“Not those. You want the young ones.”
Jemma raised her head. On the other side of the produce bin stood Paul Almeida.
It hadn’t been hard to avoid him the last couple of weeks, and Jemma told herself she’d forgotten their moment of connection on the whale-watching boat.
‘Herself’ knew she was lying.
“What do you mean, young ones?” she asked suspiciously. He grinned, and her fingers tightened on the handle of the buggy.
“These.” He tossed her a pale, odd shaped bundle and she caught it cleanly. “Everyone expects coconuts to be rough and hairy and hard. The meat of a young coconut is like Jell-O. Great in smoothies.” He came around the corner of the bin and handed her another. “Should throw them for a loop.”
She frowned at the shrink-wrapped fruit, twisting it over and over. “I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “I was told coconuts. Not young coconuts.”
“Whatever.” He leaned against the bin, crossing his arms and ankles. “So, how’s it been going?”
“Fine.” Jemma put the coconuts down. She grabbed two hairy, hard-shelled, old coconuts and began filling the cart. If the show’s official chef wanted young ones, he would have said.
“Any more car troubles?”
“Not really.” Her arm brushed his as she reached into the bin. Goosebumps rippled over her skin. He didn’t smell comfortably of baked bread today. Instead a hotter, spicier scent teased her. “Were you cooking today?”
His eyebrows lifted. “What makes you ask?”
“You smell like paprika.”
“Good nose. I was making my mom’s special potatoes.” He fell into step beside her as she pushed her cart toward the row of checkout tills. “This is nice.”
“What is?”
“Having a conversation with you. When you’re not being all prickly and cranky.”
She stopped the cart in the middle of the aisle. “You’re talking about the night you gave me a ride home.”
He nodded, a teasing gleam in his eye.
“I was not being cranky. I was being professional, setting the boundaries.” She started forward again. He kept pace.
“Now you’ve decided we can actually talk without worrying about getting fired?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” She picked the shortest line, with one cart between her and the cashier. “You must have your own shopping to do. Don’t let me stop you.”
“Traffic wasn’t as bad as it usually is when I left the restaurant, so I’m killing time until I have to be on set.”
“In a grocery store? Wow, you have sophisticated tastes.”
He shrugged. “I’m a chef. I like grocery stores. The best ones are like art galleries—well-designed, full of colour and expression.”
She disguised a snort with a sneeze. Or tried to.
Paul eyed her, as haughty as he’d been when he’d refused to hire her. “Think that’s funny?”
“An art gallery?” She grinned.
“Grocery stores appeal to me,” he said stiffly.
“Ohhh-kaaaay,” she drawled, and started unloading the cart, keeping her head down to hide her smirk.
Paul’s gaze locked to the tattoo on Jemma’s neck as she piled fruit onto the conveyor belt.
She was laughing at him. He didn’t know what to make of that. His earlier encounters with her had been so serious, so fraught with tension the idea of her laughing gave him a jolt.
And made her more attractive.
He moved to the opposite end of the till and began filling bags. Jemma paid, hefted the last bag in, and swung the cart around. He followed her out.
She stopped on the pavement outside. “Are you going to tag after me all afternoon?”
He wanted to spend more time with her, and wondered if she’d freak out if he suggested it. “I thought you might want help loading your car.”
“I’m good. Honestly, I’ve been grocery shopping by myself for a long time now.” Her pink fringe covered one bright blue eye.
“Why pink?” he asked.
She looked at him blankly, then connected the dots. “It used to be all pink. Or bright blue. Or green.” She tucked her bangs behind her ear. Most of it fell forward again. “I guess I grew out of that, but didn’t want to grow up completely. Life can be tough. Pink hair is fun.”
Her dramatic exterior seemed more habit than armour. Her clothes were neat and clean, but well worn. As if she’d bought them years ago and simply hadn’t replaced them.
“What about this?” He ran a finger lightly down the bridge of her nose, over the flare of her nostril where a jewel glinted. Emerald today.
She stood motionless. “It’s pretty.”
The softness of her skin, the sharpness of the stone, lingered in his fingertip. “It suits you. Bright and shiny and sharp.”
A vehicle beeped as the driver locked the doors.
Jemma started. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
She shook her head, backed away from him, dragging the cart with her. “Just don’t.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Cilantro has such a distinctive flavour.” Paul tasted the tropical salsa one more time. “A little goes a long way.”
“Are you saying there’s too much in this dish?” prodded Calynn.
“For my tastes, yes.”
She smiled at the camera. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it? Paul’s tastes will decide which of our remaining ladies will be his date tomorrow night.”
Behind her, eleven women waited with varying degrees of concern. The first week, he’d sent home the worst cook. Last week’s date had been so awful he’d sent that woman home. He suffered a twinge of guilt dumping her on live television, but if she hadn’t wanted to be eliminated, then she shouldn’t have spent their time together—they’d gone for a carriage ride around Stanley Park, followed by dinner at the Tea House— telling him how children were better off being raised by nannies and sent to boarding school.
“Number Six is the dish least palatable to me. And, appropriately enough, Number One is actually number one.”
Calynn addressed the women. “Number Six?”
