Can't Stand the Heat

by Peggy Jaeger

  “Can we do this, like, again? Tomorrow? I promise I’ll find a way to get here on time.”

  “Of course. Every day you practice, you get better and more comfortable with the movements, with knowing the progression of what comes next. When you feel up to it, we can do a full meditation at the end. That’s my favorite part.”

  Together, they walked through the tree line and out onto the road.

  “Why?”

  Stacy considered how to explain what she considered such an important part of her life.

  “It clears my mind,” she said at last. “There’s so much going on in here”—she tapped her temple with her index finger—“most of the time, and I’m so busy with a million things running at once, that just letting it all go and being quiet and still and calm is an amazing process. It took me a long time before I was able to do it properly.”

  “Like, what do you mean, properly? Don’t you just sit, close your eyes, and, like, breathe?”

  Stacy grinned. “I used to think it was that easy. Until I had to do it. The person I studied with told me to simply free my mind of all thoughts. To focus on breathing in and out. Five seconds in and I’d be thinking of what I wanted to have for lunch, or did I remember to hand in my math homework? How many calories were in the bag of chips I had last night? Did I look like a total alien in the new eyeliner I bought?”

  Melora giggled, the sound echoing along the quiet walkway.

  “It took me about three months before I got it, and was just able to…be. No thoughts, no internal chatter, no unending noise. Just…quiet.”

  She turned and was surprised to see Melora’s cheerful mien had shifted. Gone was the easy and childlike smile, replaced now by lips pressed tight together in a flat line. Stacy stopped and reached out a hand.

  “Melora, what’s wrong? Did I say something to upset you?”

  With the towel hugged against her slight frame, Melora shook her head. “No. It’s just…”

  “Sweetie, what?”

  The teen’s head shot up, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. “My mom used to call me that.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “No. Please.” She wrapped her hand around Stacy’s arm. “I—I don’t mind. I liked it. It made me think of her before she, you know…died.”

  Through countless counseling sessions and years of personal introspection and professional therapy, Stacy had come to learn sometimes the best response in any emotional situation was to stay silent.

  She reached her other hand up and placed it over the one on her arm.

  “Sorry to make like a fountain.” Melora swiped at her dripping nose with the back of her free hand. “When you said meditating helped you find, like, quiet?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you, I mean, would you…do you think I could learn that? Learn to quiet all the”—she swiped her hand in the air—“crap and stuff? Do you think I might be able to learn how to do that?”

  “I know you could.”

  “Would you—?” She bit down on her bottom lip. “I mean, could you, like…teach me?”

  Stacy had it on the tip of her tongue to say no, she was too busy, she didn’t have enough time to instruct Melora in the ways and nuances of deep meditation. Now that the show was ready to begin filming, her free time would be almost nil, and teaching such an involved process to a teenager wasn’t how she wanted to spend her downtime.

  One look at Melora’s troubled face, though, and a rush of familiarity in her childlike expression sluiced through Stacy, and she experienced a stab of kinship so intense that she found herself acquiescing before she could pull the words back in.

  They parted when the path did the same, one fork leading back to the main house, the other to the cabin.

  A quick shower, dressed comfortably, and sans her contact lenses because she knew what a long day it was going to be, and Stacy trotted down to the barn that housed the set kitchen, sending off a text as she did.

  A makeshift photographer’s studio was set up in one of the refurbished kitchen rooms, several of the chefs, clad in their newly fitted white jackets with the show’s logo stitched over the left breast pocket, waiting to get their head shots.

  Stacy had liked the logo—a steer stomping on a fork—the first time she’d seen it, secretly rooting for the steer.

  Clay Burbank was seated on a stool, his background a baker’s rack filled with pots and pans. Armed with her ever-present notebook, she flipped open to the photography schedule, saw what time Riley was listed, and knew there were six chefs left after him to have their studio shots taken before they were all due in the set kitchen for their introductions and first official challenge.

  Stacy questioned the few producers who were present and was assured everything was running smoothly. Just as she was leaving the area, Riley MacNeill came through the door.

  “Right on time.”

  He smiled at her. He really was a good-looking boy with high, arched cheekbones and deep-set eyes that for some reason she thought missed nothing. In a few years, with some age-related weight and muscle, he would be the total package of a sexy chef.

  “I packed it in early like you suggested,” he told her.

  “Good. You’ve got a busy day in front of you and on a fast-paced show like this it pays to be well rested. Keeps you sharp mentally and physically.”

  “Yeah, Clay said the same thing.”

  Stacy nodded. “He’s been through a few of these competitions, so he knows.”

  Her name was called over the walkie-talkie, and with a quick squeeze to Riley’s shoulder, she told him, “See you later,” while she moved through the set and answered the call.

  * * * *

  Nikko took a moment to inspect the set kitchen and the camera placements from the production truck he was going to be calling home for the next few weeks.

  Nine flat television screens were situated on one side, cued to various areas of the kitchen, which would stream continuous feeds of the chefs throughout the challenge. There wasn’t an inch of the kitchen that couldn’t be viewed from one—or more—of the cameras. Four techs would use body cameras to film up close and during the tasting portions of the challenge with the two judges.

