If You Can't Take the Heat

by Melissa Brown

  “With your help, this should be a huge success, Ms. Bartolina.” Saul snapped her back to reality.

  Whitney stood and shook Saul’s hand. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

  “I should hope not.” He winked.

  “Nashville, New Orleans, Austin, New York, Chicago . . . holy crap, Whit. This is amazing. I’m so jealous.” Elle gripped the list of cities in her hands and peered at Whitney.

  “I’d say you should come with me, but I’m not sure that’s such a good idea in your . . . condition.”

  Elle laughed, tucked her long blond hair behind her ear, and rubbed her tiny belly. She was pregnant and not due for months, but she was over the moon—despite her occasional morning sickness. “Yeah, probably not. Though maybe I could squeeze in a city or two. I’ll be well into my second trimester—it could work out perfectly.”

  “Wouldn’t Luke have a problem with that?”

  Elle shrugged and rolled her eyes playfully as her cheeks reddened. Her husband of almost a year, Luke Kingston, was the star of Follow the Sun. Women across the world worshiped him, but that didn’t make him any less a doting husband or soon-to-be-dad. “He’d probably just tag along . . . if that’s okay.”

  Whitney laughed. “Of course. I love Luke—you know that.”

  It was the truth. From the moment he’d entered the scene, Whitney had pushed Elle to give the charming actor a real chance. Elle’s past and history of heartbreak had made her hesitant to truly fall in love, but Whitney had had a feeling that Luke was the one for her. And she was beaming with pride when Elle and Luke finally got together.

  Elle glanced down at the paper. “Baltimore, Albuquerque, San Francisco, Portland and . . . Billings? Uh”—Elle frowned and looked up at Whitney—“I feel like a moron, but I have no idea where that is.”

  “Montana,” Whitney deadpanned. “Don’t feel bad, I had to google it.”

  “That’s random.”

  “I know, right? Geldermann insisted. He said the food there is the most underrated in the entire country. He’s obsessed with the beef or something. Whatever. I was hoping for Honolulu, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Elle laughed, placing the list of cities on the table and sipping her tea. “Seriously, that would’ve been a trip. I could see you in Hawaii.”

  “I’d never want to leave.”

  “True.” Elle paused. “So maybe it’s for the best. I need you here.”

  Elle had become like a sister to Whitney. Without a doubt, she was one of the most important people in her life, aside from her mom and Roslyn. “I won’t be gone long, I promise. Besides, you’ll come see me.”

  “You’d better rest up now, my friend. This schedule is rigorous. Ten cities in just over a month? That’s insane!”

  Whitney grumbled. “I know. I’d better pack some Red Bull . . . or get sleeping pills. Who knows where the network’s putting us up? I need to brace myself for shit holes.”

  “They’ll take care of you, I’m sure.”

  “We’ll see,” Whitney said, her mind once again racing with the possibilities the upcoming month would inevitably bring. A surge of excitement shot through her stomach. “We’ll see.”

  One sentence.

  One sentence was all it took for Whitney’s entire body to tense, for her teeth to grind into one another, and for her hands to tighten into fists. The pinch of her nails digging into her palms would normally have made her draw back in pain, but not this time. This time she welcomed it as she stared at Nolan Rivera, his eyes flat with resentment, his mouth flattened in frustration. She repeated his words over and over again in her brain, attempting to make peace with it, but each time she replayed Nolan’s reaction to her exciting news, her outrage only grew stronger.

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving me.”

  Whitney didn’t get angry easily—most of the time she was relaxed, calm, and slow to judge others. This situation, however, was different. Nolan had gone too far and she’d hit her limit with his selfishness. Rage built inside of her, threatening to explode. Her cheeks grew hot and she crossed her arms in front of her chest, closing herself off from any attempt he might make to touch her. Nolan knew that was her weakness—his touch, his scent, the feel of his lips against the base of her ear. He’d smoothed over many an argument in the past by sliding his fingertips down her arms and nuzzling into her neck. An overwhelming desire to throw things at his head devoured her. The ceramic vase on her kitchen island called out to be thrown, but she resisted the urge, knowing she’d be the one to clean up the mess. And she loved that vase—it was a housewarming gift from her mother, and even though it was a simple green vase, Nolan wasn’t worth destroying a family heirloom.

