“…Like?” he asked.
I hitched up a shoulder. “Dunno. Like having bad sex.”
Eric’s eyes went wide. Shit. I probably shouldn’t have said it. The second shot had gone to my head, though—I wasn’t even close to drunk, just a little relaxed around the edges.
“Is there any water in here?” I asked quickly, to change the subject. Eric pointed to a water cooler behind me, and I came back after chugging a glass of it.
“So bad sex, huh?” he asked as soon as I came back. So much for changing the subject.
I sighed. “Yeah, forget it.”
“No, no,” Eric said, grinning. “I wanna hear stories.”
“I don’t have any good ‘stories’ anyway,” I said, looking down at my shoes. “I’ve only been single for 6 months, and the only two times I’ve had sex since then were random drunken encounters that I’d rather forget.”
“Eh,” Eric said, “They can’t all be the best. But you deserve better than boring random hookups.”
I snorted. “Oh? Do I? You gonna tell me next that you’d be the perfect guy for the job?”
He shrugged. “Listen, I don’t have sex with anyone who doesn’t want to have sex with me, okay? So you can drop that. I’m not a monster. And anyway, you’re… you’re different.”
“What do you mean?”
Suddenly Eric looked uncomfortable. He looked at the counter, his thick lashes downcast. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t be talking about this with you anyway. Jesus, we’ve only had two shots. I shudder to think what we’d do after five.”
“Well I know what I’d do after five,” I said, leaning over onto the counter.
“What?”
“Complain about my fucking ex.”
Eric threw his arms in the air in an animated shrug. “Well, certainly feel free to vent to me about that. I’ve got more exes than I can shake a stick at. Misery loves company.”
I smiled a little. “Trust me, you don’t wanna hear about Caleb.”
“Why the hell not? You got anywhere else to be tonight? Lay it on me.”
I eyed him, unable to tell if he was serious or not. But his face looked earnest. Fuck it.
“Well, I was with Caleb for 10 years, and only about the first 5 were good.”
Eric made a pained face. “God. Sorry to hear that. What kept you two together for the shitty half?”
I paused. “Some combination of inertia and my own lack of money. He was a trust fund kid in New York, had this nice apartment in Brooklyn, and kinda let me live with him.”
“Wow,” Eric said, nodding. I saw something in his eyes change.
“Yeah, now you’re judging me,” I said, “That’s how it always goes when I tell people how I lived.”
Eric shook his head. “No, no, no,” he said, “Definitely not judging. Maybe even a little jealous. You can do what you want, in a nice city, and not have to worry about paying rent.”
“Meh,” I said, “It was nice at first, but then I felt like a failure.” I paused for a moment turning the empty shot glass in my hand. “I kinda… failed to finish culinary school, but then my blog took off, so I decided I’d focus on that instead. I think Caleb always held out hope that I’d be… more. Better. He thought I’d be a mega-successful restaurateur by now.”
“Yeah,” Eric said, his face completely serious. “That really sucks—someone having expectations for you that you don’t necessarily want for yourself.”
“God, shit, I’m sorry for unloading on you like this.”
Eric’s gaze was soft. “Seriously—anytime. I really don’t mind, and it’s good to get things off your chest.”
Why was he suddenly being so nice? He’d practically been sparring with me at the interview a couple weeks ago, but now… now he was different. I didn’t know if it was because he’d seen me do well on camera, or if he was warming to me.
Or if I was warming to him.
“I looked up 5*Star music videos on Youtube,” I said, my filter suddenly nonexistent. “You had some sweet moves back in the day, Boy Band.”
“Yeah?” Eric said, raising his eyebrows, “I could teach you some if you like them so much.”
“Fuck off,” I said, a smile creeping onto my face.
“Why’d you look me up?”
I shrugged. “Thought it might be good to see who I’d be working with? Doing my due diligence? That’s how that works, right?”
He bit his bottom lip, smiling a little back at me. “I looked up your blog, anyway. So we can both be embarrassed of our pasts.”
I eyed him. “I’m not embarrassed of what’s on my blog. And what did you think?”
“Of the blog?” he asked. I nodded. “It’s alright.”
I hitched an eyebrow at him.
“Okay, it was fucking great,” he said with a laborious sigh. “God, dude, how do you get the photos so perfect? And Jesus Christ, you’re an incredible writer. I don’t know why you don’t go into that instead of this dumb TV shit.”
“The dumb TV shit seems pretty fun so far,” I said, “and you don’t have to tell me to ‘go into writing.’ I already make money from my blog. It makes me happy. I’m not embarrassed, even if people like you think I should be.”
He paused, almost blushing a little, fiddling with the shot glass on the counter. “I don’t think you should be. I’m just saying… I was impressed. It was way cooler than I expected.”
For once, he was being genuine. And his face looked vulnerable—not intensely, but after spending time with him, I could sense the subtle shift.
And I was struck with a singular urge to lean in, grab him by the shirt, and kiss him. It was different from my fantasy of “fucking the attitude right out of him”—it was much more tender, and completely unexpected.
And it scared the shit out of me.
I chugged the rest of my water and slammed the cup down onto the table. “I have to get home,” I said, striding back toward the door to the studio.
