Delightful: Big Sky Pie #3 (3 page)

Andrea thought about going for her sunglasses.

As Flynn filmed, Ice assessed the women in the kitchen the same way old man Hooper did whenever he came in for a slice of rum raisin pie, first counting the raisins, then deciding if there was enough whipping cream, then making sure he wasn’t cheated a millimeter shy of a full slice. Andrea squirmed under Ice’s watchful eye. She sidled up to him, speaking softly. “What are you doing?”

He grinned down at her, the smile slow and not quite reaching his eyes. “Taking mental notes for my script.”

Script?
Hah. She knew it. These reality shows
were
scripted. And everyone wanted folks to believe they were slices of real life. “What is the script about?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t written it yet.”

“Really. I thought that you had to pitch a story or two to a network before they’d pay for funding a pilot.”

He raised an eyebrow, assessing her with a sensuous, raking glance. “What do you know about networks ordering pilots?”

“Nothing really.” Nothing she hadn’t researched on the Internet.

She glanced away, deflecting his allure with effort. Something about this guy spoke to her on a primal level as no man had done in years. And that rattled her.

“Every pilot is different,” Ice said.

What did that mean? She’d done her homework, Googled and watched a series of YouTube videos on writing and selling a pilot to a studio. The writing process could be a couple of weeks long, but then you had to present a variety of different possible story lines to the studios and then wait for a response. That could take weeks more. Most times you were rejected. But if Ice’s proposal hadn’t been accepted, his production company wouldn’t be here. “Which studio or network ordered the pilot?”

They stepped back out of Flynn’s way as he maneuvered around the table to get a better shot of Jane plying her talents on the crust of one of the apple pies, every tweak of her little fingers producing as identical a crimp as the one before. Molly had moved to the sink with the big bowl. BiBi busied herself wiping down the surface of the marble counter that Molly had used and placing ready-to-bake pies into the ovens.

“Obviously some network is interested or you wouldn’t be here. So which one is it?”

“I can’t say right now.”

His elusiveness twisted the nervous knot in Andrea’s stomach. He sounded just like Donnie used to—half-truths and outright lies buried in avoidance. Was there even a studio attached to this project yet? Of course there was. There had to be, unless he was funding this pilot himself. And why would he do that? “Mr. Erikksen—”

“Ice.” He looked as though nothing formal should stand between them, as though absolutely nothing should be between them, not even clothes.

Andrea felt fires starting up all through her body, tiny flames that threatened to turn her resolve to avoid this man into a pile of ashes. “What do you think the chances are that this show will be picked up?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I can’t answer that question when I don’t have any film yet or any sound bites or anything else to base a response on.”

“Oh.”

“We’ll be doing interviews in a few minutes. I want to speak to everyone first, though.” He turned to Flynn. “That’s enough for now.”

Jane finished the last of the piecrusts, and BiBi stuck the pie in the oven, then set the timer. The used utensils and appliances were brought to the sink. The island was scrubbed.

Ice said, “Ladies, can we let those dirty dishes sit for a few minutes? I’d like to give you an idea of what we’ll be doing today.”

Everyone took a stool at the marble work island. One smile and he had their rapt attention, including Andrea’s. Though she didn’t much like it.

He said, “What we’re needing from each of you is just something about yourself, why you’re working here, what your goals are. What you think of the pie shop, the work, and your coworkers.”

“The usual reality show stuff,” Bobby said on a grin.

BiBi beamed at the redheaded man as if he were a screen god, not some hungover, bleary-eyed producer. “Oh, goodie. I love reality shows. Have you seen
RDOHM
?”

At their blank expressions, Jane said, “
The Real Daughters of Hollywood Moguls
?”

“Oh, yeah, Ice has a serious connection with that show.” Bobby laughed, obviously dull-witted this morning. The comment earned him a nasty look from Ice and a determined-to-figure-out-the-connection glance from BiBi.

Andrea thought BiBi was going to swoon and fall off the stool, but somehow she managed only to give a squeal of delight. “That’s my all-time favorite show. I DVR it, then watch it and watch it and rewatch it. My favorite regular is Ariel Whittendale. Her daddy owns iMagnus Studios. You’ve heard of him, right?”

