If You Can't Take the Heat

by Melissa Brown

  “It’s gonna be great. What is there to stress about?” she asked, knowing full well there was plenty to stress over on the first day of a show like this. Possible fires, slips, falls . . . not to mention what she knew was Chris’s main concern: boring contestants.

  All reality-television programming required an element of staging to entice the viewer at home. Sure, they wanted to see talented chefs serving delicious food, but that could only go so far. The producers needed to keep the audience tuning in week after week, and in a world where people had thousands of hours of programming saved to their DVR, hitting the top of the Nielsen ratings was getting more difficult with each passing season. Personalities were just as important as the dishes.

  “The judges are still in makeup; I have contestants falling asleep. I feel like I’m gonna have a coronary.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he paced.

  “What can I do? Want me to wrangle the judges?”

  “Would you? My PA is nowhere to be found, and if I do it, I’ll lose my shit.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Thanks, Whit.”

  “No prob. I’ll be back.”

  Just as she turned her back to Chris, she was stopped dead in her tracks. Just several feet before her was a large person, dressed as a gorilla. The monstrous creature was wearing a slinky hot pink bikini top, a fluffy tulle tutu, and in his furry hand was a bundle of balloons. His voice was muffled through his heavy costume as he tipped his crown-adorned head toward her.

  “Are you Whitney Bartolina?”

  “What the hell?” Chris said from behind her. She turned to raise an eyebrow at her producer before bringing her attention back to the man in the strange gorilla suit.

  “Um, yeah. Can I help you?”

  The gorilla retrieved an iPhone from the string of his bikini top and swiped like mad before placing it back in his bikini top. Latin music boomed from the phone and the costumed animal danced the strangest samba Whitney had ever seen.

  “Baby, please come back.

  Can’t sleep without you near.

  I miss your gorgeous rack.

  And that freckle behind your ear.

  Baby, end this heartbreak.

  Know that I’m a sobbing mess.

  This loneliness I can’t fake

  You can put me to the test!”

  The hairy performer handed the balloon strings to Whitney before twirling across the linoleum floor and taking a bow.

  “Sent with love from Nolan Rivera.” The gorilla took a bow, gave Whitney a salute, and handed her a business card. “I also do bar mitzvahs.”

  Whitney’s mouth was agape as she stared at the tutu-covered gorilla making his way from the studio. “Great.”

  “What the hell was that?” Chris asked, standing next to her, looking as bewildered as she felt.

  Whitney read the business card in her hand. “‘Gordo the Graceful Gorilla for all your singing telegram needs.’ Um, no.” She turned toward Chris with one finger in the air. “This never happened, do you hear me?”

  Chris chuckled under his breath. “I have no words. Except Rivera needs to up his game.”

  “I’m serious. We will never speak again about that . . . that . . .”

  “Train wreck?”

  “Exactly. Why did he think that was, in any way, a good idea?” She attempted to shake off the befuddled look on her face. “I’ll go talk to the judges.”

  Whitney walked with new determination to the judges’ rooms, determined to cleanse the hairy monstrosity from her brain. She knocked on the first door, giving a friendly nod to Melinda Wrigley, a renowned pastry chef with the morning cooking show The Pastry Princess.

  “Ms. Wrigley, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.” She extended her hand. “Whitney Bartolina, casting director. Just here to give you a five-minute heads-up.”

  Melinda winked. “You got it. I’ll be right there.” She looked up at her makeup artist. “Do your magic, girlie. I got things to do.”

  Whitney offered a satisfied nod before closing the door behind her.

  That was easy. What the hell is Chris freaking out about?

  After entering the second makeup room, she was confronted with the reason for Chris’s anxiety: Marcus Wright, the meanest tell-it-like-it-is-even-if-they-end-up-rocking-back-and-forth-in-the-corner celebrity chef known to man. For three years, he’d hosted his own cooking competition, the most cutthroat on television, where he screamed at his contestants. One of his participants was reportedly so emotionally scarred, she spent several weeks in a counseling center, diagnosed with PTSD.

  P . . . T . . . S . . . D . . . From a freaking reality show.

