Can't Stand the Heat

by Peggy Jaeger

  Without a glance at Stacy, she started walking, this time forcing Nikko along with her.

  Chapter Six

  Stacy closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. She’d bet next month’s rent Nikko’d only changed the shooting schedule and the first challenge just to make her look incompetent in front of the crew.

  She’d worked with control freaks before. You couldn’t avoid it if you worked in television. But Stamp stood head and shoulders and every part she could name above all the other technical directors she’d worked alongside.

  He’d made plain his feelings on not wanting her here, about not wanting or needing any executive producer, not specifically her. Why, then, did she feel the animosity rolling off him in waves was about her, specifically, and not merely about her job and title?

  She’d done nothing but be civil to him. Hadn’t challenged anything he’d told her, carried out all his commands. Why, then, did he seem to dislike her so much?

  The noise level coming from the dining hall was raucous, the cast and crew all laughing and enjoying their meal and one another. For a hot second she thought to march right back through the doors and join them.

  But…she had work to do, especially now that Stamp was intent on making changes.

  As she made her way back to the main house, Stacy promised herself one thing: She’d see this through. No matter how difficult and downright obnoxious Dominick Stamp was, she’d agreed to this job and had to remember what waited for her on the other side of it.

  She’d just turned into the gravel walkway surrounding the house when she heard her named called. She stopped and turned to see Clay Burbank jogging toward her.

  “Hey,” he said by way of greeting. “You didn’t get anything to eat.”

  “Typical chef,” she said, summoning up a smile. “Always worried if someone’s—God forbid—not eating.”

  He grinned at her and shot his hands into the back pockets of his worn jeans, the movement tugging his already snug T-shirt tighter and accentuating his pecs.

  “I’m not hungry,” she said. “I’ve got a ton of work to do before tomorrow. Plus, I’m fairly certain I’ll be sick and tired of barbeque before too long.”

  “Oh? Is that a reference to the challenges?”

  No one who looked like he did—buff to the bone with a heavy dose of badass—was ever able to pull off the innocent, angelic look he was trying for. Before she could stop herself, Stacy laughed.

  “Oh, no you don’t, Clay Burbank.” She wagged a finger at him. “I may be tired but I’m not tired and stupid. You’ll find out what the challenges are the same way and at the same time as every other contestant. Don’t try to worm anything out of me, because my lips are glued. Tight. With super-glue.”

  The flick of his gaze from her eyes to her mouth and then back again was hot enough to singe. But Stacy was immune to the heat pouring off Burbank like water.

  He cocked his head. “Not even a hint? A tiny one?” He held his thumb and index finger an inch apart.

  “No. And you should know better. This isn’t your first competition.”

  When his substantial muscles flexed as he shrugged, Stacy pitied any other woman who would try to resist his charm.

  “Okay, point taken. But I want to ask you a question.”

  “As long as it’s not about the challenges or anything else competition related, go for it.”

  “Why didn’t you set Nikko straight? Back at the dining hall. Why’d you let him make a fool of you?”

  Stacy sucked in a deep breath.

  “You could have told him I was the one who pestered you about the schedule when we were all in the van. It was my fault you clued us in; you didn’t just volunteer the info.”

  Stacy bobbed her head. “I know. It’s true I wasn’t going to say anything about the shooting schedule until you asked. I’d planned on just telling you all a little about the ranch, where you’d all be staying. Give you a heads up on your individual producers.”

  “So, again, why didn’t you tell him that when he went off on his tirade?”

  “Because he was right. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m not the person in charge of this production. He is. He wanted to go over everything with all of you, make sure you understood his concept, his direction. I don’t want him to think I’m trying to wrestle any of his authority away, which, unfortunately, is what he does think. I don’t work that way.”

  “None of us thought—or think—you’re trying to step on his toes, Stacy. That’s a fact. Most of us know you either from Kandy’s show or from your rep on Bake Off. We know your style tends to be more peacemaker and problem-solver, not shit-stirrer.”

  He said it with a grin, and Stacy couldn’t help but return it. “Yup. That’s me. Switzerland.” She sighed and glanced down at her hands. “Listen,” she said when she lifted her gaze again, “I appreciate the support, I really do. But I made a mistake. One that I won’t make again. Remember, on a shoot the technical director is God. The be-all end-all. For the purpose of this show that’s Dominick Stamp. And he’s an amazing director. You know that. You’ve worked with him.”

  “He may be God on this little show, but he’s also a hothead, a know-it-all, and a bully.”

  Stacy stared up at him, remembering she’d been thinking almost the same thing just a few moments ago. For some reason, she didn’t like hearing the words come out of Burbank’s mouth.

  “I prefer to think of it as being passionate and perfectionistic. Two qualities I’m more than used to dealing with since Kandy was—and is—both. If he’s demanding, it’s because he expects the best of everyone involved in the show, himself included, I’d imagine.”

  It was Burbank’s turn to stare at her. Kindness mixed with concern filled his gaze.

  “Look, I could tell him the truth on the q.t., that it was me who asked about the schedule. All you did was answer.”