“Oh,” I heard him say. “Really? Um, okay—have a good night!”
“Yep,” I called back as I pushed through the door. I exited through the studio, and broke into a jog down the hallway and out the front door of the building. The cool air felt refreshing as I trotted to my car, and made me realize how hot my face had gotten.
Had it been from the bright studio lights? From the shots? Or from talking to Eric? It was like the second I got attention from someone, I froze up completely. All the loss from my last relationship came crashing down on me: 10 years, all for nothing. And I was so not ready to feel anything remotely close to that for another person—especially not from a notorious player—no matter how good it felt.
Because I knew it was a losing game. I got attached to people way too quickly, and I’d only get hurt in the end.
I had to get my mind off him, and go home. He was my coworker, nothing else. No matter what I had felt with him tonight.
Five
Eric
“Eric!”
I brought the phone away from my ear quick.
“Leo. Jesus. You’re loud.”
“It’s been too damn long since I’ve heard from you.”
I cradled the phone on my shoulder as I poured myself a beer, then went to sit on my couch. “I know, I know.”
“Like, civilizations have risen and fallen in the amount of time since we’ve talked. I have a lot to catch you up on.”
It was how Leo started most of his phone conversations—informing me that it had been way too long since we last spoke, even if it had only been a few days, and then telling me he had incredible amounts of juicy information to share. He’d been like this when we were in 5*Star together, too—quirky, inscrutable, and hilarious. It was exactly why we’d stayed such good friends.
“What is it this time, Leo?”
“Well, last time I caught you up on the state of the bird’s nest in my front yard, right?”
I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. “Yep. Got that half-hour long stor
y last time.”
“Oh, fantastic,” Leo said, and I heard him opening the door to his backyard. “Well, you’re never gonna guess who else had babies.”
“Leo, please tell me it’s not you and Jamie.”
“Not us, no. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Then who?”
“Mr. Ginger Boots!”
“Oh, your cat?”
“He isn’t my cat. But one day he showed up at the doorstep with a tiny little guy who looks just like him—I mean, Eric, he’s got the little red feet and everything—so Ginger Boots had to have done the deed at some point.”
“That’s great to hear, Leo,” I said as dryly as possible.
“Jamie and I have adopted him. Well, actually, it turns out it’s a her. And her name is—”
“Let me guess—Mrs. Ginger Princess or something?”
“No. Who do you take us for? Her name is Spot.”
“…Spot. How very… boring.”
“How dare you call Spot boring? Jamie picked the name. He said it was the name of some robot’s cat in Star Wars or something.”
“Star Trek. In Star Trek, Next Generation, Data’s cat is named Spot. And that’s adorable.”
Leo let out a long, happy sigh on the other end of the phone.
“You really are having the time of your life, aren’t you, Leo?”
“Better than I’ve ever been, Eric. But—hey—how are you? Last time we talked you said some fish and chip shop guy was going to be your new co-host?”
I switched the phone to my other ear, taking a deep breath.
“His name’s Dash.”
Leo hummed in acknowledgement. “So how’s the food blogger actually do in front of the cameras?”
I let out a long breath. “Actually, goddamn incredible,” I said. “Like, ridiculously good. Painfully so.”
“You a little jealous, Eric?”
“Yeah. I’m fucking jealous. I totally messed up with the teleprompters but he was a natural with it. But I’ll get used to it.”
“So is the guy still kind of an asshole?” Leo asked.
“Dash is… kind of an asshole, but I’m starting to think underneath his New York exterior, he’s a total softie.”
“Do my spidey senses detect a crush?”
“No.”
“Yeah, they do.”
“They don’t,” I stressed. “I don’t get crushes. Certainly wouldn’t mind taking him to bed though, if he didn’t despise me.”
“You like, want the guy to tie you up and call you a bad little teleprompter reader, don’t you?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I hate you so much Leo.”
“I know. It’s a good thing you also love me so much, otherwise you’d never talk to me again.”
I took a big swig of beer, and set it down on the windowsill. “Okay, fine. He’s hot. But I can’t deal with his… standoffish-ness. I want people who want me back. I mean, that was the whole problem with Abe anyway—we both didn’t even really want each other by the end of it. What’s the point? I’d rather be single than in some stifled relationship.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean.”
“I’m still just me, Leo. I’ve got the nice house by the ocean, the job of my dreams, a great life. Do I really need anything more? I’m good on my own.”
But involuntarily I pictured Dash, and how for brief moments in the test kitchen—when we’d done shots together—he’d let his guard down a little, let me see a glimpse of vulnerability. If he could be like that, then God… I could want him. I really could. Had I been imagining it? Or could I have that version of Dash again?
“Well,” Leo said, “if you would have told me that I’d find someone like Jamie, I wouldn’t have believed you. You have to let it go, and when you least expect it, someone will come into your life.”
“Wow. That’s pretty sincere for you, Leo,” I said, smiling. “But I’m fine, thank you. Though I’m glad you don’t think I’m a lost cause.”
“Far from it.”
I talked with Leo for another half hour about work stuff—he caught me up on his new life as a composer for TV and movie scores, which was honestly the coolest thing ever, and I caught him up on the Eat Network gossip.
