Page 5 of True North

I actually have no idea about any of this military stuff. Heavens, I don’t even know where the wars are in the world these days. I’ve been so occupied with my own harried life. Always keeping my eye on the prize.

The next Julia Child.

God, wouldn’t that be something.

“Nowladies! Or do I need to send in the cleanup crew!”

Take a hike, Marty.

I glance back at the grump of a producer who’s been running us ragged for months for his ratings. “Jesus.”

“Sorry, Marty,” Britt calls out.

“Don’t be sorry, Brittany, be professional. Get the damn segment done. It’s not a hard ask. At this rate, we’ll be doing it live. We have less than ten to air.”

“Ass,” she mutters.

Marty is notorious for running timelines into the ground. It’s not the first time a prerecord has had to be live because of his sloppy time management. With the floor clean and the bowl replaced, I radio for makeup and wardrobe. Britt disappears for exactly two and a half minutes and is back with a smile plastered on her pretty face in no time.

Safely behind the camera crew, the countdown starts.On Airflashes red over the entrance door. The clapperboard snaps. Britt starts mixing. That smile still in place. She picks up the spoon when the batter is done, and she has talked the audience through making it. Holding it over a prepared cake tin, she begins to scrape the batter into the tin. And then it happens.

Again.

I watch in horror as the bowl leaves her fingers, slamming into the cake tin, rolling over the counter, taking props and glass jars of spiced and herbed oils with it. You could hear a pin drop as we all hold our breath while the three tall glass oil bottles roll toward the edge of the counter.

Crack!

Crack! Crack!

Shit.

I drag my gaze to Britt’s devastated face. Her chin wobbles, her hands still outstretched like she could stop the slow-motion disaster from happening.

“CUT! Fuck me, Britt. Greenroom. Now!” Marty throws his headset to the ground. Britt runs off in a fluster of tears. I pick up the gear and hang it over his chair.

This time, cleanup sorts out the mess as I run through the run sheet, hoping—no, praying—Britt survives Marty’s wrath.

“Think he’ll fire her?” one of the sound guys says, padding over to where I stand.

“Britt? No, she’s the face of the show. You can’t replace her without affecting the ratings.”

He looks at me, chewing his bottom lip, hands in his back pockets as he rocks on his heels.

“You need something, Dylan?” I ask, feeling as awkward as he looks right now.

“Ah, yeah, so.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking to the floor. “I was?—”

“Masters! You’re up! We’re goinglive, people. Hustle!” Marty’s voice booms through the set, echoing through the house seats that are used for other shows produced in the huge space.

Dylan stiffens and hurries back to his post, sinking into his chair with the look of a petulant child scolded for skipping school.Okay...

I snap my focus to the producer striding my way. The look on his face, all business, has my nerve up. Instantly.

“Up?” I ask, brows knitting.

“Get to wardrobe and makeup. You know this segment, you’re subbing in today.”

“I—” I choke on the air in my lungs.

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