  “Don’t.” She reached out and wrapped a hand around his forearm. “Please, Clay. Just let it be.”

  “He really shouldn’t speak to you like that, Stacy.”

  “It’s fine. Really.”

  He glanced down at where her hand lay against his bare arm, and then back up at her face. When he made to move closer to her, she jerked her hand away and retreated back a few steps, widening the space between them.

  “Now go back and relax with everyone else,” she said, planting a smile on her face that she hoped didn’t look as forced as it felt. “You’ve got a busy day tomorrow and you want to bring your A game. This is, after all, a cooking competition.”

  His brows pulled together above his eyes, then smoothed over again. “No worries ’bout that, babe. My middle name is winner.”

  He shot her a cocky grin and a cheeky wink that coaxed a real smile from her. “Really? I thought it was Peter.”

  With a shake of his head and a flip of his hand he said, “Nah. Nasty rumor, that. Don’t spread it, okay?”

  Laughing, she nodded, then turned toward the house. “See you in the morning,” she called over her shoulder.

  * * * *

  Nikko pulled back into the shadows cast by the fading light. From his hidden position, he watched Clay Burbank wait until Stacy was no longer visible, and then take his time to turn and go back down the drive.

  Nikko let out the breath he’d been holding.

  After escorting Jade up to the house and then refusing to join her for a private dinner, he’d been on his way back to the cabin to start dinner for himself and Melora when he’d heard Burbank and Stacy speaking. He’d been surprised at the content of their conversation, and intrigued when Stacy asked Clay not tell him that he’d been the one to ask about the schedule.

  That made two times now she hadn’t pleaded in her own defense. Why didn’t she want him to know the truth? Why did she allow him to think the worst of her and never jump to her own
defense?

  And when she’d called him passionate and perfectionistic, he’d almost gasped out loud and given away his position. Of all the things she could have said about him, he never imagined it would be anything so positive.

  Or dead-on.

  Nikko took his time going down the steps, his thigh screaming.

  By the time he got back to the cabin, he decided he was going to make his daughter apologize to Stacy for lying and she was going to make that apology in front of him. That way he’d, one, know she’d really carried through with it, and two, it would allow him to offer his own apology for accusing her without knowing all the facts.

  Nikko might have an almost impossible ego—he’d fully agree with anyone who claimed he did—but one thing he always did was admit when he was wrong.

  After a simple, yet delicious dinner of grilled chicken, asparagus, and a light spinach salad that Nikko ate all of and Melora managed several bites of each, they retreated to the living room. Recognizing how bored his daughter was, he reconsidered his previous punishment and allowed her to have her laptop so she could watch a movie. But he kept his directive of no email or any social media connections.

  His daughter scowled, but settled on the couch, the computer on her lap while he did some more preliminary work. He emailed the head of the camera crew and outlined how he wanted the kitchen cameras set up. That done, he did the same to the rest of the technical crew heads with instructions about the first day’s filming.

  Several hours passed when he felt his phone buzz in his pants pocket. He looked over at his daughter, now sound asleep with the laptop cuddled between her arms.

  A text from Stacy. Have you decided what you want to change the first challenge to?

  Dammit.

  He’d forgotten he needed to come up with something new. He scrubbed his hands down his face, trying to devise some way to save face without looking like a total jerk.

  He texted back: After considering it, will stick to original plan.

  There. A perfect excuse, especially because it was true.

  The phone vibrated again.

  Chefs have head shots beginning at 8 am. Preliminary filming at 10. Are you still thinking of changing the start time? I can notify the crew.

  He was tempted to, if for no other reason than to prove he could. Two hours for head shots should be enough. More than enough, actually.

  Have everyone ready to go at 9:30.

  Knowing chefs as well as he did, he’d be lucky if they all arrived by eleven.

  Nikko leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Almost immediately the phone buzzed again.

  Anything else you need me to do before tomorrow?

  Yeah, you can stop being so nice and accommodating. Instead of typing that, he simply wrote No.

  Staring at his laptop, his email still open, he sighed and forwarded all the conversations he’d been having for the past few hours to Stacy, after finding her email address in the note Teddy Davis had sent him. Then, he texted Check your inbox. Grudgingly, he realized she needed to know what he wanted to happen the next day so there would be no screwups. He could have been a prick and just let her muddle through, find out on her own, but he suspected she’d have no problem doing that. The crew liked her, and if he could take Burbank’s words as true, they knew the type of worker she was.

  When his phone buzzed, he swiped to the incoming text.

  Thank you. I’ll make sure everything is exactly as you want it in the morning.

  Why didn’t that surprise him?

  Chapter Seven

  Stacy bent from her waist and placed her hands, palms flat, on the mat. She squatted, then, in one swift move, vaulted her legs back to balance on the tips of her toes, her body weight all in her hands. She settled into the plank pose and tried to rid her mind of the chaos of last evening.

  Once back in her room, her phone had started beeping every few minutes with texts from Carrie James relaying concerns, demands, and complaints from Jade Quartermaine. Stacy had thought the veteran producer would be able to handle the judge. Unfortunately, that hadn’t proven true and Stacy had been forced to extinguish several potential fires.

