The rips in her jeans seemed strategically placed to make Shannon’s heart and other places pound with lust.
“Shannon?”
She tore her eyes from a hint of inner thigh. Damn, if that rip were two inches higher Maya could be arrested for indecent exposure. “What?”
“I know that look.”
A hot blush spread over her face and she couldn’t meet Sawyer’s eyes. “Her work is amazing. I admire her talent.”
“Yeah? Where exactly do you see her talent in that picture?” Sawyer laughed. “Hey, I don’t blame you, she’s sexy. But I didn’t know you went for that type.”
“What type? Young enough to be my daughter? I don’t.”
“She’s not quite that young, is she? But I wouldn’t blame you,” Jori said, grinning when she earned a scowl from Sawyer. “I may be practically married, but I’m not dead. Look at that face, she’s gorgeous. And her style—hot in an edgy, unstable sort of way.”
Maya’s oval face, creamy skin, and high cheekbones could have been called classically beautiful if not for the ring piercing one perfectly arched eyebrow. Shannon had seen photos in which Maya appeared serene, her features smooth and graceful. But in this picture, her eyes flashed, her nose wrinkled, and her mouth curled slightly as if the photographer had caught the beginning of an aggressive growl. Piercings and tattoos—she’d never imagined that at forty-two years old she would find herself so attracted to a much-younger woman who looked more like a rock star than a chef. Was this some type of mid-life crisis?
“So, seriously, you’re both that impressed by this chick?” Sawyer asked, glancing between them.
“She’s a rock star, professionally, of course,” Shannon said, stumbling to cover up the direction her thoughts had just taken. Her stomach had been knotted ever since Sawyer had brought that envelope. Now, worry that she’d be insanely outmatched and get sent home the first day would keep her up at night for the next two weeks. She didn’t need to deal with nerves about meeting a chef of Maya Vaughn’s caliber as well. She just hoped she could stick around long enough to exchange more than a few words with her.
“Well, you’ll get to find out soon enough. She’s the newest mentor on the show,” Jori said.
Shannon nodded. “I know.”
“So how does this thing work, anyway?” Sawyer asked.
“The contestants are split into three groups, and each group works with a mentor. Every show, someone gets put up for elimination.”
“So there’s like a thirty-three percent chance you could be working pretty closely with her for the next several weeks?”
Shannon nodded.
“Oh, man, I can’t wait to watch this show.”
*
“Hey, turn on channel five. It’s about to start,” Maya called from the kitchen. She stacked a few brownies onto a plate, picked up two glasses of skim milk, and headed for the living room. Her assistant and often taste-tester, Wendy, sat on one end of the sofa, legs folded beneath her, bare feet peeking out of the flared legs of designer sweatpants. Maya handed her the plate. “Try these.”
Wendy took a bite and chewed slowly. “Nice. Peanut butter?”
Maya nodded.
“Very good. But the ratio is off a little. It’s almost too much peanut butter.”
Maya tasted one and agreed. Next time, she’d cut back a bit on the peanut butter and the sugar as well. “Too sweet” didn’t belong in Wendy’s vocabulary, but Maya wanted a bit more of the nuttiness to come through.
She shifted her attention to the television as her face flashed on-screen, followed by Charlie’s. With his strong jaw, the cleft in his chin, and a sexy, perpetual five-o’clock shadow, she could easily imagine how he was able to charm the truth out of so many interview subjects. Seriously, the man didn’t have a line on his mocha skin, not even around his striking green eyes.
“Why do you watch these interviews?” Wendy gestured at the screen with a brownie and grinned when a piece flew onto the coffee table in front of her. “Sorry.”
Maya faked a stern look, grabbed a napkin, and picked up the crumbs. She hated messiness. At home or in the kitchen, she liked her surroundings clean and organized. Wendy, however, was only so fastidious when it came to her appearance. She liked every perfectly arranged ebony hair in place to accentuate her angular features, and she shadowed the lids of her almond-shaped eyes just so. But when it came to her surroundings, she could thrive in chaos just as well.
“It’s amusing to see how far off my story gets once they chop it up in editing.”