  The editing process would, as always, be tedious, culling from each camera the best shot to film the story of the competition.

  His attention was diverted when Stacy moved into one of the camera shots to speak with a crew member. The sound wasn’t on, so all he could do was watch.

  As he’d noticed the night before, she wore glasses today, her hair pulled back into a tiny ponytail at her neck, making her look no older than his daughter. She had a communication headset secured around her head, the microphone pointed downward as she spoke. Her ever-present notebook was crooked in one arm, a walkie-talkie secured to a waist harness.

  The director in him noticed the way she gave her total attention to the man speaking, nodding at intervals, cocking her head as if questioning something. She didn’t interrupt or speak until he was finished, something Nikko found fascinating, since so many people he dealt with day to day had a habit of doing just the opposite.

  He still had trouble believing she was close to thirty. Skin unlined and clear, again reminding him of someone his daughter’s age, glowed with health. She was thin, but not in a sickly way, more along the lines of someone who took care of her body. Once again, she was garbed in trousers, not jeans, as was the rest of the production team, himself included, and a long-sleeved blue blouse that shimmered under the studio lights. Silk.

  Would her skin be as soft as the material? With a jolt, he realized he wanted to discover for himself just how soft she was under her clothes.

  In all, Stacy Peters looked professional, primed, and prepared for production to begin.

  The memory of how she’d smelled like vanilla, wa
rm, sweet, and soothing, ran through him when her smiled broadened and her nose wrinkled, laughing with the tech. She reached a hand up, squeezed his shoulder, and nodded.

  When she turned to move from the frame, the pensive scrutiny in the tech’s eyes trailing her sent a hot slice of inexplicable irritation through him.

  Like a moving slide show, her image walked from television to television, each camera tracking her movement across the kitchen. She walked with purpose, her strides long and determined.

  He shouldn’t be remembering the scent she wore, shouldn’t be fantasizing about how soft her skin might be. And he certainly shouldn’t be annoyed another man looked at her with thoughtful lust in his eyes.

  He had a show to run. A career to get back on track. A daughter to keep a close and watchful eye on.

  Why, then, did this woman, one he didn’t professionally or personally need, want or care about, keep worming her way into his thoughts?

  When Stacy finally moved out of the camera’s range, Nikko shook his head.

  Chapter Eight

  Stacy was a master at remembering little nuggets of information that could be useful if needed, so when she poured herself a cup of herbal tea from the crew’s food table, she poured another cup filled with coffee for Nikko. She’d watched the evening before in the dining hall when he’d poured himself one before starting his speech.

  Full high-test caffeine with one sugar packet. How anyone could get to sleep at night drinking that stuff all day mystified her.

  She made it the same way now, covered it with a plastic top, and brought it with her. Nikko had walked out of the production trailer a few moments ago, headed for the set. She found him conferring with the head cameraman, Todd Griffin, at one of the chef stations.

  As he had yesterday, he looked tired and tense. Worry lines were etched deep along the side of his face from the corners of his nose to his jaw. Purple half-moons smudged under his eyes and his color, despite the perpetual, blazing sun of their surroundings, was pale. He was leaning against the countertop and it wasn’t difficult to ascertain he was bearing his weight on one side more than the other.

  Without interrupting, she waited while he finished speaking and then noticed her.

  It didn’t take long.

  “Morning,” she said to both of them when his gaze connected with hers.

  “Hey, Stacy.” Todd tossed her an open smile, which she returned.

  Nikko did not.

  She calmed her features and offered him the cup. His brows pulled together when he stared down at it and then back up at her. For a moment she was afraid he wasn’t going to accept it and just leave her standing there with the cup grasped in her hand.

  A smidgeon of satisfaction warmed through her when he took it, brought it to his lips, and took a sip. When surprise shot across his face as he tasted it, she wanted to do a happy jig.

  “Are you blocking?” she asked before he could say anything.

  It was Todd who answered.

  “Yeah. Since this is the first challenge, Nikko wants to make sure the cameras get a clear view of each station while the guys cook.”

  She nodded and opened her notebook, ready to take down any information or direction given.

  The two men walked from table to table, Todd gripping a handheld camera and aligning the shots the way Nikko instructed, Stacy following close behind.

  The stiff, slow way he moved confirmed her previous suspicion.

  Definitely favoring that left leg.

  Melora had alluded to the lingering pain from the accident. Standing so much must be adding to the discomfort, if not complicating his recovery. As director, Nikko wouldn’t be afforded the luxury of resting his leg. She could offer him some suggestions to deal with the pain, but nixed the idea as soon as it came to her. There was no way a man so strong-willed and domineering would ever admit to being in pain, much less accept help in dealing with it.

  The noise level rose on the quiet set when the chefs and their individual producers all arrived at the same time a heartbeat later.

  The corners of Nikko’s mouth pulled down at the unruly interruption.

  “Want me to move them all to the stew room until you’re ready?” she asked.

  She was treated to a look of annoyance.

