Bakery owner. Nursery teacher. In this case, very similar skill sets required.
Dominic flicked to another screen on his iPad. “I’m surprised you could actually commit to this contract. Fledgling businesses usually require twenty-four-seven attention if they’re going to have any chance of surviving.”
Sylvie finished replying to Jay and set her phone down. Picking up a cleansing wipe, she began swiping off her foundation to leave a blank palette for Zack, the show’s makeup artist. “Sugar Fair is almost three years old.”
“As I said. Or is it a moot point and things are already going in the same direction as your predecessors?”
She and Jay had looked at twenty-one possible premises for Sugar Fair. Despite the enormous drawback of it being literally across the fucking street from De Vere’s, they’d finally selected the space on Magnolia Lane because the former tenant had installed an absolute budget-blowing dream of a kitchen they’d never have been able to afford from scratch. Unfortunately, the erstwhile occupant’s culinary dreams—and those of at least six food businesses before him—had hit the rocks. A depressing history for the building that she was choosing to see as a warning and not a precedent.
“If it helps,” Dominic murmured, his voice a honeyed drawl as he accepted a sheaf of papers from a passing assistant and scanned the first sheet, “you’ve outlasted four of the previous failing ventures in that building by at least six months. Not unimpressive for premises that even Willy Wonka would find over the top, and a customer base that appears to be an even split of screeching toddlers and drunken wizards.”
The crumb of goodwill over the chocolate bar had lasted a good twenty seconds. Relations were improving.
“Question.” With a shiny, scrubbed face, Sylvie reached for the fresh cup of tea waiting on the makeup table and ripped open a sugar packet. “What exactly possessed you to commit to any of these contracts? This doesn’t seem like your natural habitat. Cameras in your face. People trying to take your photo in the street. A name over the front door and it’s not yours.”
She stirred the tea. As usual, any aversion to confrontation went into hibernation the moment those cool, emotionless eyes glanced over her. A provocative little devil always sashayed out to sit on her shoulder, prodding her more vociferously with every sardonic remark thrown her way. If Dominic could teleport in and fire her up with one of his pillock comments every time she had to negotiate with a supplier, she’d be the freaking queen of haggling.
“And technically,” she went on, “unlike your usual workplace, you’re not allowed to completely decimate someone when they fall short of your ridiculously high standards and dull decorative tastes.” Sip. “But let’s face it. Anyone who pulls out the glitter is going home with the remains of their ego in a bag.”
She truly was curious. He couldn’t be here for the same reason she was. De Vere’s had always had a foot—and a cake—in every major event and powerhouse in the city. He could hardly be hard up for cash, and she didn’t see the Serious Artiste as a closet reality TV fan. He’d lent his brutal honesty and ropy forearms to Operation Cake, but the miserable git would probably rather jab himself in the eye with a fondant cutter than curl up on the couch on a Sunday night with a hot chocolate and a slab of Victoria sponge.
Far from unwinding in front of the TV, she’d be surprised if he ever went home at all. He started work as early as she did, and he was frequently still across the road when she tottered tiredly out the door after a Dark Forest session. In fact, he often stood outside the door of De Vere’s, practically ticking with annoyance and impatience, and waited until she’d safely made it to her car. In that one singular area, it was surprisingly decent of him.
Jaw-droppingly decent of him.
Because she had manners, she’d popped across once to thank him. He’d looked up from the piping bag he wielded with such ease. His gaze had traveled quickly over her face before returning to meet hers, his lips parting.
As he’d bluntly informed her that she was blocking the way to the stove.
She assumed that once she’d driven off in the early hours of the morning, he went back inside, plugged himself into a power outlet, and recharged his cyborg battery.
He was scrawling his name on the bottom of a paper. She’d noticed before that his handwriting was very messy for a man with the working temperament of Rabbit from Winnie-the-Pooh.
“I’d think my motivation for this would be clear,” he said after a long enough silence he’d probably been hoping she’d give up and leave.
Sylvie rested her cup on her lap and surveyed him thoughtfully. “Blackmail?”
“The responsibility to share professional expertise with multitudes of otherwise poorly informed bakers.” The words were silky smooth. He turned and signed another page. “And a natural inclination for teaching and mentorship.”
“I see.” She tapped her nails against the hot ceramic. “So, blackmail.”
A head popped around the door, then, to summon him back to the studio for his solo promo shots. Apparently, he’d already had his makeup done. Of course there’d be no visible difference.
Dominic lifted his brows at her as he rose and departed, and she realized that her bubbling nerves had simmered down to the point of vanishing completely. His sleeve caught on her hair, stirring the back of her neck as he passed.
She didn’t have a chance to speculate further, as Mariana took his place, slipping into the vacated chair and turning with a smile. “So glad to have you here. I’ve been the only woman on the panel since I came to the network. Jim Durham’s a pet, but still, I was screamingly sick of the boys’ club.”
“Lucky for me that Jim wanted to move on.” Sylvie remained surprised about that. He’d been on the show since the first season and had seemed like a stalwart.
“Oh, he didn’t,” Mariana said breezily, leaning forward to poke through the lipstick selection. “He got arse-over-tit drunk at a network party and told everyone that the head of programming has been shagging his secretary. They retired him faster than a limited-edition Lego set.” She picked up a tube. “Word to the wise. If you’re going to drink on the clock, stick to a subtle tipple between takes.”
Sylvie’s smile faltered when Mariana just looked at her placidly.
“Um—any other tips?” she asked lamely, rubbing where the skin itched on the back of her neck, and the other woman shook her head.
“Normally, I’d give a heads-up about the other third of the team, but you already know Frosty, and haven’t yet smothered him or yourself. You’ll be fine.” She hummed. “And Dominic was not impressed about your casting, so that’s always fun.”
“Was he not,” Sylvie said, with zero surprise.
“I know you two butted heads from the beginning. He used to say you needed hazard lights attached to your station. And that was before the Hoof Incident.” She pulled the cap off the lipstick. “If it sugars the pill, he also found you attractive.”
Fun new fact: when a person snorted and swallowed at the same time, hot tea ended up on their chin and in their sinuses.
“He once called you the pretty, annoying one,” Mariana added, clearing up that little mind-boggler of a moment.