Allison stepped forward. Her dish had also been judged the worst the week before, yet she’d been saved from elimination by Paul’s horrible date. Her face paled under the heavy stage make-up, her lips pressed tight together.
“Number One?” Yvonne, a silvery blonde wearing a satiny grey blouse and slim charcoal skirt joined Calynn.
Paul hadn’t planned on learning names. He’d hoped it would keep him at arm’s length, make it easier to be brutal when necessary. But the cast and crew were quickly becoming familiar. Hours locked together on a closed set made it difficult to do otherwise.
Calynn finished off the taping with panache, and another Kitchen Challenge segment was done. Ten more. No matter what anyone said, this was hard work, and he would be extremely glad when it was over.
Fenella stalked up to him. As much as a woman who was small and rounded and fluffy could stalk. “What’s wrong with mine? This is the second week in a row you haven’t chosen my dish.”
He raised an eyebrow. “It’s not deliberate, I assure you. After all, it’s a blind taste test. Yvonne’s was the best tonight.”
Her bottom lip jutted like a toddler’s. “You loved what I made the first week.”
“I did.” Over her head, Paul spotted Jemma nose to nose with Benedict. “You can’t take this personally.”
Benedict wasn’t much taller than Jemma, but he was doing his best to tower over her. Paul couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he saw Jemma wipe her face after a particularly energetic barrage.
A finger jabbed him in the breastbone. Fenella glared at him. “Of course I’m taking it personally! This is about my career...my cooking.”
“I thought there was too much cilantro,” Paul said absently. Benedict waved his hands violently in front of Jemma.
“That wasn’t my dish,” Fenella hissed.
“What do you mean you’ll be late tomorrow?” Benedict’s reddish freckles faded as blood suffused his face. “Why the hell will you be late?”
Jemma clung to her fraying patience. “I need some personal time.” Miriam was scheduled to meet with a nurse to discuss therapies to deal with the Alzheimer’s. She had tried to arrange it for a time she didn’t have to be on set, but it hadn’t been possible.
“You can have all the personal time you want after we’re done taping this week’s shows!”
Jemma wiped a fleck of spittle off her cheek. “I’ll only be half an hour late. I’ll meet you at the stadium. Naomi can handle it that long.”
Benedict threw his hands in the air. “She cries if I talk to her. I need you on set. Screw your personal time.”
“Is something wrong?”
Jemma hadn’t noticed Paul beside her. He leaned toward Benedict, balancing on his toes, his hands held in loose fists at his sides. The bridge of her nose tingled, remembering his touch. His warmth radiated out, brushing her skin, and she stepped cautiously away. He was too busy glowering to notice.
Benedict gave him stare for stare. “It’s none of your business.”
“When I see you browbeating one of your staff, I make it my business.”
Jemma gaped. “What are you doing? I can handle this.”
Paul snapped his gaze to her. She took another step away, then forced herself forward. If Benedict’s yelling didn’t make her back down, Paul’s simple look shouldn’t.
“He was yelling at you.”
“He always yells at me.” Her throat tightened. He’d come over because he thought she needed help. Needed protecting. Well, she didn’t. She straightened her spine. “Honestly, it’s fine.”
He studied her face, and nodded sharply. He spun to Benedict. “She’s tough, and she says she can handle it. But if I ever see you threatening to hit her...”
Benedict drew himself to his full, not very substantial, height. “I would never hit an employee. I had no intention of hitting Jemma.”
“Be careful where you wave your arms, then.” Paul gave him one more dark glance, and strode away.
Jemma spoke with authority. “I’ll be half an hour late tomorrow, Benedict. You can live without me until then.”
“Fine.” His mouth turned down in a sulk. “Thirty minutes and not a second more.” He stomped off, banging through the door into the hallway.
Lainie popped up next to Jemma. “I see you have a knight in shining armour.”
She shook her head, bangs swinging fiercely. “I don’t need him.”
“Still.” Lainie grinned. “It’s so sweet. He really does like you.”
Fear fisted in Jemma’s stomach. “No, he doesn’t.” Paul meant well, but it would be a disaster if he drew too much attention to her.
“Of course he does. He doesn’t get that excited about the other PA’s being late.”
“Other PA’s?” Crap. She and Lainie had their people crossed. “Oh, right. Benedict.”
Lainie tilted her head. “Who did you think I was talking about?”
“I guess I’m tired.” It didn’t answer the question, but Lainie didn’t notice.
“Keep up the good work.” She smacked her on the arm with her tablet. “See you tomorrow.”
Twenty-four hours later, Jemma slapped off the overheads in the staff room and headed down the hallway, dragging with fatigue.
It had been a shitty, shitty day. Thank God it was over.
It had started at the outpatient office. The nurse was explaining how the use of music and meditation might help Miriam cope with the distress caused by her condition, when Jemma’s sweet, cozy grandmother morphed into a raging, paranoid fury.
“You want to stop giving me my medicine,” she spat at Jemma. “Then, when I’m completely crazy, you can put me in a home, lock me up, get rid of me.”
“No, Gramma!” Jemma reached out. Miriam viciously slapped her hand away.