  After her stint in rehab, she sued Marcus, his show, and the network. Marcus was given the boot and the show was canceled. He’d been MIA for over a year, but was clearly attempting to make a hell of a comeback on their show.

  Lovely.

  Whitney thought about poor, sweet Coralee. She was toast with Marcus at the helm of the judges’ table. Upon Whitney entering the room, Marcus sneered, rolling his eyes. “I said I’ll be there when I’m good and ready! God, you PAs are nothing but little drones, aren’t you? March away, little ant, march, march!” He clapped his hands, turning away from Whitney.

  Whitney cleared her throat and crossed her arms, refusing to be treated with such blatant disrespect. With a pinched mouth, she responded, “Excuse me, Mr. Wright, but we haven’t met. I’m Whitney Bartolina, head of casting.”

  “Oh, well, you look like one of those—”

  “Yes, well, per your contract, you’re due on the set in”—she glanced at her watch for dramatic effect—“four and a half minutes. If, for some reason, you need someone to review said contract with you, let me know and I’ll be happy to send a member of our legal team. I’d hate for you to be in breach of contract on the first day of filming.”

  “Fine,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”

  She offered him a sickly sweet smile. “Thanks so much.”

  She closed the door behind her, sinking into the wood, her heart drumming against her chest. She wouldn’t tolerate snobby celebrities, but she was human, and they made her heart race with anxiety. Marcus Wright was a miserable, hideous human being who feasted on making others squirm. As long as he didn’t see his effect on her, though, she was in the clear.

  “Hey there.”

  She turned to see Charlie, fresh from the makeup chair.

  “How do I look?” He spun around, raising his arms to the sides to display his wardrobe. He looked dapper in a simple button-down oxford and khaki pants, a cerulean apron tied around his waist. In such close quarters, she could see the outline of the foundation on his face, but his gleaming blue eyes were just as brilliant as ever.

  “Fantastic,” she said. “You nervous?”

  “Nah, it’ll be fine. I just feel sorry for the bloke I’m up against. He won’t even know what hit him.” He shimmied his feet back and forth, pretending to throw punches in the air like Rocky Balboa. Whitney laughed behind her hand.

  “Well, you’d better get out there, Rocky. Apollo Creed is waiting.”

  Charlie threw two more jabs before jogging backward toward the stage.

  God, he’s cute. Like, really cute.

  Normally, the idea of juggling more than one man was not only appealing, but fun. Whenever she and Nolan were on the outs over the years, she’d date two, sometimes three men at a time and she never allowed herself to feel guilt or shame. Instead she reveled in their different personalities, their distinctive qualities and talents. But this time, she found herself feeling differently. She wasn’t sure how long she could keep this up. She was developing real feelings . . . and part of her wondered if she’d actually met the person for her. She wondered if she was done with all of the casual affairs of her past . . . she wondered if settling down was no longer in her distant future.

  Pushing those thoughts from her brain, she walked to the final makeup room, hoping she’d be treated with a Melinda
rather than a Marcus. Much to her surprise, on the other side of the door was none other than Saul Greenberg.

  “Saul?”

  He greeted her with an arrogant smile. “Yep.”

  “You’re a judge? I mean . . . what . . . why . . . I don’t understand?”

  He patted his stomach. “You may not know this, but I used to be quite the cook. Went to culinary school and everything.”

  “Oh, um, I had no idea. Good for you, sir.” Her stomach dropped to her knees as she pondered the repercussions of Saul being a permanent fixture on set. She needed to get her shit together, and conversations with both Charlie and Wes would be necessary. She couldn’t put her job or their standing on the show in any kind of jeopardy.

  Saul stood, tearing the paper bib from his neck. “Yes, well, let’s get out there, shall we? I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling a little peckish. Let’s see what these guys can do.”

  There was a pep to Saul that Whitney hadn’t seen before. She liked this Saul, playful and relaxed Saul. She could only hope he’d stay that way for the duration of the show taping.

  When they returned to the soundstage, Whitney glared at Chris. “Why didn’t you tell me Saul was a judge?”