  When would he stop resenting her presence? Why couldn’t he see how useful she could be to him? She’d thought she’d done the right thing in asking first, instead of just going ahead and moving the chefs out of the kitchen. Asking his permission should have helped alleviate his concern she didn’t feel he was in charge, but obviously not.

  “Yeah,” he said after a moment, shocking her to her core. “Get them out of here. We need a few more minutes to finish this. Then I’ll go talk to them.”

  Once she had the entire cast and their handlers ensconced in the waiting room, euphemistically called the “stew room,” Stacy spotted Jade Quartermaine and Dan Roth enter the building. Jade was surrounded by her producer and two other, younger women Stacy didn’t recognize, one of whom held a wide umbrella over the star as they walked. She shut it once they were inside the building.

  Stacy detoured to them.

  “Miss Quartermaine, Mr. Roth,” she said.

  “Call me Dan, honey.” He grinned at her and adjusted his tie. “‘Mr. Roth’ sounds too stuffy and makes me sound old.”

  “You are old,” Jade quipped.

  He threw her a side-glance and then rolled his eyes. “I’ve been going over the intros for the past hour,” Dan told her. “I think I’m good to go. Is everything set in the kitchen?”

  “Almost. Mr. Stamp is finishing up blocking and then we should be ready to start. Why don’t I take you to the stew room? The chefs are already there.”

  “No,” Jade said, the serious tone in the command giving no room for discussion. “I don’t want to be in the same room with them.”

  “Why not?” Roth asked.

  “I just don’t.” To Stacy she said, “Find us someplace else, preferably with air-conditioning. I’m boiling in this heat.”

  Stacy knew just the spot. She saw them comfortably settled in a small, extra pantry and motioned for Carrie to follow her into the hallway.

  “Who are the those two with Jade?” she asked the moment they were out of hearing.

  “Her personal makeup artist and wardrobe assistant. They arrived at five this morning. Drove themselves all the way from the airport after she called them last night and ordered them to get here. She doesn’t want the studio people, quote—doing her—unquote. She doesn’t trust them to make her look her best.”

  The girl took a huge breath and rolled her neck. “She’s the most spoiled person I’ve ever worked with, Stacy. After you left last night she started harping on the no-booze-allowed rule again. I swear, she probably had those two”—she cocked her thumb behind her—“smuggle her in a couple cases.”

  “I hope not.” If Amos Dixon got wind of that he’d be furious and she’d be the one charged with calming the waters.

  “Ask them when she’s not around,” Stacy said. “Find out for sure. That’s breaking the rules, big-time, and we can’t allow anything or anyone to jeopardize this production.”

  Carrie assured her she’d get to the truth.

  The earpiece Stacy had placed prior to leaving the set blared her name. She tapped it once and said, “Peters.”

  “You’re wanted on set,” one of the sound crew said.

  “On my way.”

  “Nikko’s ready to start,” Todd told her when she arrived at the kitchen. The technical and film crew were all present now, adjusting lights, cameras, overhead booms to record any extraneous sound.

  “The chefs are getting miked-up. Nikko just left to talk to them.”

  Stacy nodded and jogged down the hallway connecting the set with the waiting room. She arrived just as
he began speaking. The only acknowledgement he gave her was a quick flick of his eyes in her direction and then back to the group. Several sound techs were moving among the chefs, securing battery-packed body microphones under uniform jackets.

  With meticulous precision, Nikko went over every aspect of the introduction scene. “The judges will issue the challenge,” he told them, “then they’ll start the clock and you all get moving. At the appropriate minute marker we’ll call time and you all stop what you’re doing, whether you’re finished or not. Hands in the air so the cameras can see them. Understood?”

  A sea of nodding heads waved around the room.

  “Can we have a hint about the challenge, Nikko?” Clay Burbank asked. “I mean, obviously it concerns something with beef. But it would be nice to know what we’re up against.”

  “No. You know the rules, Burbank.”

  “Come on, man. Throw us a…bone.”

  The room exploded in laughter.

  Stacy’s own grin widened when she saw the corners of the director’s lips curve up ever so slightly. He had the coffee cup she’d given him in his hand, and when he took a sip of it, his gaze connected with hers.

  The subtle, lighthearted amusement floating in his expression turned serious as his gaze lingered on hers for a beat, then slowly drifted down to her mouth. The heat from his stare turned scalding, his pupils dilating, all but obliterating the color surrounding them. When his stare reconnected with her own, her breath clogged in the back of her throat as a waterfall of warm sensations cascaded down her insides. Strong, powerful, and resolute, he was the type of man she’d always secretly dreamed about having in her life, but the kind she knew wouldn’t give her a second glance.

  She wasn’t tall and gorgeous like her cousins, with strong, bold features and arresting coloring. She was willowy and pale, a result of a lifetime spent avoiding the sun. Sexy was a word she knew would never be used to describe her.

  She wasn’t an icon like Kandy or an artist like Gemma. She wasn’t healing the sick like Eleanor or fighting for the disenfranchised like Abby. Stacy was merely the person people thought of when they needed someone reliable, organized, and efficient. A problem-solver. A people-pleaser.