Although BiBi was addressing Bobby, Andrea saw something dark passed through Ice’s eyes at the question. He blinked, hiding it, and said with a cutting disinterest, “Yeah, we’ve heard of him.”

But Andrea didn’t care for the devious gleam that came into Bobby’s eyes. She’d bet he was making some sort of mental note about BiBi, like she was auditioning for a role in a horror movie.

“So we’re going to need to meet with each of you privately,” Bobby said. “Who wants to be first?”

“I do.” Molly raised her hand. “It’s been a long day for this old bird, and I’d like to get it over and done with and go home for a nap.”

“Sure.” He moved her to a stool that didn’t have the gleaming chrome appliances behind her, explaining that the glare would ruin the take.

Flynn repositioned a kleig light to shine almost directly on Molly. It was like some space monster sucking the color from the human skin. She took on a ghostly hue. “What about my hair and makeup?”

“We’ve hired Trula’s Trendy Tresses.”

BiBi’s expression fell. “I thought you’d be bringing your own team from Hollywood.”

Ice shook his head. “Wouldn’t make much sense in a show set in Montana if you all ended up looking like you belonged in L.A.”

“Don’t worry, dear.” Molly tugged off her apron, hand fluffing her hair. “Trula’s been doing my hair since we were both in high school together.”

BiBi muttered something that Andrea thought sounded like, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

But it wasn’t Trula who showed up. It was her daughter, Zoe, a rainbow-haired, facially pierced, dragon-tattooed, untidy nineteen-year-old. “Mama wanted this job more than anything, but these fellas picked me.”

Andrea evil-eyed the men. Apparently their budget for this production was tight, but this was definitely a case of getting what you pay for. Zoe was still in beauty school. She wasn’t a fully accredited hairdresser, just the shampooer at Trula’s.

Zoe plunked a bag that looked like a cat carrier, hair and goo included, onto the marble work island. Molly gasped, her face going as white as the flour smudge on Jane’s nose. “Get that filthy thing out of here.”

For a second, Andrea thought she meant Zoe, but Molly meant the bag. Molly grabbed it by the handle, inadvertently swinging the “filthy thing” toward the counter that held a rack of cooled pies. Andrea leaped for the pies. Zoe scooted past her and around the island with Molly hot on her tail, admonishing her every step of the way, bumping her in the back with the bag. “You’ll have the Health Department shutting me down, Zoe. Your mama raised you better than to set a germ-laden bag onto a kitchen counter.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. McCoy.”

As they headed for her again, Andrea hoisted two pies out of harm’s way and spun toward the café. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Flynn had his camera on. No time to worry about that.
Just save the pies.
But something rammed her in the spine. Zoe’s bag. Andrea pitched forward and felt her balance slipping, like the day before. She let out a squeal. Ice lunged to save her. Or at least the pies. Her grip on the pans cut loose. One caramel apple pie went airborne. Ice saw it coming and tried to scramble back, but the pie struck him just below the belt. He groaned, buckling over and landing on the floor.

Somehow, Andrea righted herself without stepping on Ice or losing her grip on the other pie. She exchanged the pan with BiBi for a damp towel and then knelt beside Ice. “I’m sooo sorry. Are you okay?”

“You don’t need to keep dumping pie on me,” he said in a husky voice that only she could hear. The smoldering look in his eyes tightened her throat and loosened a need deep inside her. “If you want to get me out of my pants, sweetheart, all you need to do is ask.”

D
reaming about sexy men all night didn’t usually result in Andrea waking up grouchy, but this morning, she could bite off the head of a grizzly without thinking twice. Damn Ice Erikksen and his insolent comments. He was a jerk. A card-carrying asscap.

She stared into her closet, uncertain what to wear, and realized the indecisiveness was a by-product of one horny Hollywood bad boy accusing her of lusting after him. Anger boiled in her stomach. She’d given him no reason to think that. Not a one. A twinge of guilt struck. Well, okay, maybe a longing gaze had flicked in his direction once or twice, but that was it. She hadn’t brushed up against him or touched him on purpose or said anything that could be mistaken for an invitation into her bed. She’d dumped pie on him. That was not a come-on. In fact, most men would probably find it a total turnoff.