  “Emergency fill-in. My person from the Food Network backed out at the last minute. Saul’s a former chef, it’s all good.” Chris was much calmer than just five minutes earlier. “By the way, thanks for getting Marcus out here.”

  “Well, now I know why you were freaking out. The guy’s a douche.”

  “Big-time, but Saul insisted. Apparently we’re getting him for a steal—he’s desperate to resurrect his career after the lawsuit.”

  Whitney shook her head, nervous for the contestants. “I just hope someone keeps him in line.”

  “Why?” Chris scoffed. “That’s good TV.”

  “I suppose, but—”

  Chris paused, looked around the stage, then lowered his voice, leaning closer to Whitney. “See, this is why we don’t get involved with the talent. Your focus should be a hundred percent on the show. We’re here for ratings, Whit. That’s what pays our bills, that’s what keeps us employed. Both of us. Remember that.”

  Whitney was completely invested in the success of the show. Despite Mama’s protests, Whitney wanted that bonus to help her mother. She wanted it more than ever. Whitney pressed a finger to Chris’s chest. “I found the best talent I could for you and for this show. I know what pays the bills, but what I do on my own time is my business, not yours. And you should know I’d never allow it to affect the show. Now, back off.”

  Chris took a giant step back, raising his hands in surrender. “Fine, whatever. But we’re only gonna have this conversation once. If it comes up again, I’ll do what I have to do.”

  Whitney recoiled, her mouth agape. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She and Chris had always risen above their issues to produce the best shows possible. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I’ll have you removed, Whitney. If you interfere with the talent, if you challenge the judges’ candor, if you interfere in any way with my program, I will have you removed from the set. Do we have an understanding?”

  She broke eye contact, stunned by his words. Looking past him, she took one step forward and lowered her voice, speaking softly in his ear. “Watch your back, Geldermann. I’m not someone you want on your bad side.”

  “I’ll risk it.” Their eyes met again, and his were angry, detached, and Whitney wondered what had come over the normally laid-back Chris, the one who understood her devotion to her job and the network. With a pregnant wife at home, he was likely stressed and overtired, but Whitney could only hope things would cool down once filming began. And if not, she’d keep her distance. Chris stepped away from her. “Places, people. I need cooks at their stations and judges at the table.”

  People scattered across the stage, taking their places, wiping their fidgety hands on aprons, looking up at the sky while makeup artists made last-minute finishing touches. The three judges sat down at their table and a PA ran up to place three strategically labeled glasses in front of them, given so generously by the main sponsor of the show. Saul twisted his cup, giving the logo a chance to shine for the cameras. Melinda followed suit, but Marcus simply crossed his arms and rolled his eyes.

  This should be interesting.

  Jameson Lewis took a stroll, shaking hands with the judges before finding his marker center stage. His salt-and-pepper coif shimmered beneath the bright lighting of the stage.

  “Listen up, cooks,” Chris said, walking between the sixteen kitchen stations. His voice was stern, harsh, and one hundred percent business. “Follow Jameson’s instructions, and speak only when spoken to. Ignore the cameras—if you don’t, you’ll have less screen time as the editing team will spend hours filtering you out. You have one hour to complete your dish and present to the judges. At that time, you’ll wait to be called to the front to explain your dish and hear the judges’ critiques. Once you meet with the judges, you’ll follow Jeff here.” He gestured to a PA with hipster glasses and mismatched clothing. “He’ll lead you to the break room. If we don’t get what we need, we’ll ask you to return to your kitchen and cook again so that we have adequate footage. And if we don’t need you, you’ll be dismissed. If you choose, you can stay to watch the next three rounds, but that’s up to you. If you do stay, you’re required to keep your mouths shut. Any questions?”

  Silence.

  “All right,” he continued, “we’ll begin shortly. Jameson, you ready?”

  “You know it.” The host gave Chris a wink and a wave. “Let’s do this.”

  Jeff the PA stepped in front of camera 1 and began the countdown, “Five, four, three . . .”