  “Leaving you?” Her tone was incredulous. Her deep brown eyes bore into Nolan’s. She wanted to tear him apart, limb from limb. “Are you serious?”

  “Baby, listen. I just thought—”

  “This isn’t about you. It’s about me and my career.”

  “I know that, but—”

  “Clearly, you don’t or you wouldn’t be giving me hell. You wouldn’t make it all about you!” Whitney paced the terra-cotta tile of her kitchen, her head lifted in a feeble attempt to calm her speeding pulse. As she fumed, she noticed a new crack forming in the ceiling of her apartment.

  How appropriate.

  “I just thought you would have discussed this with me, that’s all. I thought we were a team.”

  Whitney froze and turned her head to glare at Nolan.

  “Wait, hold on. I’m supposed to defer to you when it comes to my career? You’ve been back in my life for what—two seconds? Are you freaking kidding me?”

  Nolan sighed, and even though she’d turned her attention away to pace the floor once again she knew he was rolling his eyes ever so slightly. An eye roll almost always followed one of his grandiose, dramatic sighs. Such an actor at all times.

  “Calm down, Whitney. Jesus.”

  Why did men think that telling a woman to calm down was ever, in any way, a good idea? It wasn’t. Ever. In fact, it only made things worse.

  Whitney narrowed her eyes. “I’m done being calm. You’ve traveled the world, you’ve relocated for months at a time. And have I complained? Have I ever made you feel guilty for advancing your career . . . even once?”

  “Seriously, you’re making a big deal out of—”

  “Answer the question.” Whitney pursed her lips as her chest heaved in anger.

  “No . . .” His eyes sank.

  “I’ve supported you one hundred percent, haven’t I?”

  Nolan hesitated, swallowing hard before nodding.

  “And now the opportunity of a lifetime presents itself for me and what do you do? You find a way to make it all about you!”

  “Opportunity of a lifetime?” he scoffed, which only infuriated her more. “Right.”

  Through gritted teeth, she said, “Get out.”

  Nolan put his hands up in surrender and stepped toward Whitney, who jumped at his movements—backing away quickly. His eyes were wide with desperation and retreat. But it was too late. She needed him to leave, or she knew he’d weasel his way out of this . . . and she simply couldn’t have that.

  “Listen, baby, I can’t help it. I don’t want you traipsing across the country meeting other guys. I’ll go out of my mind.”

  “It’s not about you!” She shook her head back and forth, closing her eyes tight. “It’s about me. It’s about my career. Stuff like this doesn’t happen for me, Nolan. Why don’t you get that?”

  “I told you to quit that lousy job. Move into my place and leave this shit hole. I’ll take care of you.”

  Shit hole? Hardly.

  Her modest two-bedroom apartment may not have been much compared to Nolan’s over-the-top six-thousand-square-foot mansion in Beverly Hills, complete with movie theater and gigantic swimming pool, but she was proud of everything she’d achieved in her career, including being able to furnish her apartment to her taste. She was o
ne of the top-earning casting directors for a major network and was doing quite well for herself—better than she’d ever anticipated as a young woman raised on food stamps in Oakland. No matter her income, however, fiercely independent Whitney would never be comfortable simply living off of someone else’s wealth. She needed to be productive, to contribute, to feel pride in her day-to-day accomplishments. How did Nolan not understand that?

  “I don’t need anyone to take care of me. You know that. This job means everything to me.”

  “Ouch.” Nolan pressed his palm into his chest and winced. “That hurts.”