So what if she dressed a little seductively? It wasn’t a crime. She wasn’t dead. Or married. As they used to say on the rodeo circuit, it wasn’t the age of the cowboy but his years in the saddle that counted. By that measure, she was ten years older than her actual twenty-five. And she’d never let any guy dictate her wardrobe. She wasn’t about to start now. How she put her outfits together was the God-given right of every red-blooded American woman. A form of self-expression.

Then why was she still standing in her underwear staring at her closet? What was she looking at?
Cowgirl boots, denim shirts, and jeans. Stilettos, silk, and sweaters.
She grinned. There was no doubt about it. She was a whole lot of country with a bit of city thrown in for spice. While she’d worked for Molly’s son managing his real estate office, she’d worn business attire, but the pie shop required dressing down, as if every day were Casual Friday. It suited her single-mom sensibilities much better and made getting ready every day easier.

Deciding to go with what she’d already laid out, she pulled on a sweater the same cocoa as her eyes, a knee-length denim skirt, and tan boots imbedded with turquoise accents. She glanced at the clock, prayed the boys were finished eating, and hurriedly brushed her hair into a ponytail, finishing up with a pair of turquoise and copper hoop earrings her dad had given her on her sixteenth birthday.

She did a quick inspection in her mirror. Was it in or out of fashion this year to wear eye shadow during the day? “Mom!”

The call to action jarred her out of the reverie.
So much for me-time.
She switched off lights as she made her way into the hallway of the three-bedroom apartment. The place wasn’t large or new, but she had her own en suite bathroom, and for a mother of two boys, that was a luxury she felt blessed to have found. The cry came at her again just as she reached the tiny kitchen and disaster.

“Lucas spilled the milk, and now I don’t have any for my cereal,” eight-year-old Logan lamented, adopting a disgusted big brother face, despite being only sixteen months older than Lucas. Lately he’d been showing more and more disapproval toward his younger sibling. It was a trend that worried Andrea, and she wasn’t sure how to curb it.

The kitchen had a single bank of cabinets, faded yellow appliances, and just enough room for one small rectangular table shoved against the wall. All three chairs were pushed out as if they’d leapt back to avoid getting splashed. A carton lay overturned on its side, its contents spread across the oak surface like a snowy oil slick. Milk had seeped between the center crack and was drip, drip, dripping to the floor, with a larger river about to roll off the edge.

She grabbed a paper towel to stem the tide.

“I didn’t mean to spill it, Mama,” Lucas said, head hanging, eyes full of self-recrimination. He hated messing up anything. “I tripped.”

“Spilled milk can be cleaned up,” Andrea said.

“Yeah, but I got it all over me,” he said, his voice so sad it broke her heart.

One glance at his splattered shirt and damp pants, and her mind immediately flashed to the shot of Ice Erikksen with pie all over his fly. Her cranky meter began to buzz again. She didn’t dump pie on customers. Or on anyone. And yet she’d done it twice in as many days to the same man.

Maybe her childhood klutziness was resurfacing.

She righted the carton, realizing it was definitely empty now as she ruffled Lucas’s thick blond hair and smirked. “Looks like you’ve inherited Mama’s clumsy gene, pal.”

Lucas shook his head, dismayed. “I don’t want it.”

She laughed. “I don’t blame you. Now hurry up and change your clothes while I mop this up.” He nodded. She called after him, “Put those wet things in the hamper.”

“I will.”

“But I didn’t eat, and now there’s no milk,” Logan said, storm clouds in blue eyes that were the image of his dad’s. He held his bowl of dry cereal to his chest, his expression implying this was her fault for giving him such a pain of a younger brother.

“You used to spill milk, too, buddy. It happens. You don’t need to be so hard on him.”

His mouth took on Donnie’s selfish curl, and she cringed, thinking of other traits of his father’s he might have inherited, like Donnie’s reckless bent. He whined, “I’m hungry.”

