Page 1 of For Butter or Worse
1
NINA
Nina Lyon stared into her dressing room’s vanity mirror. Her palms were planted firmly against the table, but she bounced on the balls of her feet—the same way she did whenever she was nervous. And she was borderline vibrating with unease.
The average at-home viewer would never notice, because her glam team, who’d become experts at giving her the “natural” look—despite the false lashes, bronzer and endless eyebrow filler—had done a superb job. Her stylist had zipped her into a classic black jumpsuit accessorized with a gold statement necklace and slim python belt that cinched her waist and showed off the roundness of her hips. Even if she didn’t feel confident, she looked as flawless as a mirror-glazed cake. She was iced perfection.
“I can do this. I. Can. Do.This,” she said out loud.
“Hell yes, you fucking can!” Her sister Sophie’s voice burst through the phone. “Hell yes, you fucking can!”
Nina looked down at her best friend, Jasmine, and her sister on FaceTime. If anyone could pump her up, it was her minihype team.
“Repeat after me,” Jasmine commanded. “I will not fall in my heels.”
“Now that you’ve cursed her by saying it out loud, she’s definitely going to fall,” Sophie chided.
“On this very helpful note, I should probably go.” Nina raised a playful eyebrow.
“Nothing, and I meannothingis going to go wrong!” Sophie said.
“Just remember these words—do not fall—”
Nina interrupted her bestie, “Okay, ’bye!” Then she ended the video chat.
She exhaled sharply. Normally, she wouldn’t give Jasmine’s comment more than a passing thought. But tonight was deeply important, and something as innocuous as tripping could actually be a problem.
I can do this, Nina reminded herself. It was the taping of the finale of the third season ofThe Next Cooking Champ!and she’d worked her entire career to get to this point. While most chefs cooked in obscurity, people knew her name. She was also a female chef, a minority in the restaurant world, and the producers had taken a chance on her. But she’d earned her spot. She’d built Lyon—a successful restaurant—on her own, and had won awards while growing a loyal clientele. To her, food was more than a meal. Food waseverything.
“We need a hair-and-makeup check on Nina,” Tiffany, a producer on the show, said quickly into her headset. She had one of those inscrutable faces that meant getting a read on how she was feeling was nearly impossible until she actually spoke.
“What do you think?” Nina cautiously spun to show the full effect of the costume designer’s wardrobe choice.
“You’re sweating.” Tiffany stared at Nina’s hairline.
Okay, well, that wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for. “Wait, I’m what—”
“Walk with me,” Tiffany said, cutting her off, then turned on her Converse-sneakered heel. Nina trailed after her.
They left the cocoon of Nina’s dressing room and made their way to the soundstage, which was outfitted with cooking stations, KitchenAid mixers, multiple burners, mixing bowls, measuring cups and an alphabetized spice rack. The setup wasn’t dissimilar from her own restaurant’s kitchen...except for the reality-show part.
Nina carefully ran a finger along the top of her forehead. Shewassweating, and not just because of the bright, overhead lights or the row of cameras that would soon be trained on her.
Sharp footsteps approached the soundstage, and Nina turned to see the real source of her jitters: Leo O’Donnell.
Her cohost on the show was as annoying as a piece of spinach lodged in between her front teeth. He wasn’t a chef. He was a businessman, and his only accomplishment was turning his father’s charming Italian restaurant, Vinny’s, into a bland chain. Unlike Nina, he wasn’t passionate about food—all he cared about was the bottom line.
She just needed to make it through this taping, ideally without screaming at him. If she accomplished that, then they could go back to doing what they did best: hating each other.
However, not yelling would be difficult, because Leo—aka the person whose face she pictured when she needed to pound out some dough—always knew how to provoke the worst in her.
After tonight, though, the show would wrap for the season. She’d return to the day-to-day running of her restaurant, and trade in bowls of prop food for the real thing. Instead of working with Leo, where she had to control her gag reflex, she’d be in the kitchen with Jasmine. Just the thought of her old routine was like a warm cup of cocoa—comforting and extremely necessary. As much as Nina loved mentoring the budding chefs and working with the insanely talented behind-the-scenes crew...she needed the time off. From Leo the man-child, to be more specific.
A stylist soundlessly appeared at Nina’s side and worked on the unruly flyaways that always erupted from her head under the heat of the on-camera lighting, while a man with a compact dabbed over her forehead.
“How’smyhair and makeup?” Leo stopped and cocked his chin at the exact angle for the overhead light to accentuate his immaculate swoop of dark hair. It was as if someone had marked, with anX, the exact spot for him to stand so he’d look his absolute best. He was close to being six feet tall and carried himself in an overly confident way that gave him even more height. He wore a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal the faintest whiff of his chest hair—a touch she’d bet a hundred bucks thathe’dmade, and not the stylist. As he came to stand next to her, he studied her face.
“Are you sweating?” he finally asked.