  Normally, Whitney would attempt to smooth over a statement like that, knowing he would take it personally when that wasn’t her intent. But this time, his response only infuriated her more. She was finally seeing Nolan and his ego through different eyes. Elle had warned her since the beginning that Nolan only cared about Nolan. He was a true narcissist—one who lacked empathy for others and needed constant admiration and attention. Deep in her subconscious, Whitney knew that to be true, but time and time again she made excuses for him, for his self-absorbed behavior, in order to justify her own feelings toward the actor. After all, if she was honest with herself, she’d know he was, in no way, good enough for her. The hot sex and intense chemistry would eventually fade into the background, allowing Whitney to separate herself from her attraction to him and finally move on. It had to.

  She was almost there. Almost honest with herself. Almost ready to move on. And that one sentence might have just sealed the deal for her. They stood in silence, her heart still pounding rapidly. Her legs were planted wide and her arms rested on her hips, her chin held high with determination. There was no way she was giving in to him. Not this time.

  “I’m going and that’s all there is to it.”

  Nolan’s nostrils flared and he broke eye contact, looking out Whitney’s kitchen window and crossing his arms in front of his broad chest. When his eyes locked on the vase from her mother, Whitney knew what was about to happen. She knew his patience had run out. His temper was ready to ignite.

  “Fine, go!” He grabbed the vase, his nostrils flaring.

  “Nolan, put it down.”

  “Why should I? You don’t care about me”—he looked down at his tight fist around the ceramic—“so why should I care about you?”

  “My mother gave me that vase, Nolan. She gave it to me when I moved in.”

  “So?”

  “So it belonged to my great-grandmother. It’s irreplaceable. Put it down.” Her voice cracked. “Please.”

  “Whatever,” he sneered. “Get a new one.”

  “I can’t! Aren’t you listening to me? Please, just put it down and we’ll talk.”

  “Bullshit. I’m done talking.”

  Before she could react, Nolan grabbed the vase and threw it across the room. The ceramic shattered against her kitchen window, and fell in pieces into her sink.

  “No!” she screamed, running to it. “I can’t believe you,” she whispered, holding the broken shards in her hands, trying to avoid the sharp edges. One tear slid down her cheek as she mourned the destroyed gift. This wasn’t the first time Nolan had thrown something of hers against a wall, a door, or a window. She’d collected the pieces of picture frames, plates, and bowls. But this time, he’d gone too far. Whitney promised herself that this time would be the last.

  “Yeah, well, join the club.”

  “Go to hell, Nolan. And get out of my house!”

  Gingerly, she collected the pieces of the vase and placed them in the garbage. Whitney returned to the sink, refusing to make eye contact with Nolan. She could feel his eyes on her, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around. She simply stared ahead at the window and the web-like pattern on the glass. The tiny little cracks had formed instantly, unlike the cracks in her relationship with Nolan. They’d been there forever, but she was finally seeing them in full view. And just like the window, their relationship was no longer fixable. She had no choice but to discard it. When she heard the harsh slam of her front door, she breathed a heavy sigh of relief. A sigh that had been waiting to be released for far too long.

  NASHVILLE

  The sweet, rustic scent of barbecued pork wafted through The Catbird Seat. A sleek and modern restaurant in Nashville, its U-shaped kitchen was perfect for Whitney and the network staff to complete their first casting call for the recently named cooking reality competition, The Great American Cook-Off. She could enjoy her comfortable seat at the bar while watching the prospective contestants prepare their dishes. What she hadn’t anticipated, however, were the scents that wafted them during the process. The delicate aromas that teased her senses and tempted her palate made her stomach growl. The first three competitors were hard at work, preparing their signature dishes. Whitney inhaled deeply and leaned back in her seat, attempting to catch a glimpse of what they were preparing. Her mouth watered in anticipation.

  “I’m gonna gain ten pounds this month, aren’t I?” she asked her production assistant, Katie.

  Katie smiled. “At least.”

  “Bring it on,” Chris Geldermann said, rubbing his hands together as he watched the competitors race against the clock. “I haven’t had a hot meal in months.”