When we hung up I thought about what he’d said about Dash. I tended to be attracted to anyone that looked my way. But Dash was different than that—he seemed like he wanted nothing to do with me, most of the time—until all of a sudden, his eyes would light up, and I’d think maybe he thought I was a worthwhile human.
I couldn’t fucking figure it out.
“Oh, thank God you’re here,” I said as I put my shoulder bag down in the backstage area of the studio. There was a small room back there—a break room for people to sit before or after filming shows. Dash was sitting in one of the chairs, reading a book like he had been last time I walked in.
He gave me a short “Hey,” and then went back to his book.
“Nice to see you too,” I sighed, taking off my sunglasses and settling into a chair.
We were at the studio for the next rehearsal, and it was a much bigger deal this time around. The audience would be there tonight—a real, live audience full of people expecting to see a good show. We had to act as if it were being broadcast live, but it wasn’t—it was still a rehearsal, despite feeling real.
“So,” I said, “Wanna go do a shot with me in the test kitchen?” I smiled.
“Uh, no,” he said, looking up from his book and narrowing his eyes at me. “I’m not going to do a shot right before we need to go out there and… do our jobs.”
I held up my hands in resignation. “I wasn’t suggesting we get trashed, dude, but okay. That reminds me—” I reached into my bag on the floor and produced a brand-new bottle of rum. “I said I’d replace that rum, and I’m a man of my word.”
Dash didn’t respond, seeming resolutely intent on ignoring me. I looked at him for a few seconds.
“Okay, great. So right before our next show and you’re fucking cold as ice again?” I said, not hiding the anger from my voice.
He met my eyes, his gaze steely, but didn’t say anything.
“Like, seriously,” I said, “I thought I made like an inch of progress last time with the shots, and chatting with you—”
“Listen,” he said, looking up. “I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again. I’m here for work. We’re not friends. I’m trying to prepare for the show we’re about to do, so could you leave me alone?” His eyes were fierce, and his voice had an edge to it. I swallowed and nodded, averting my gaze, and finally he turned his head back downward.
Just then Andrea poked her head into the room and darted a glance at me, as if she could sense the tension in the room. “Heyyyyy, guys... um… wanted to let you know that they’re ready for you in makeup,” she said, and then was out of there quick as lightning.
“See?” I said to Dash, as we both stood up. “Even she can fucking tell.”
“Just leave it alone, would you, Eric?” Dash said, glaring at me and pushing past me, out into the hallway.
“Fucking hell, you’ve got quite a chip on your shoulder today,” I muttered, though he was already out of earshot, making his way down the hallway.
We got through makeup fairly quickly and then were subjected to a barrage of notes and reminders about the rehearsal from various assistants and producers. It almost made me feel better seeing that everyone else was just as nervous as me.
When we finally walked out onto the stage, looking out at the 100 or so people in the audience, reality sank in. I smiled and waved at the audience, and a number of them clapped, even though we weren’t filming yet. Dash was all business still, taking his place behind the counter and waiting for his cue to go.
And ten minutes later, we were off—the show’s theme music playing, cameras rolling, and audience applauding. It was like a light switch had flipped with Dash. He was bubbly and animated, and perfect with the teleprompters.
We spent the n
ext hour making enchiladas and then lime sorbet on camera, and it was like I had slipped into a different world. Dash and I worked together seamlessly. He moved gracefully around the set, and even made some jokes that hadn’t been in the script. The producers had encouraged us to improvise slightly when we felt like it, and Dash was doing very well at that.
Halfway through the segment, as he was moving behind me, he placed his palm firmly at the base of my spine as he walked past. It was the smallest gesture, something that a friend or coworker would do. But it caused me to tense up, widening my eyes at him. But a second later, he was already over at the other side of the counter, chopping some peppers, nonchalant.
I would have thought it was a fluke, but it happened a couple more times throughout the rest of the filming. A little touch on my shoulder, my arm, my back. Probably imperceptible to the audience, but I was acutely aware of every single one.
He didn’t have to do that. It wasn’t anywhere in the script, nor had any producers told us to touch each other. So why would Dash act so cold before the show, and now give me a bunch of little touches?
It was maddening. Both because it made no sense and because it was kind of fucking hot. I liked him touching me. He could do it a lot more, if it were up to me.
Before I knew it, we’d made it through the entire show. The audience applauded, the credits music played, and I took a huge breath.
Andrea was at my side the second the cameras stopped rolling. “Nice work, Eric—only a couple mess ups this time, right?” She was smiling, but I was out of it—for some reason I felt like I had completed the whole filming process in a daze, and I was only then coming back to reality. Andrea gave me a big hug.
“We did it,” I said, incredulous.
“Yup,” she said, beaming at me. “Think you’re ready for the real deal in two weeks?”
“I sure hope,” I said. “You’ll have to remind me I said this when I’m freaking out the day of our first show, but this went so well.” I looked out at the audience dispersing and heading back out of the room, and then turned behind me to look for Dash. I saw him throwing on his jacket and heading for the door.
The Sweetest Star: Under the Stars Book 2 Page 5