  “Welcome to The Great American Cook-Off, the newest and most innovative cooking competition ever! I’m your host, Jameson Lewis, and today we’ll introduce you to sixty-four talented chefs from across the country.” Jameson strutted to an enormous smart board displayed on the wall. When he touched the screen, a bracket system appeared, revealing the structure of the competition. “Each week, our cooks will square off against one opponent. And our three judges will send one chef home and the other to the next round.” He pointed to the second stage of brackets. “In round one, we’ll go from sixty-four cooks to thirty-two. It’s gonna be tense, folks, of that I can assure you. Now, let’s meet our judges.”

  Jameson strolled to the judges’ table, and introduced them to the cameras. Sauntering back to center stage after each of them had been given a quick statement and wave, he jumped slightly when he was interrupted abruptly.

  “Cut!” Chris yelled from off-stage and some of the contestants seemed confused.

  Poor, naïve souls, Whitney thought. All they needed was one day on set to learn that reality television was far from reality. No network was willing to allow their talent to run the show. Quite the contrary. Producers’ jobs were to intervene, coax, prod, and manipulate to get just the right take, just the right feel, just the right amount of manufactured drama, even if it meant presenting audiences at home with a skewed version of the entire process. Thus was the nature of “reality” in television.

  “Judges, I need a little more enthusiasm,” Chris continued. “Let’s try that again.”

  Whitney snickered under her breath, knowing Marcus would never cooperate completely for Chris. He was used to being the top dog, and even though he was desperate to be back in the public eye, that didn’t mean he was willing to change his personality to do it. After three takes, Whitney watched as Chris accepted the lack of enthusiasm from Marcus, and allowed Jameson to continue with his introduction.

  Jameson made the rounds of the kitchen, reading the names of the contestants from the teleprompter and informing the audience at home of the city they hailed from. When all of the sixteen had been introduced, he continued, “And what is the prize for the winner? Their own cooking show here on America’s favorite network.”

  Recorded applause rever
berated through the studio. “Ladies and gentlemen, are we ready for our first round? You have sixty minutes to prepare your dishes. Welcome to the Cook-Off!”

  Whitney watched Charlie as he whisked, stirred, and poured at his station. Not shy in the slightest, he tossed ingredients in the air playfully as he prepared.

  Such a ham.

  Whitney watched Chris, who had taken notice of Charlie’s camera-hungry behavior, a half smile on his reluctant face. Whitney shook her head, knowing her choice was validated. The camera would love Charlie, as would the ladies watching at home. He’d be a sensation if he could just get through the first few rounds. When Charlie spotted Whitney watching him, he raised both eyebrows playfully before tossing a bottle of olive oil in the air, spinning around, and catching it behind his back. Chris sent a camera to focus on Charlie, turning to nod to Saul. Saul returned the gesture, jotting notes down on the pad in front of him. Whitney wasn’t at all surprised. Yes, it was a cooking show, but the personality of the chef mattered just as much as, if not more than his or her abilities in the kitchen. The network wanted a star, and she was certain Charlie could deliver.

  But then again, so could a certain cowboy. Wes was scheduled for the third hour of filming and, she assumed, was still in makeup. Tempted to leave the set to walk backstage, she thought better of it, knowing it was important for her not to disrupt filming. And so, her foot tap-tap-tapping in the air, she remembered their afternoon together. After the incredibly hot sex, Wes prepared chicken cordon bleu with asparagus tips. It was delectable.

  Whitney smiled to herself, remembering their good-bye when she drove him back to his hotel, the way he cupped her face as he kissed her gently, the giddiness she felt as she drove back home. She was falling for him. And fast. She needed to reel herself in, knowing it was way too early to become so attached. She had to give it more time, especially since the ridiculously funny Brit was amusing her from behind his stove. Selfishly, she wasn’t quite ready to say good-bye to Charlie, either. She could only hope that he and Wes would be separated by their schedules for as long as possible. Just the thought of the three of them being in the same room together gave her anxiety. She didn’t want Wes to catch her flirting with Charlie—the idea of that made her stomach flip. This wasn’t a game, and she didn’t want to blow it with either of them . . . not before she could figure out who she really wanted.