And as cranky as me obviously.
“I’ll tell you what, we’ll do breakfast out today.”

“Okay,” he said sullenly, but she caught the quick smile in his eyes.

Fast food was a special treat that she gifted her sons only two or three times a year. God knew, she wasn’t much of a cook beyond pretty basic fare, but with the exception of pizza twice a month, she tried to make sure the boys’ diet was healthy.

As Logan poured his cereal back into its box, she swabbed up the spilled milk with paper towels and then gave everything a quick scrub with disinfectant cleanser.

“I’m ready,” Lucas announced. He wore a clean T-shirt and jeans, his blond hair sticking up like a haystack.

“Run the comb through your hair. Hurry. We’re gonna be late.”

“No,” Lucas said. “I don’t like being late.”

Andrea bit back a smile. Stressing about being late wasn’t a great trait in a kid who had no control over the aspect of time in his life, but she figured it would serve him well as an adult and tried to accommodate him as much as possible. Today it was impossible.

Single-mommy guilt sped through her, along with an unbidden longing for someone to share the weight of raising her two precious sons.

“What the hell is wrong with me?”
Ice smoothed his hand over his short, coarse hair, twisting his neck from side to side. In this predawn hour, his favorite time for writing, he had the main room of the hotel suite to himself. The muted snores stealing through Bobby’s closed door sounded like the frantic crash of the ocean at his Malibu beach house, but noise-squelching earphones shut out the distraction. A John Legend favorite lulled his muse. He should be writing full blast right now, but he couldn’t get a handle on the script for this pilot.

The problem was Andrea Lovette. She kept invading his thoughts. He’d tossed and turned all night, his dreams one sexual adventure after another with her in the lead role. Damn. It was nuts. She wasn’t even his type. Too curvy, too in-his-face, too kiss-my-ass.
Too much like me. It takes one to know one.

But that wasn’t all. Whenever their eyes met, he felt a shift in his equilibrium, as though the ground had cracked open beneath his feet, leaving him with a sense of standing on two halves of a chasm. If he wasn’t careful, he might fall into the abyss. Probably explained why they’d landed on the floor twice since they’d met. He grinned, recalling her reaction to his offer of sex. Damn, he couldn’t deny he’d wanted her then, and if they’d been alone, he might have acted on that baser instinct.

The idea had him smiling harder. His usual method of ridding himself of a brown-eyed, blond distraction like this was a tumble in the sack. Or two. But he’d learned the hard way what a disaster that could be.
Rule 1: No fraternizing with the cast.

Determined to stop being sidetracked, he directed his attention to the individual interviews they’d shot yesterday, hoping for some juicy tidbits to kick-start his recalcitrant muse. The still unwritten script plagued him. He tapped the tip of a pen against the fresh legal pad that he preferred for taking notes, his gaze locked on the iPad screen. Molly McCoy’s segment ran before his eyes, her voice spilling into his earphones, but instead of the perky redheaded shop owner, Ice kept seeing Andrea, hearing Andrea.

There was just something about her—a hunger deep in those alluring brown eyes that echoed a secret yearning buried in his soul. He reached for a bottle of water. Was she single, married, engaged? Involved? She didn’t wear a wedding ring, but there might be a boyfriend, or a fiancé. The possibility prickled. He stretched, trying to shake off the irrational annoyance, and swore out loud. If he wasn’t careful, she could get under his skin, but he
was
careful. Steel encased his heart. He hadn’t earned the nickname
cold bastard
for nothing.

The cool, gray day did nothing to soothe Andrea’s nerves. She dreaded going into work, still embarrassed and pissed off, and not sure she could rein in those feelings enough to behave like a grown-up around Ice today, but there was a staff meeting, and not showing up was out of the question. She entered the back door of the pie shop, inhaling the delightful spicy and fruity scents, finding her bearings in the familiar. She ditched her purse and jacket in the cupboard, acknowledging her coworkers’ warm greetings with one of her own.