  “What are you talking about?” Whitney asked. Chris’s wife, Melody, was a stay-at-home mom who had frequently sent Chris to the set with cookies and other treats the last time they’d worked together on a project. “Melody’s the best.”

  “Not with this pregnancy. Her nose is on high alert—spices make her nauseous. So we’re eating nothing but cold sandwiches and cereal.”

  “Yikes.” Katie gave a fake shudder.

  “Poor baby,” Whitney scoffed, shaking her head.

  “What?” Chris crossed his arms in front of his chest and let out a nervous laugh.

  “You could cook, ya know? She’s growing a human for you. C’mon, throw her a bone.”

  Chris shook his head, his shaggy brown hair brushed against his long forehead. “I burn everything.” When Whitney rolled her eyes, he remained insistent. “Seriously, ev-er-y-thing.”

  Whitney laughed. “I’m just saying, she’d be grateful. Luke cooks for Elle all the time.”

  “Ugh, Kingston’s always been such an overachiever. It’s not enough the guy looks the way he does, but he has to be Superman, too? That ain’t right. I work ten- to twelve-hour days, the last thing I wanna do is cook.”

  “I’m just saying . . .” Whitney shrugged, redirecting her attention to the three ladies preparing their dishes. “We should probably pay attention.”

  “Yeah.” Chris winked. “Do your job, would ya?”

  Whitney enjoyed Chris and their banter. They were natural coworkers who could be open and honest while still maintaining their professionalism. More than that, though, he made her feel safe. He might be resistant to helping in the kitchen, but his love for Melody was paramount in his life, and everyone at the network knew that. And despite his playful, almost flirty nature, he was simply a genuinely good man who was craving some genuinely good food.

  “Okay, ladies,” Whitney said, addressing the three nervous chefs in the center of the kitchen. “Why don’t you tell us about yourselves while you finish preparing? We’ll start with . . . Coralee.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Whitney sized up the jittery blonde before studying her application for the show. She looked like she’d just graduated high school, but Whitney guessed she was actually in her mid twenties. She glanced down at the paper, searching for the answer.

  Twenty-four.

  Yep, nailed it.

  “Tell us why you should be one of the final sixteen contestants. What sets you apart?”

  “Well, um, I’m from Memphis originally, but moved to Nashville after college.” The slight twang in Coralee’s voice was endearing, and her innocent smile would capture the hearts of viewers. But star quality? Whitney wasn’t so sure. Before writing her off, though, Whitney needed more info
rmation. Could she cook? Over time, could she adjust to the cameras, to the harsh criticism of the judges? Whitney narrowed her eyes and placed her pen near the corner of her mouth.

  “And why should you be a part of this show?”

  Coralee inhaled deeply, wiping the back of her dewy forehead. “Um . . . I, uh . . . I don’t know, to tell you the truth. I’m just a southern girl who loves to cook.”

  There was something so simple about a modest southern girl. After all, it worked for Carrie Underwood and Kelly Pickler. Perhaps Whitney needed to taste her dish before placing her application in the rejection pile.

  “How do you feel in front of the cameras?” A total of three cameras were pointed at Whitney and the contestants in order to capture the footage of the casting calls. Clips would be used in the season premiere to introduce the contestants to the audience at home.

  “I, um . . . well, they’re a little unnerving.”

  “I can see they make you uncomfortable. You do understand what the prize is, right? Your own cooking show.”

  Coralee nodded, cleared her throat, and pulled her lips into a modest, unassuming smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Damn, she’s adorable. America would love her if only she could relax.

  “How do you feel about that?” Whitney pressed, leaning forward with her elbows against the cool, dark wood of the bar.

  “I, um . . .” Coralee’s fair skin turned pink as she turned her attention to the three small plates in front of her. Her hands trembled as she placed them in front of Whitney, Chris, and Katie. “Maybe I should let my cooking speak for itself.”