Twice Baked Read online

  Rosco’s motor ran loud, so while he purred and slept on my legs, I called Justin back.

  “You’re going to turn me down,” Justin said.

  “What? No. I’ll do it.” I needed to get the words out so I didn’t change my mind. “Will you email me all the details of what I have to do and where I’ll need to be? Oh, and I’m going to need to bring Rosco.” He traveled fairly well, and at least I could have a little bit of home along with me. “By the way, are they going to pay me for this?” I probably should have asked earlier.

  “Yeah. It’s a hundred thousand for the entire season. So this will be worth your while. It’s just a flat appearance fee. No residuals or things like that.”

  I wasn’t going to complain about that kind of money for a couple months’ work.

  “Let me send you the schedule and all the details. I’ll have the producers’ office send over a contract. Get your lawyer to look it over, sign it, and get it back to us so we can finalize everything and get you out. Things move a little fast around here, and I’m thrilled that we’re going to get to see you.” I thought he was going to hang up, but he paused. “By the way, who is Rosco?”

  “My cat. He’ll be coming with me.” I stroked Rosco’s head, and he purred louder, lifting his head to blink at me. “That’s right, you’re going to come with me.”

  Justin chuckled. “Okay. That shouldn’t be a problem. I can arrange for that too. Talk to you soon.” And just like that, Justin was gone.

  My email indicated that I had a message, and then another. I read over the emails, and everything looked pretty good to me. I forwarded them to Vince, my lawyer, who messaged that everything was good. So I signaled that I was ready to move forward. Maybe this could be fun after all.

  Chapter 2

  MAN, WHEN Justin said things moved fast, he wasn’t kidding.

  The next day I had a contract that I forwarded to Vince to review, and as soon as it was signed, Justin made housing and travel arrangements, and I was on my way. Clare was watching the house for me as Rosco and I sat in first class—no private jet—for a flight across the country.

  I was doped to the gills and slept most of the way. I didn’t dare eat, which was fine with me. One tray contained something smothered in gravy, and one look was enough to put me off what little appetite I might have had. Rosco slept in his carrier near my feet, positioned so he could see me. He whined to be let out a few times, but with a couple of cat treats and some attention, he settled down again.

  By the time we landed in Los Angeles, the pills had started to wear off, but the landing was smooth. Rosco and I were off the plane and the queasy feeling passed. A driver met us in baggage claim, loaded the luggage into the car, and we were off to the new apartment.

  “Is this your first time in Los Angeles?”

  “No. I was here a few years ago, but only for a few days.” That trip had been hell on so many levels. I had foolishly come out to see Meyer, and the flight and the visit had been awful. I ended up staying three days and went home, arriving dehydrated and completely wrung out. “I like it here, but I haven’t had a chance to see very much of the city.” Maybe this time I would be able to rectify that.

  “I can take you anywhere you’d like to go. The studio has arranged for me to be your driver during your stay.” He turned and flashed me a smile when we stopped at the traffic signal before the entrance ramp for the freeway. I didn’t remember that in the agreement, but I was more than grateful. Living in the city, I didn’t drive much and had been expecting to give Uber and Lyft a great deal of money in order to get around.

  “That’s very nice. Thank you. Right now, I need to get to where I’ll be staying so I can rest.” I had a meeting in the morning and was going to need to not look like complete hell when I walked in or else they were going to wonder why they’d hired me.

  “No problem.” He turned back around, and the car slid forward.

  I tried to relax, watching out the window and soothing Rosco, who was getting impatient to be out of the carrier.

  My home of the next couple of months was a small apartment in Glendale. It was on the twentieth floor of a new, rather dull-looking building, but the view of the hills was stunning. I let Rosco out of his carrier as soon as I had closed the door. I unpacked his things, got him some water and food, and set up his litter box in the bathroom, showing him where it was, then collapsed onto the beautifully made-up bed.

  I woke a few hours later to knocking on the door. Rosco complained as he got off the bed to follow me. I was careful not to let him outside as I opened the door. Justin stood with a huge fruit basket and two recyclable grocery bags.

  “I brought you some provisions, and this is from the producers—no bananas.” It seemed he had indeed read my blog.

  “Thanks.” I motioned him inside, and he set the things on the glass coffee table and drew me into a hug.

  “It’s good to see you.”

  “You too. How is Beth doing?”

  “Really well. She isn’t due for another four months, so she intends to keep working for a little while longer.” He stepped back. Justin looked good, with sun-kissed skin, lighter hair than he’d had in college, trim figure, a huge smile on his lips. “Things are working out for us. She and I are thinking of looking at houses, but they are so expensive out here that it’s probably going to take us a little while longer before we can afford it.”

  We wandered over to the windows to look out, and Rosco wound around my legs until I picked him up. He got a good look out the windows and instantly wanted down, the height probably freaking him out. “So what is the plan?”

  “Tomorrow you have a meeting. It’s just a meet and greet, but this way you can be introduced to everyone on the show, including the producers, other judges, and the staff. We all work together to make the show great, and what you see on television takes a lot of time in the studio and editing room to put together. Have you unpacked?”

