Dining with Joy (23 page)

“I want more from Joy too. She's too safe, too in command. Predictable in her zaniness.” Allison felt Dan's puppeteer strings tightening, manipulating, moving her the way he and TruReality wanted. “What can you do to spur on the competition between Joy and Wenda Divine? I hear Wenda thinks Joy is a hack. And where are we on the cookbook?”

“Joy and Luke are working on the cookbook. And Wenda is a first-class witch, if you know what I mean.”

“If you mean she's great entertainment for our side, I do. If you're avoiding her, then you disappoint me, Allison. Don't make me sorry I took a chance with you. We go back a ways, but I'll kick you to the curb along with my own mama if you don't deliver. We're not airing a cooking show. We're airing a reality show. We want drama and conflict and tension. We want the viewers wondering from week to week if Joy's life matches what they see on the set. And it's our job to make sure the show is as real as we can make it.”

“Joy doesn't want anything to do with Wenda. She faced her this summer down here and beat her. End of story for our star.”

“Doesn't mean it's end of story for our purposes.” Dan cocked his eyebrow as he lowered his chin.

Allison's door shoved open and Joy entered. “Allison, we need to talk about the fall bookings. I'm not sure we can manage . . . Dan, I didn't know you were here.”

Allison eyed Joy as she turned back to her desk. “He brought the focus group results.”

“If the tension between you two is any indication of the results, I take it they didn't quite love us.”

Dan laughed. Too exuberant, and it annoyed Allison. “Have a seat, Joy.” Dan patted the chair next to him. “The viewers love you and the show's format. But we're just struggling with your cohost. He's still too bland and boring for our viewers' taste. Next to you, he's a sundried jellyfish.”

“He's an amazing chef. We've been working on the cookbook for the past two weeks and I think I've gained five pounds.”

“I'm thinking of reshooting,” Allison said, her tone firm, trying to communicate to Dan she'd produce her show her way and make him like it. She trusted her instincts, her gut reaction for good programming and great chemistry. Bringing Luke to the show had not been a mistake.

“By the way, did you find your father's recipes yet?”

“Not yet . . . but, Allison, Luke is a different chef when he cooks in my kitchen. Relaxed, funny, makes everything look easy. Why not send Garth and Reba over, let them capture him in the moment, unscripted? See what you get.” So, Joy donned her producer hat and sounded savvy, chic, and confident. “My youngest niece likes to watch and help. Luke loves teaching her, showing her how cooking is done. In the studio, I think he feels like he has to perform. At the house, he's himself.”

“Great idea.” Allison went with the suggestion. “Set up hidden cameras—”

“No, that's not fair. He has to know. Send Garth and Reba, but my guess is it won't bother Luke in a home setting.”

“No, I say we hide—”

“Joy's right.” Dan smacked his palms together. “Shoot at her place. We'll see a different Luke. Good thinking. I like you, and it'll be my pleasure to see you a household name, darling.”

Allison snatched up her pen and clicked the button, on, off, on, off. “Is tonight a good time, Joy? And find your father's cookbook. Adding his recipes with vignettes about him written by you, an at-my-father's-stove angle, will tug at heartstrings. The publisher wants to add it as part of our marketing plan.”

Joy agreed to keep looking, then excused herself, and Allison boiled over.

“Don't undermine me again, Dan. This is my show.”

“On my network.” He scooted to the end of his seat, balancing his girth on the thin metal frame. “Now that we've created a little swirl for Luke, cooking at home with Joy and her little niece, showcasing He-Man sex appeal . . . no woman can resist a masculine man in the kitchen. Our college men will identify with him. Now I want a swirl for Joy. I want Wenda. Get her in another cook-off with Wenda.”

“What for? Wenda is trailer trash. We don't need her.”

“Oh, but we do. Put Joy in conflict. Give her trouble. Let the viewers side with her, root for her. Heck, send Luke in on a white horse to rescue her.” Dan stood, smoothing the tuck of his starched blue shirt into his waistband, pressing his fingers against the soft leather of his belt. “There's always
The Bette Hudson Show
. Figure something out. Anyway, I'll see you for dinner.” He paused at the door. “I'm counting on you. Get this show right.”

When his footsteps echoed down the stairs and the roar of a rental car motor vibrated against her office window, Allison pitched her pen at the door and swore, low, dark, and venomous.

