Page 11 of For Butter or Worse
5
NINA
Sophie:I’m still confused as to how you kissed Leo?? You hate him??
Jasmine:Ditto ^^^
Sophie:I did have a sex dream once about this guy who worked at a sandwich shop who I absolutely despised.
Jasmine:...
Sophie:We had amazing sex. In the dream. The size of his salami was really disturbing.
Jasmine:Nina, please tell us you’re alive so Sophie shuts the hell up about her sex dreams.
Sophie:And he kept saying he was going to “slam-a-me” with his salami. Isn’t that gross?
Jasmine:Do I need to hear this? At 9 in the morning?
Sophie:But it was also kinda hot...right?
Nina:Alive.
Nina leaned across the long, granite kitchen island. She wasn’t about to tell her sister and best friend that while she hadn’t made out with Leo, shehadcomplimented his pecs. That, plus quitting the show, would likely put her at intervention status. And while she would’ve loved to see them both show up on her doorstep with wine, she already had a packed day ahead of her.
Her head felt like it had been placed in a mixer with the setting on high. She hadn’t slept at all, really. It was impossible to sleep when what she’d said to Leo played on an endless loop:at least you have those nice pecs. She cringed each time she remembered. In what world would she pay him a compliment at all, let alone about his body? While hedidhave an objectively firm chest, judging from how solid of a landing she’d had, that didn’t mean she needed to comment on it. He was smarmy, and self-absorbed, and had been slowly destroying her career for the last three years. And knowing Leo, he probably justlovedthat she’d said anything kind to him.
Clearly, she was sleep-deprived and reeling from taking one of the biggest risks of her life. She was just embarrassed that in her stupor, she’d accidentally flirted with Leo. She pulled at the end of one of her wavy curls, feeling drained. Out of all the feelings she’d wanted to leave him with, cockiness wasn’t one of them. He already had enough of that.
She’d made a cappuccino, and she took a much-needed sip. She scratched her eyebrow in irritation because, annoyingly, the scent reminded her of him. He didn’t smell like bad body spray, as she’d claimed. He smelled like espresso. The last thing she wanted was to associate her favorite morning beverage with him, so she’d made herself a cup just to try and reclaim it. She took another sip. Still smelled like Leo, but she’d keep drinking to try and change the narrative.
The doorbell rang, interrupting her progress. She knew who it was, but they’d have to wait because she needed the cappuccino more. She took one more satisfying gulp before the doorbell rang again.
She padded down the warm terra-cotta floor, through her 1940s two-bedroom Craftsman bungalow that was turning into a de facto war room. Her team all planned to arrive shortly—agent, manager, lawyer and publicist—and were going to fix what had happened between her and Leo. She hoped one of them had a time machine so she could take back the pecs comment.
As she approached the door, she spied Tom. He tapped an imaginary watch on his wrist.
“As your publicist, it would’ve been helpful to know you two were dating,” he said as he walked in.
“We’re not dating,” she replied emphatically.
He grabbed her cappuccino and took a long sip. “Oh, that’s good, make me one of those. Actually, I’ll keep this. Make yourself a new one.”
Nina reached to get her cup back, but Tom held on to it. “You’re my publicist. Aren’t you supposed to bring me a latte?”
He followed her back into the kitchen. “Well, I would’ve, but I’ve had quite the night. You see, one of my clients quit her job, then made out with a coworker. Which wouldn’t be a big deal, except she’s famous and people love nothing more than to talk about famous people’s sex lives. So while she was making out with Jamie Dornan’s look-alike, I had to stay up all night fielding press inquiries.” He finally took a breath.
Nina hit the Start button on the espresso machine to drown out whatever else Tom had to say. Since Tom’s frantic call yesterday, she was aware that the photos of her and Leo had been published. And while they hadn’t kissed, it definitely looked that way. Her name and Leo’s had trended separately, along with #TheNextMakeoutChamp. She also had fielded several impromptu questions from last night’s customers, many of whom were reporters, and she didn’t exactly have a great canned response to “Have you and Leo been dating this whole time?”
No commentbecame her go-to response. Which hadn’t impressed anyone, especially not Tom.
“You’re early, you know. I could’ve been showering. Or eating. Or...” Nina ran out of things she usually did in the morning and instead took a sip of her new drink. She closed her eyes as she savored the flavors. “Lord, I am good at making these. Should I open a coffee shop?”
“Focus,” Tom said through gritted teeth.
She led them out the back door and onto the porch. There was a round table, and they both sat down. Her backyard had two fat sycamore trees that blocked out any view of her neighbors. The leaves had turned a golden yellow with the slight change in temperature, and brown, furry seeds the size and shape of gumballs littered the lawn. The kitchen was her happy place, but her backyard was where she came to relax. She knew Tom wasn’t about to let her, though.
Tom tightly smiled and drummed his fingers against the mug. She’d been working with him since joining the show. She hadn’t needed a publicist before, but as her personality began to dominate more than her food, he’d become necessary, and she hadn’t exactly made his life easy. She’d forget most of his media training when the cameras turned on. When he’d secure her a magazine interview to soften her image, she’d unknowingly say something else that would get twisted into an even bigger problem—who knew that “our show changes people’s lives” could be turned into the headline Nina Lyon Takes Credit for Success of Cooking Show. Tom was good at his job—he wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Nina wasn’t all that savvy about being famous. That, and some people apparently wanted to watch her fail.