A sweeping glance confirmed her suspicion that Zoe was running late as usual. Molly, BiBi, and Jane weren’t fluffed or painted, but they each wore an apron and looked ready for work. She said a second silent “thank-you” for the absence of Flynn and his camera. But Ice and Bobby were also present, and her stomach squeezed, making her wish she’d skipped the greasy sausage and egg muffin she’d downed as she drove the boys to school.

Deciding she needed more caffeine to deal with whatever this day held in store, she went for coffee, bringing her cup to the work counter, where everyone was already seated. The only remaining stool put her directly across from the man of her nightmares. She refused to meet his mesmerizing gaze, concentrating instead on Molly to her left, on her coffee, looking anywhere that wasn’t at Ice—a task made near-impossible by his neon orange, “look at me” surfer shirt.

Bobby called the meeting to order, and Andrea sat a little straighter. His eyes no longer had the lost-weekend redness, but his wrinkled shirt and crinkled face roused an image of Lucas after a night camping in a sleeping bag. If she didn’t know they were booked at The Outlaw Inn, she’d think he was sleeping in his van. Then again, maybe he was innately sloppy like Logan’s art teacher, who didn’t see much beyond his own vision of the world.

“We’re going to finish up the interviews today,” Bobby said, pulling Andrea back to the matter at hand. She hoped she hadn’t missed anything important but figured that, if she had, she’d discover it soon enough.

Bobby glanced at his phone like someone expecting an important call or text, but she suspected he had a checklist app of items he meant to discuss. “Oh,” he said, “Zoe will be here soon to do hair and makeup. We’ll also be filming while you go about your daily work routines, but there’s no need for anxiety. Just be yourselves.”

“And pretend they aren’t capturing our every move on film,” Molly whispered.

 “Yeah, good luck with that.” Andrea almost laughed. She didn’t bother to remind her boss that this was what she’d signed them up for. She took a swig of coffee, only half listening to Bobby, deciding she would spend as much time as she could in the office, out of the camera’s ever-watchful eye. She would also steer clear of Ice and pie.

Ice’s rumbling Sam Elliott voice pulled her gaze to him. “Once we have a story script, we’re going to need one of you to be the overall, on-screen spokesperson.” He stared pointedly at Molly.

She heard Molly suck in a breath. “Oh, no, I can’t do that. I’m sorry. I get flustered too easily since my surgery.”

“Okay.” Ice gave her a sympathetic, understanding nod, then looked at Jane next, his brilliant smile flashing like a spotlight. “How about our other head pastry chef?”

Jane blushed crimson to her strawberry blond roots, her eyes aghast with a horror that suggested she’d just been told the world had run out of flour. “No…I…no.”

“Well, I’d love to do it,” BiBi announced, leaning toward Ice, eager-eyed as a schoolkid with her hand raised, muttering, “Me, me, pick me.”

Molly cleared her throat. “Andrea will do it.”

Andrea froze, so surprised she momentarily lost her voice.

“But my daddy—” BiBi started, about to tell them all again that her father had once had his own TV show on the Food Network.

“Andrea’s run a real estate office,” Molly cut her off, “and held her own in tense situations.”

“But I—” BiBi started again, hurt dancing in her round blue eyes.

“Andrea stays levelheaded in most every situation,” Molly insisted. “She’ll be perfect.”

Steam seemed to billow from BiBi’s ears like a pressure cooker about to explode. “Andrea lost her cool and dumped pie all over our director twice in two days.”

“And she handled both times with grace,” Molly said.

No I didn’t.
Andrea blanched, heat flooding her face a second later as she sat there too stunned to respond. She wanted to remind them both that she was sitting right here and to stop talking for her, but she might as well have laryngitis.

“That’s settled then,” Molly said with a finality that brought BiBi’s mouth together tighter than a zipline.

Andrea wanted to say, “
I won’t do it.
” It sounded like a responsibility she hadn’t the time or the desire to take on. But the air already crackled with the kind of tension that just needed a spark to ignite so she held her tongue, toying with a hoop earring and trying to figure out how to placate BiBi. And now she was stuck working with Ice.
No good deed goes unpunished.
This is my reward for promising to do whatever I can to ensure the TV pilot’s success.