Twenty

“Forget they're here.” Standing in the hall, between the front door and the kitchen, Joy gripped Luke's shoulders. “Just do what you've been doing in this kitchen.”

Falling in love with you?
“It's killing my ego here, you know. I'm still
that
boring?” Luke glanced at the lens Garth aimed at him.

“No, but I think Dan Greene is really busting Allison for a bigger, better show than she sold him.”

“Don't lie to me.” Luke paced halfway down the front hall. “I saw the focus group survey. Hunky but snoresville. I was the class clown in seventh grade. Got sent to the principal's office weekly for cutting up, making the girls laugh.”

“You don't have to be entertaining, Luke. That's my job. Just loosen up. You're getting better with each shoot.”

He exhaled. Each shoot. Half the season was in the can already. “Let's do it.”
Forget the cameras, forget the cameras
.

In the kitchen, Annie-Rae perched on her stool, her elbows back on the counter, a homemade something on her lap. “How's my Annie?” Luke squished her curls like he did every night.

“I'm going to be on TV too.”

“Luke, are you ready?” Garth prompted him to get started.

He scanned the counter. Today's focus was ricotta cheese pancakes
and
cookies. He loved this recipe, developed it for Ami's opening.

Prepping the ingredients this afternoon reminded him of why he loved the gastronome life, and for one short breath, he contemplated Linus's invitation. It would be good to be back in the kitchen.

“Let's do this.”

Joy faced the camera. He loved watching her, so easy and natural, as if she believed a million of her best friends were on the other end of that lens, stopping by for the evening. Without Ryan or a script, she soared higher. Ad lib was her element. Garth and Reba just let the cameras roll, moving around to find the best angles and shots.

“Tonight we're cooking in a real home kitchen—yes, mine. There, are you happy? I can hear it now: ‘Stan, where do you think she is? Is that her home . . . oh, I bet they rented a big fancy kitchen for this one.'” Joy stepped aside. “As you can see, no, we did not rent a big fancy kitchen for this show. It's my small, boring one, and please do not send me decorating ideas or offers. Tonight's segment? Luke Redmond's raspberry ricotta pancakes and cookies. I cannot wait to try these. Luke, are you ready? Wait, Annie, how could I forget you? This is my niece, Annie-Rae, everyone. Sweetie, introduce Luke for us.”

Annie giggled and scrunched up her shoulders. Something about her presence enabled Luke to forget the cameras circling the kitchen. Or that at the moment, pixie Reba stood on the counter with her remote aimed at his head.

“I can't.” Annie hid her smile behind her hand.

“Sure you can.”

Reba moved slowly, stepping over the sink, her foot landing right between the flour and the cheese.

Annie-Rae inhaled, sucked in her gut, closed her eyes, and tipped back her head. “Hey, good lookin', whatcha got cookin'?”

Luke buckled forward, shimmying, trying not to discourage Annie with his laugh. A couple of dishes clattered behind him. Garth's chest rumbled.

“All right, Luke.” Joy motioned to him, straight-faced, eyes alight. “Whatcha got cookin'?”

“Okay, tonight we're working with one of my favorite ingredients. Ricotta cheese.” He reached for the tub on the counter by Reba's foot. “But when most of us think of ricotta, we think—”

“Italiano.” Joy kissed her fingertips and thumb.

“Exactly.” Luke shoved the prep bowls around. “Stuffed shells, lasagna. All great dishes. But you've not tasted ricotta until you've tasted it the Luke Redmond way, in cookies and pancakes.”

“Then teach us, oh great chef.” Joy tied on her apron.

A random thought hit him. No. He couldn't. But Dan wanted him to liven up . . . “The rest of the ingredients are standard. Eggs, baking soda, flour, salt, cinnamon, and nutmeg.” Even with Garth's warm breath practically breezing through his hair, this kitchen felt like home. “So, Joy, I'm going to need you to warm up the eggs before adding them to the room temperature butter.” He dropped two eggs in her hand.

“You're kidding. I know if you add eggs to heated butter, the eggs can cook, but cold eggs mess with room temp butter? Help us out here, oh great one, and tell us why.”

“Because I said so. No, Joy, cup your hands like this,” he demonstrated, making a bowl with his hands, “to warm the eggs. Like a nest.”