  Incensed to discover the ranch was alcohol-free, Jade ordered Carrie to drive back into town to purchase a case of wine and bill it to EBS. Carrie refused and Jade exploded. The girl barely had enough time to text an SOS to Stacy before the diva began criticizing the inadequacy of the rooms she’d been provided. When Stacy arrived, she’d calmly explained the suite had been used by the late Mrs. Dixon and Amos had opened and refurbished it just for Jade.

  This appeared to appease the woman for a few moments. The lack of alcohol was brought to the forefront next, and after that Jade then questioned the time schedule for filming, her wardrobe choices, the exclusive use of a makeup artist. Anything and everything, it seemed, that she could find to complain about, she did.

  Two hours of listening, explaining, and cajoling later and Stacy’s headache had returned and morphed into a college marching-band drum line.

  When she finally made it back to her room, she collapsed on her bed, fully clothed.

  Her phone beeped within seconds with messages from the technical crew chiefs about the first day of shooting. She dealt with them all, barely able to keep her eyes open.

  Right before falling asleep she remembered Stamp’s desire to change things for the next day, so she texted him.

  Staggered didn’t begin to describe how she felt when she saw the emails he’d forwarded.

  What was he up to? Was he trying to trip her up again, telling her what to expect the next day, and then—perhaps—planning to change it all without her knowing so she could look foolish in front of the crew? She wouldn’t put it past him.

  Before finally getting into bed to actually sleep, she made several notes in her tablet, highlighting events and the times he’d given for them.

  Now, Stacy inhaled, then lowered her body to the mat, keeping it in a straight, secure line, and bending her elbows out at her sides, in push-up position. Right before she exhaled and began to move into downward dog, she heard a familiar rustling behind her, something drop to the ground, and then a muffled, “Crap-on-a-stick!”

  Slowly, Stacy rose to a flat-footed stance and took a breath.

  “I’m sorry. Again.” Melora came through the trees, a rolled-up beach towel hugged to her chest, a plastic water bottle in her hand. Her spiky hair was held back from her face by a wide headband; a too-large black T-shirt that looked like it might fit her father slid off her shoulders. Black capri-length exercise pants hugged her skinny legs, and Stacy knew then what she’d only suspected: The girl had an issue with food. And from the tiny width of her skeletal calves and knobbiness of her knees, a big issue.

  “I tried to get here earlier,” Melora said, flicking the towel out and spreading it on a flat batch of grass, “but since I don’t have my phone because I’m still being, like, persecuted for being bored and mouthy by he who rules the world, I had to rely on my mental powers to wake me up on time and they major failed. Then I had to, like, sneak out before his lordship woke up and grilled me like a steak about where I was going.”

  She stopped and her bottom lip disappeared as she sucked it into her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop.” Stacy smiled. “I haven’t been here long myself, really; just getting started.”

  Melora’s shoulders relaxed, one arm of the tee slipping down. She yanked it back in place only to have the opposite shoulder fall in response.

  “Do you know any poses?” Stacy asked.

  “Zippity-zilch.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s start with some easy ones.”

  “Before we do, can I, like, say something to you?”

  “Anything.”

  “About yesterday? When Nikko went nuclear?”

  Stacy waited.

&n
bsp; “I just wanted to say, to tell you... well...” She hung her head, then lifted her gaze back to Stacy and nodded as if fortifying herself. “I, like, lied to you. About him saying it was cool to go. He didn’t. I never got a chance to ask him before we had to leave.”

  “I realized that when we got back.”

  “I’m so, so, so, sorry he went apeshit. Really. Nikko’s a ‘scream now, ask for deets’ later kinda guy.”

  Stacy kept it to herself she’d figured that out too.

  “I just wanted to get out of here, you know? Even for a little while. I was hoping he wouldn’t notice I was gone.”

  “No chance of that, apparently.”

  With a headshake, she said, “Zero. I did tell him that I lied to you.”

  “Really? Wow.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t be too impressed. I did it because he made me boil, thinking you were to blame. I was getting punished anyway, but I wanted things to be cool between the two of you.”

  No chance of that happening. Ever.

  “Anyway,” the girl said, “I’m sorry. For like, everything.”

  Because Stacy remembered so well what it was like to be a teenager, she smiled. “Not even a thought. Now, come on. Let me show you how this is done.”

  For the next several minutes, Stacy took the girl through a simple sun salutation, going slowly, and explaining how and when to breathe through each move.

  Melora was a quick and astute student.

  “And then,” Stacy instructed, “move out of downward-facing dog into a final savasana. Raise your arms above your head slowly, bringing your palms together, drop your head back, and gaze up at your joined thumbs. Breathe, and bring your touching hands down to center.”

  With a side-glance, she monitored Melora’s progress.

  “Breathe. Bow. And that’s it. Your first sun salutation. Great job.”

  The free and open smile on Melora’s face touched her heart.

  “Intense!”

  Stacy laughed. After a quick glance at the clock on her phone, she began rolling up her mat, Melora mimicking her movements with the towel. “It should be. Especially if you do it right.”