a second.” Moments later, upbeat, instrumental music came through the partition.
“Great, they’re done.” John moved to the area between the two kitchen islands, both with stovetops and a single sink. “Paige, you’ll have the one on the right.”
Paige moved around to the other side of the island and trailed her fingers along the range top, feeling like a perpetrator. She grew up in a family full of cooks—her grandparents had owned a Creole restaurant and her mother and aunts all grew up cooking their parents’ recipes. With all those cooks in the kitchen, she had never felt the pressure to join them. Sure, she could throw together a meal when she had to, but a gourmet chef she was not.
“You look as if you’re already thinking of ways to take me down.”
“You’re not the only one who knows something about game plans,” Paige answered.
“Maybe I underestimated you.” He laughed.
He had such a beautiful laugh. It was natural, not the fake chuckle she equated with most celebrity types.
The partition separating the kitchen from the news desk was moved back a few feet.
“Are we ready in here?” A guy wearing a headset came in, followed by two others. They pulled out the large cameras that were tucked away in a corner and placed them about a dozen feet in front of the two cooking stations.
“Your lines will be on the teleprompter,” Headset guy said.
“Lines?” Paige groaned. Wasn’t it enough that she had to be in front of the camera? They expected her to speak as well?
“Only a few,” the director said.
Torrian leaned over, his mouth tipped up in a grin that was too sexy for words. “Don’t tell me you’re camera shy?”
Paige sighed. It’s not as if she could ever hide her stage fright. She still had nightmares over that fourth-grade Christmas play. When you had a hard time reading the script, it only made reciting it that much more difficult. “Public speaking is not my forte,” she admitted.
“The trick is to imagine there’s just one person out there who’s going to see it. I always pretend I’m speaking to my sister when I’m talking about something light and fun, and my old guidance counselor when I need to be serious. Mrs. Green had this personal vendetta against people who smiled.”
“Are we ready?” Headset Guy asked.
They both got into position. The lights along the room’s perimeter were shut off, and at least five additional spotlights shone down on them. The heat was instantaneous.
“You’ll get used to the temperature,” the director called, as if he’d read Paige’s mind. Paige wasn’t sure what caused the sweat: the glaring spotlights, the thought of speaking in front of a camera or the sexy football player standing less than eight feet away.
That he was gorgeous was a given. Torrian Smallwood was one of those sex symbols who’d transcended the football field and had infiltrated other areas of entertainment.
And if it turned out he did know his way around the kitchen? Good Lord, some things were just too hard to resist.
“And we’re rolling,” the director said.
“What? Huh?” Paige looked up at the camera.
“Cut,” the director said. Oh, great. Not the best start to her big television debut.
“You know what?” the director said, “I think it would work better if Torrian started out first. Give me a minute.” He went to a computer set up just to the right of the camera that wasn’t in use and began typing.
“Remember what I told you?” Paige jumped back in surprise at Torrian’s voice right over her shoulder. She hadn’t even heard him move away from his station.
“Who are you most comfortable talking to?” he asked.
“Ah…my coworker, Angela.”
“Okay, pretend it’s just Angela out there. You’re speaking only to her.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t ready.” Because she’d been thinking about him.
“Torrian, we’ll start with you,” the director said. “Let’s see how this first run
“Great, they’re done.” John moved to the area between the two kitchen islands, both with stovetops and a single sink. “Paige, you’ll have the one on the right.”
Paige moved around to the other side of the island and trailed her fingers along the range top, feeling like a perpetrator. She grew up in a family full of cooks—her grandparents had owned a Creole restaurant and her mother and aunts all grew up cooking their parents’ recipes. With all those cooks in the kitchen, she had never felt the pressure to join them. Sure, she could throw together a meal when she had to, but a gourmet chef she was not.
“You look as if you’re already thinking of ways to take me down.”
“You’re not the only one who knows something about game plans,” Paige answered.
“Maybe I underestimated you.” He laughed.
He had such a beautiful laugh. It was natural, not the fake chuckle she equated with most celebrity types.
The partition separating the kitchen from the news desk was moved back a few feet.
“Are we ready in here?” A guy wearing a headset came in, followed by two others. They pulled out the large cameras that were tucked away in a corner and placed them about a dozen feet in front of the two cooking stations.
“Your lines will be on the teleprompter,” Headset guy said.
“Lines?” Paige groaned. Wasn’t it enough that she had to be in front of the camera? They expected her to speak as well?
“Only a few,” the director said.
Torrian leaned over, his mouth tipped up in a grin that was too sexy for words. “Don’t tell me you’re camera shy?”
Paige sighed. It’s not as if she could ever hide her stage fright. She still had nightmares over that fourth-grade Christmas play. When you had a hard time reading the script, it only made reciting it that much more difficult. “Public speaking is not my forte,” she admitted.
“The trick is to imagine there’s just one person out there who’s going to see it. I always pretend I’m speaking to my sister when I’m talking about something light and fun, and my old guidance counselor when I need to be serious. Mrs. Green had this personal vendetta against people who smiled.”
“Are we ready?” Headset Guy asked.
They both got into position. The lights along the room’s perimeter were shut off, and at least five additional spotlights shone down on them. The heat was instantaneous.
“You’ll get used to the temperature,” the director called, as if he’d read Paige’s mind. Paige wasn’t sure what caused the sweat: the glaring spotlights, the thought of speaking in front of a camera or the sexy football player standing less than eight feet away.
That he was gorgeous was a given. Torrian Smallwood was one of those sex symbols who’d transcended the football field and had infiltrated other areas of entertainment.
And if it turned out he did know his way around the kitchen? Good Lord, some things were just too hard to resist.
“And we’re rolling,” the director said.
“What? Huh?” Paige looked up at the camera.
“Cut,” the director said. Oh, great. Not the best start to her big television debut.
“You know what?” the director said, “I think it would work better if Torrian started out first. Give me a minute.” He went to a computer set up just to the right of the camera that wasn’t in use and began typing.
“Remember what I told you?” Paige jumped back in surprise at Torrian’s voice right over her shoulder. She hadn’t even heard him move away from his station.
“Who are you most comfortable talking to?” he asked.
“Ah…my coworker, Angela.”
“Okay, pretend it’s just Angela out there. You’re speaking only to her.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t ready.” Because she’d been thinking about him.
“Torrian, we’ll start with you,” the director said. “Let’s see how this first run
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