She made a face at the camera. “New York Yankee chefs . . . Down here we just toss it all together and let the recipe come out like it's supposed to.”

“First, we're going to cut the flour with baking soda and salt.” Luke set the empty bowls aside. Joy stood watching, cradling her eggs.

She looked so cute he almost hated to pull his prank. But . . . In one quicksilver move, Luke clapped his hands around hers. The shells crunched. Raw whites and yolks slithered from the bottom of her hands, between her fingers.

“Oh my . . . what the . . .” Joy gaped at him, blue eyes snapping.

“You've got to be kidding me.”

Garth and Reba circled, hungry vultures descending on a wounded prey.

“Oh, Aunt Joy, Luke,
two whole eggs
?” Annie-Rae whined at the travesty of wasting good food.

“Luke, my, my, seems you forgot to do your hair for the show.” Joy spread her hands, yolk going all over, and smashed them down on Luke's head, smearing the slimy eggs through his hair. He could feel her molding it to a point on top. “There now.” She angled back for a good look. “Don't you look dapper—I've been missing your pompadour. Eggs work better than the finest hair gel.”

Her eyes urged him,
Come on, this is the stuff
. But he didn't care about the stuff. He cared about her. His pulse muddied. His lungs expelled the last ounce of breathable air. The kitchen walls expanded, leaving him alone with Joy on a kitchen island. The lights morphed to glassy stars. The voices became the rush of fluttering wings against his ears. Garth and Reba were tall coconut palms.

He wrapped his arms around Joy and tipped his head, covering her lips with his, unsure, tentative, until she laced her arms around his neck, molded against him, and joined the kiss.

Luke drew her tighter, tasting her skin, inhaling her fragrance, fanning the embers of his heart, sensing somehow if the kiss ended too soon, his hunger would never cease.

When she broke away, Luke's lips lingered on hers. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.

“For the cameras?” she whispered.

“Cameras?” He kissed her again, breathing in deep. “What cameras?”

“What do you think?” Joy crouched on the kitchen floor over the last page of the mock-up cookbook. “Pretty clever, huh?” She nudged Luke with her elbow.

“I think it's noon on Saturday,” he ran his hands over his face, then stretched his fingers, “and you've had me kneeling on a hard tile floor for three hours, cutting food out of magazines with kiddie scissors.”

“But we have a mockup of the cookbook.” Joy jigged around the kitchen, tugging Annie-Rae to her feet and spinning her around. “We have recipe names based off Ryan's list. Now all we need are the ingredients and the how-to.” Sigh.

“Leave the simple part to last.” Luke hobbled to the counter and perched on the stool, hand pressed against the small of his back. “My knees and back . . . I can't believe you called me at six a.m.”

“Ryan's list inspired me. Got to strike while the iron's hot. Mock up a cookbook, get a visual. Feels real to me now.”

“Even Red never woke me up at six for branding days.” His clear blue eyes laughed at his own fabrication. He looked funny with his tired expression and shocks of Spit Fire-dried hair going every which way.

“Right, he probably woke you up at five. Or four. Come on, cowboy.” Joy jigged over to him. “Can't let a little paste and paper defeat you.” She roped her arm around his shoulders, the bend of her elbow fitting the nape of his neck. His shoulder felt solid and warm beneath her hand. “What happened to the bubba who survived Hell's Kitchen?”

“Did I mention I failed kindergarten?”

“Poor baby.” On instinct, without thinking, she kissed his cheek. Affectionate. More intimate than yesterday's moment in front of the camera. She could feel his pulse surge with his quick and short breaths. When he gazed up at her, his blue eyes ignited a wildfire in her belly.

“Luke.” She tucked her hair behind her ears as she backed away, then motioned to the mock-up. “We have a cookbook. Look.” She straightened the last page with her toe. “I say we glue that sucker together and turn it in to Allison. Here's the cookbook. Go make millions.”

“I don't know. Annie-Rae and I were having fun cooking, testing the recipes.” Luke flowed with the moment and she appreciated it.

She didn't quite know what to do with the sudden passion that kept exploding between them. In the middle of the night, she'd woken up with heart palpitations. Was the only spark between them going to be on the show? The embers of sexual tension fueled by a spontaneous kiss? Allison and Dan Greene may love it, but Joy didn't. Did Luke?