“I don’t think I could stomach it.” Wendy winced as Charlie brought up Maya’s troubles from the previous year. “You know you could clear all of that up.”
“Full disclosure? Why should I?”
“Look. I know they haven’t earned it—”
“I don’t owe anyone an explanation about the decisions I make.”
“I would hardly call it—”
“Since when are you so big on coming clean? Are you going to come out to your grandmother?”
“One does not just come out to one’s very traditional Chinese grandmother. It’s not even the same thing.” Having raised Wendy, her grandmother was more like a parent, but in many ways, the two-generation gap was very apparent. Wendy had endured far too many speeches about how her father’s American blood made her lazy and disrespectful. She didn’t want to add deviant to the list.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not giving away what little privacy I have. That’s it. He signed off on the rules, didn’t he?” Maya jabbed her finger toward the television, though the interview had concluded. She didn’t insist on controlling every interview she did, so when she asked for a topic to be off-limits, she expected to be respected. Wendy had spoken with Charlie prior to the interview and had assured Maya that he understood the limitations.
“Yes.”
“He’s lucky I let him use what he already had.”
“Are you ready for Nashville?”
“No. Is there even anything to do there?” Maya accepted the subject change as an admission that she was right about Charlie. She and Wendy had worked together for seven years, since just after Maya won her season of
For the Love of Cake
. And she could count on one hand the number of times either of them had ever admitted the other was right. Apologies after a disagreement were even scarcer. But it worked for them.
“Hell if I know. But you already agreed.”
“Okay, but they downplayed that whole moving the show from New York to the damn Bible belt until after the ink dried on my contract. I mean, look at me. How am I going to fit in down in Hicktown?”
“I don’t think Nashville’s like that. I’ve heard it’s fairly progressive—”
“If you finish that sentence with ‘for the South,’ so help me—”
“Well, it’s too late to back out so you’ll have to make the best of it.”
“Fine. Find me some cool places to hang out while I’m there. Please tell me there’s at least one gay bar.”
“Don’t you mean a bi-bar?”
“Very funny. Is there one or not?”
Wendy gestured to Maya’s phone on the coffee table. “You’ve got Internet on that thing.”
Maya shook her head. “Research is in your job description.”
“Are you even aware that there should be a line between professional and personal?”
“Then why do I keep you around?”
“Because I’m the only person willing to have absolutely no life except accommodating your insane schedule.”
“That’s right.” Maya snapped her fingers. She gave Wendy a hard time, but she would never truly let her think she didn’t appreciate her sacrifice and hard work. She paid her very well and offered as many perks as she could. Over the years, Wendy had become a friend and the only person Maya trusted completely.
Despite her words, Wendy picked up her own phone and began tapping the touchscreen. Within a few seconds, she flipped the display around and showed Maya the website of one such establishment in Nashville.
“Was that so hard?” Maya stood and retrieved a manila envelope from the backpack she’d dropped by the door when she came in earlier. “These are the files on this season’s cast.”
“Gimme.” Wendy grabbed them and scanned several papers. “Are you sure you didn’t have anything to do with choosing these?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because so far, they’re all gorgeous.”
“You think I’m that superficial?” Maya picked up the sheets as Wendy set them aside. A young, athletic-looking brunette, fresh from culinary school, a slim African-American man with broad shoulders, and a preppy baby dyke with the collar of her polo shirt standing up. While Maya’s gaydar pinged, her libido remained silent. Too butch. And by the fresh-faced look, too innocent.
“Oh, here she is.” Wendy held up a photograph. “Middle-aged—what do you think? Washed up wannabe-chef or soccer mom with a cake-decorating hobby? Not bad looking, though.”
Prepared to play along, Maya snatched the picture out of her hand while Wendy flipped to the bio page. Unlike the usual airbrushed headshot, this photo appeared to be a cropped version of a snapshot. It depicted a woman seemingly mid-smile, as if the grin hadn’t completely formed yet, but her full lips definitely teased upward. The tiny lines that creased the corners of her eyes hinted that her humor often reflected in the light-brown irises.
