely slip out from under his touch, but all she could do was groan in abject appreciation as he skillfully worked out each and every kink and knot. “All that time we worked together, you never once offered up these mad massage skills of yours,” she said, feeling the tension release all the way down her spine, even through the backs of her legs. A few more minutes and she’d be like wobbly gelatin.
“Well, luv.” He cupped her shoulders and turned her around to face him, waiting until she looked up into his face. “I thought it best to keep my hands only on the pastry dough.” He smiled, and worked his fingertips gently into her shoulders, which kept the tingles going, but for an entirely different reason.
“Baxter—”
“I’ve thought a lot about our walk on the beach the other night.”
Alarm bells went off and she stiffened all over again. “Nothing has changed.”
His hands tightened on her shoulders, more to steady her than anything. He rubbed his thumbs along the curve of her muscles and it felt so good she was helpless to shrug them off, even knowing she should.
“The past few days, in the test kitchen and on set with you,” he started, “have been—”
“Nothing has changed,” she reiterated. “Chef.”
His fingers went slack, but only for a moment. Then he gave her shoulders a quick squeeze, and let her go.
She wished she didn’t feel so damn bereft when he did, but the fact that had been her gut response only proved it was the right way to go. She was more vulnerable than she cared to be, but she couldn’t seem to do much about that. The best thing to do was keep him at a distance as much as she could. Physically, and emotionally.
“You conceded,” she reminded him. “We both did. For a good reason.”
“We?”
She held his gaze for another moment, then let out a soft sigh. Crap. The last thing she wanted was for him to regain any hope regarding a future with her. He’d said it himself. He had no life to offer her, even if she wanted it—which she didn’t. In reality. In her dreams? Maybe there it was different. Every night, in fact. Very different. But in reality, they had no future to offer each other.
Sugar Rush Page 20