“You’re a bitch, you’ve always been a bitch, just like your mother.” Veins bulged in her neck, the whites of her faded blue eyes red with tiny vessels.
Jemma stared in shock. Then, as suddenly as it started, the frenzy faded away.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m sorry.” Miriam sobbed. “I’m sorry.”
Jemma consoled her as best she could, but the ugliness of those brief moments tainted her day. Which didn’t get any better.
As punishment for not being available exactly when he wanted her, Benedict ran her into the ground with silly errands and puerile requests. She gritted her teeth and said nothing. She couldn’t afford to let his short-man syndrome chase her out of her job.
Then she had to watch Paul make nicey-nice with Yvonne. They were at a Vancouver Whitecaps game, and the woman asked ridiculous questions, as if she’d never heard of soccer in her life. The result was Paul spent most of the time focused on her, laughing at her naïve comments, touching her as he directed her attention to certain aspects of the game. Jemma couldn’t decide if Yvonne was truly stupid or wildly clever.
Not that it mattered to Jemma. Paul was here to flirt and fall in love, after all.
She wished him luck with that. She did. Really.
To top off the long day, she had to return to the sound stage after the game because Benedict insisted she stock the cast’s fridge tonight. When Jemma suggested she come in early the next morning instead of driving all the way across the river simply to turn around again minutes later, he snarled a reply. She shrugged and shut up.
When she left the dressing room, dim, random, security bulbs dropped puddles of light down the hall. The soles of her favourite boots made soft plodding noises, hardly noticeable over the hum of the air circulating system. It was soothingly quiet.
Light from a hall intersecting the main one fell across her path. A door slammed and her heart leaped. “Damn right you’ll fix it!” The voice was high-pitched, tight with anger. “I’m supposed to be getting the air time. That stupid Paul should be picking me!”
Jemma pressed flat against the wall. A man’s voice rumbled, sibilant in the shadows. She crept toward the corner.
“I will not keep my voice down. Who cares? There’s no one here.” The woman had to be one of the contestants, but which one?
Another low response.
“Don’t blame me. I did what I had to. You screwed up.”
Mutter, mutter.
“You do that, honey. I always keep my promises. You just make sure you keep yours.” Her voice lowered to a purr. “You like it when I keep my promises, don’t you?” Jemma strained to hear. A breathy giggle floated up the hallway. “Oh, yeah, you sure do like it.”
The words uttered in the man’s baritone were indistinguishable.
“You will?” The woman’s shriek of delight pierced the night. “Oh, honey, I knew you’d find a way. Come here and let me thank you properly.” A door closed with a soft click.
Jemma waited a few moments, before peeking around the corner. Light snaking under a door on the left vanished a second later.
She hustled to the exit and pushed the panic bar quietly. Easing the door shut behind her, she half ran to her car, one of four or five scattered about.
“Come on, Greta, come on,” she coaxed. With a wheeze and a groan, the ancient Civic complained into life. She drove past the guardhouse, knuckles white on the steering wheel, and turned right. A few warehouses further she pulled into a deserted parking lot. Wary of drawing attention, she turned off the headlights but kept the sickly engine running.
Her hands shook as she raked them through her hair.
What the hell should she do? Obviously one of the contestants wasn’t above making private arrangements to ensure she had advantages over the other women. And here she had worried about Paul giving her a ride home. This trumped that silly episode, didn’t it?
She gnawed her lip. Lainie
could have no idea what was going on. No matter how much she believed in the show, in the contrived drama, she wouldn’t put up with faked results.
And what about Paul?
She couldn’t understand why anyone would want to get married, let alone believe a lasting relationship could be built with someone they met on a reality show. But whether Paul believed it or not was no longer the issue. He should be able to make the decision fairly and honestly, not be a victim of manipulation.
The more she thought about it, the angrier she became on his behalf. She knew it didn’t matter in real life. Once the cameras were off at the end of the season, no one could be coerced into doing something they didn’t want to. The ‘engagement’ between Paul and whichever woman he chose could be broken.
Yet it rubbed her the wrong way. Paul, despite his tendencies toward arrogance and meddling, was a good guy. A decent man. She didn’t doubt his honesty. He certainly didn’t deserve to be maneuvered or misled.
She tried to recall exactly what the woman had said. On the face of it, something underhanded was definitely going on. But for all Jemma knew the man was lying to the woman, using the promise of his influence to get thank-you sex. Maybe he wasn’t doing anything to change the outcome of the show.
Yeah, right.
Her eyes were gritty with fatigue. She scrubbed the heels of her hands into the sockets. It was well past the time she should be home, and Miriam had been alone long enough. She put the car in gear.
She drove on autopilot, mind whirling. The best plan she could come up with was to keep her eyes and ears open. She decided not to tell anyone about the incident, not yet. She had no proof, no evidence, only an eavesdropped conversation. Half a conversation.
If she paid attention, she should be able to figure out which contestant was in on the scam. As for the man involved—he was one more reason to tread carefully. Because Jemma knew whose office the couple had slipped into. And until her conviction was a cast iron certainty, she wasn’t accusing Executive Producer Lawrence Larrey of anything.
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