“Oh, Soccer Mom it is.” Wendy tapped a finger against the page. “In order to fulfill a lifelong dream, she went to culinary school after her daughter graduated high school.” She tossed the bio on the sofa cushion between them and picked up the next contestant’s information.
Maya scanned the soccer mom’s sheet. According to the bio, Shannon Hayes was forty-two years old, but she listed only one job in the culinary field—at a bakery in Nashville. With so little experience, she’d likely be one of the first eliminated, which would be a shame, because Wendy was right. She was good-looking. She glanced at Shannon’s picture once more, then laid the paper on the pile and reached for another one.
C
HAPTER
T
WO
“It’s just how I imagined it would be.”
Shannon glanced at the woman seated next to her whose already high voice was driven up an octave with excitement. Then she turned her attention back to the buildings passing by outside the window of the sleek black SUV. Less than an hour ago, she’d left her home for an undetermined amount of time. The email she’d received from the producers indicated a tentative timeline for filming all but the finale episode. Depending on when she got eliminated, she might be gone a day or, if she was lucky and made it to the end, almost three weeks. She’d secured her apartment and arranged for her daughter and son-in-law to check on it, hoping for the latter. The SUV picked her up at her front door, then swung by the airport to retrieve the other three occupants. Now, as they rode through downtown Nashville, she tried to imagine it through the eyes of a visitor. She drove past these bars, restaurants, and souvenir shops lining Broadway every day on her way to Drake’s, and though she certainly felt different today, the storefronts appeared disappointingly familiar.
“I just love country music.” The woman practically crawled into Shannon’s lap while trying to see out the window on her side. “Look, do you think he’s a singer?” When she turned her head to follow the retreating back of a man in a cowboy hat on the sidewalk, her face was uncomfortably close to Shannon’s.
The man could be a street performer or an aspiring recording artist. In this woman’s field of vision the cowboy stood out among the crowd. She didn’t see that the majority of the people were either tourists or everyday businessmen and women who worked in one of the many multistory buildings lining the streets. In fact, if one looked past the honky-tonks, downtown Nashville wasn’t much different from many American cities of its size. Within a few blocks, the skyscrapers gave way to a mix of strip-style business complexes, several universities, and residential areas made up of everything from turn-of-the-century architecture to newly constructed condo complexes.
Shannon pressed her head into the headrest, trying to restore a degree of personal space. The woman grinned and settled back in her seat with a toss of her long blond hair.
“Sorry, I’m Alice.” She grabbed Shannon’s hand from where it had rested on the seat between them and shook it vigorously. She glanced around as if including the other man and woman in the vehicle in her introduction. They both nodded politely, but neither engaged in conversation. “I’m so excited to be here. But I’m real nervous because I left my cupcake shop with my second cousin looking after it, and she’s not very dependable. But how could I turn down an opportunity like this? I mean, I’d probably sell my soul, let alone my store just to make it on this show.”
“Shannon,” she said when Alice took a breath. But she didn’t have time for anything more before Alice began again with a running commentary on the height of the buildings around them. Apparently, the only building in her South Georgia town with more than two stories was the courthouse and that was just “on account of being the county jail as well.”
The SUV stopped in front of a brick building. While the place looked old, the façade didn’t give many hints about the occupants. Large multipaned windows spanned the side of the long rectangular building.
“Where are we?” Alice asked as they climbed out of the SUV.
As Shannon stepped out, the smell of fresh asphalt stung her nose. She imagined that not long ago, before the location was reclaimed for the show, a map of weed-filled cracks had tracked across this parking lot. “I don’t know the exact building, but it probably used to be a warehouse for a manufacturing company back in the early 1900s. They built a bunch of them close to the railroad lines.”
“So we have a local?” the neatly dressed African-American man asked as he too exited the vehicle. With one finger, he pushed his black-framed glasses up his nose.
She nodded. “Born and raised.”
“Mason.” He clasped Shannon’s hand in a quick, yet firm shake.
“Shannon.”
“Yeah, I caught that. You know, in between.” They shared a smile as he gestured toward Alice, who had shifted the target of her one-sided conversation to the remaining member of their group.