Her usual producer’s uniform, a jacket over a T-shirt and jeans, and sneakers, was new and extra spiffy today. She dropped a curtsy in response to the crowd’s appreciation and explained their agenda for the day. First, she would introduce everyone informally, and then DJ, their host, would do it for the cameras. Ashna looked around, but DJ wasn’t here yet.
“First up is owner and executive chef of Palo Alto’s legendary Indian fine dining restaurant, Curried Dreams, Ashna Raje.” A polite spattering of applause. “And her partner, the striker for Manchester United—the man you’re all wondering how we managed to nab—Frederico Silva!” An explosion of cheers. “But here at the Food Network we give away recipes, not trade secrets.” They loved that, and cheers ebbed and turned into laughter.
Standing next to her, Rico vibrated with good humor. Whether it was real or part of this New Rico, Ashna couldn’t tell, but something about it was so joyful that a parched part of her soaked it up.
“We’re tremendously excited about the show,” China went on. “We fully expect it to be the next big thing.” She threw a grateful smile at Rico and Ashna. “Already we’re a household name thanks to a very generous and heroic act.” Ashna worked hard to suppress her groan. Yes, she knew it made her a terrible person, but thinking about Rico slamming down on his hurt knee made her want to shake him. It also made her want to find him a chair.
Crazed applause.
Rico took a bow. Ashna practiced every breathing technique India had ever taught her, but then China touched her heart as she looked at Ashna, which was so sweet that Ashna found it impossible not to smile.
When the next wave of fawning and hooting died down, China held out the mic to Rico and Ashna. Rico’s hand pressed into the small of her back, it seemed to take him a second to realize what he was doing and he withdrew it. Which didn’t remove the warm imprint from her skin. Rico waited for her to speak into the microphone, but she couldn’t, her arms wouldn’t move.
With all the smoothness of who he now was, he took the mic from China and gave her a hug. Really? The Boy No One Was Allowed to Touch (except her, of course) was all cuddly now?
The cameras were on them, but when China looked at her, Ashna could still see the holy shit, he’s good on her face. Ashna made the effort to hold in her scoff.
“What an honor to be here,” Rico said. It was unfair what the mic did to his voice. The bass, the silk, it all magnified manifold. Those rounded consonants of his accent, a mix of his Brazilian and English heritage, melted into one another as though they knew the impact they had on ovaries everywhere. Ashna counted at least five women pressing a hand into their bellies.
Ashna wanted to flip him the bird.
“What a stroke of luck to get partnered with the most talented of all the chefs here.”
Applause broke out around them again, along with some friendly boos. He smiled at her—a smile that looked benign enough, but she knew he saw the virtual bird she was flipping him, and she was certain he drew immense satisfaction from it.
“These introductions aren’t going to be on the show,” she whispered when he had charmed the pants off the crowd sufficiently and they returned to make way for the next chef-celebrity pair.
“The cameras are on,” he whispered back, his warm spearmint breath stroking her earlobe, “so everything is fair game. It’s reality TV, Chef Raje. Welcome to show business.”
Anger pulsed through her, displacing all the nervousness. She hated to admit it, but having someone who knew how to navigate this craziness was a plus. So long as he kept his word and left their past behind, and she didn’t let herself forget it even for a moment, she could handle this.
China started to introduce the other contestants. Competitive spirit buzzed through the air and something long forgotten stirred inside Ashna, something that made her palms itch for the feel of a ball. She rubbed the feeling off on her pants.
First up was Tatiana Rain, a TV dog whisperer who was wearing a pink rhinestone collar around her neck. She was just as charming as Rico had been.
This was a pattern. Every star who followed was amply armed with the charm offensive. They did all the talking. The chefs—none of whom Ashna knew and all of whom had impressive credentials—followed Ashna’s lead and merely stood by in support. There had to be a special camp where celebrities trained, because as they took the stage one after another, Ashna realized that they were all adept at owning the room while showing nothing real.
The fact that Rico did this better than everyone else here made her strangely restless. Only the audience seemed to exist for him. In this moment, Ashna could have been anyone—a thought that she chose to find comforting.
Next up was Lilly Cromwell, an older soap opera star from Tennessee with a stark southern drawl—the grandma Ashna had prayed for. Danny El followed, a child star who had aged out of the Disney Channel and was trying to make a name for himself in the adult acting world.
“Who’s the child’s agent?” Rico whispered to her. He was right, this was probably not the best platform if he wanted to be taken seriously.
Then came Song Ji Woo, an actor from a K-drama, which, the young woman was kind enough to explain in the most endearingly modest move, was what Korean TV shows were called. As if there was anyone alive who didn’t know this.
Song was possibly the most gorgeous person Ashna had ever seen. She had one of those faces where exquisite individual features were arranged, well, exquisitely. Her unabashed excitement about being on the show added sincerity to all that perfection. Apparently she was a fan of Rico’s (of course she was, insert eye roll here). Bouncing on her heels, she announced that she was only here to meet him. This resulted in more hooting and applause. The man executed another self-deprecating head bow that rivaled Song’s sincerity (insert another truckload of eye rolls).
The last one to introduce herself was P. T. Cruiser (a pen name, one hoped), an author of cozy mysteries.
“There’s an oxymoron, if I’ve ever heard one,” Rico whispered to Ashna. After their turn, she had excused herself to go find Jonah and request that he get Rico a chair. Between the pain he was trying to hide and his stance, it was obvious putting weight on his leg was killing him. The high director’s chair they’d given him meant he was perfectly positioned to commentate into her ear. Well, no good deed ever went unpunished, did it?
At least Ashna’s annoyance at his quips kept her nice and distracted. Thinking about competing with these ambitious, talented people would have been exciting if not for her special affliction of only being able to cook Baba’s recipes. With that gift there was no possible way for this to end in anything but staggeringly disastrous public humiliation.
The author made a joke about the show being the perfect setting for one of her novels—which were filled with murder and mayhem.
Just you wait, Ashna wanted to tell her. Just you wait.
THAT FIRST DAY on set had gone off like an especially heinous nightmare. And that was without actually having to cook. It had been just introductions and trying to get everyone comfortable with the set. An abject failure when it came to Ashna. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt more uncomfortable.
For all the harsh and sudden ways in which things between them had ended, the years Ashna had spent with Rico were the only time when she had felt sheltered from the storm of her life. Now, a few hours in his presence, and the storm she’d believed she had harnessed ravaged her again.