  “Not really. I was sleeping when you knocked. The time difference and all.” I didn’t go into the whole travel-sickness thing. It wasn’t necessary.

  “Good. What did you bring?”

  “Just clothes,” I answered, and Justin groaned.

  “Then we need to go shopping. You are going to need clothes to make you look good on television. What are your sizes?” he asked, and I rattled off pants and shirt sizes, along with the size of the suit coat in my luggage. Justin got right on the phone, and soon he was talking to someone, ordering shirts, pants, jackets, and ties, relaying my sizes. “Shoes?”

  “Have to try them on. It varies.”

  Justin hung up. “Our personal shopper is gathering a number of things for you to try on. We’ll need to go down to check the fits, and then everything can be delivered to the set, so the clothes will be washed and pressed for when we’re taping. Once you’ve worn them, just take them with you, because we won’t reuse outfits.” He sat on the sofa, and I used the chair.

  “I take it you like it out here,” I said.

  “Beth was born in Pasadena, so this is her home and I doubt she’ll ever want to leave. I like it here too. The weather is hard to beat, and the work is awesome. I know you’re doing the blog thing, but that can’t be all.”

  “Nope. The blog started out as something for fun, and it’s grown all on its own. Once I was able to monetize it, it turned into a nice little side business, but my main job is as a graphic artist. My neighbor, Clare, helps me out, and so does Rosco here. He sits on my lap and keeps me company as I work.” Rosco had curled up on one side of the sofa, basking in a ray of light that came through the side window.

  Justin’s phone chimed, and he checked the message. “We should go. The clothes are ready, and that’s something we can tick off the list. You’ll be able to wear some of them tomorrow, so the producers will be able to see how you’ll look.”

  I figured I might as well get the full Hollywood treatment, and once we were downstairs, the car I’d arrived in pulled up in front and c
arried us off to a huge mall department store. Justin walked inside, barely looking at anything on display, and went right to the elevators, where we were whisked upward to the domain of the personal shopper.

  THE FOLLOWING morning when the car arrived, I was ready and downstairs. We glided down city streets, past a gate, and onto one of the studio lots, barely stopping until we reached a large building that had Cooking Masters emblazoned on the side in their signature logo.

  “Good luck,” the driver said.

  “Thank you… I don’t know your name,” I said.

  “Felix,” he answered, and I smiled, reaching in to shake his hand.

  “It’s good to know you. Should I text when I need you to come back?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll be right here waiting for you. Just come on out. I have a good book and plenty of water and coffee.”

  I smiled and girded my loins as I reached the soundstage door and went inside. A number of people were busily preparing the set and moving things around, jumping at the instructions of the man in charge. It looked like controlled chaos to me, but then, it probably was.

  On television, the set looked really polished, like it was placed in the kitchen of a fine restaurant, but all of that was an illusion. It was a set, and behind it were walls of a tall soundstage. As I thought about it more, the entire idea was pretty impressive.

  “Luke,” Justin called as he approached, the whir of power tools covering up much of what he’d said.

  “This is something. Do they rebuild the set like this for every season?”

  “No. Most of it is stored away and reassembled, but after last season, it was looking a little shabby, so the producers decided on a redesign of the set in order to add some freshness. We also learn what works after each season and try to incorporate improvements for the next one.” He motioned, and I followed him off the set and through a side door, back out into the California sun. We crossed the area between buildings and entered a much smaller one that resembled a house of sorts. The reception area was filled with people, and I was introduced to the crew, director, and the producers.

  “We’re so glad to have you on board,” one producer said as he shook my hand, then almost immediately turned to the man next to him in earnest conversation.

  I glanced at Justin, who didn’t seem to notice as we made our way through to a small conference room. I took my seat next to Rachel Graham, and smiled. I’d seen her on other cooking shows. She was a regular judge and expert, and I was a little starstruck.

  “Luke Walker,” I said, holding out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Rachel.”

  She smiled, probably at being recognized. “I love your blog,” she told me, and I grinned. “It’s funny and snarky, and I love how unabashedly honest you are about the fact that not everybody loves everything. We do these shows sometimes with strange ingredients and make them sound so normal.”

  “I know. Sometimes the ingredients seem so unappetizing. I was worried when they approached me, because trying to force down things I don’t like is getting harder and harder for me.” Since I’d opened up about it on the blog, it had become even more difficult.

  “The chefs on this show usually make really good food, and it’s a joy to eat it. I’m sure it’s going to be an amazing experience.” She shifted her chair to look at me better. “I know you’re a little nervous, but you’re going to do fine. This is my fourth season on the show, and I was nervous when I started. Just be yourself and have fun with it. That’s what viewers want to see.” She patted my hand gently, leaning closer. “And don’t let the Hollywood types get to you. They’re always looking really busy because they think it makes them seem important.” She rolled her eyes and flashed a gorgeous, warm smile.

  “That’s good to know.” I smiled back and tried not to fidget too much.

  “Please. I’m a girl from outside Butte, Montana. I know the real world beyond these soundstages, sets, and makeup. People love this show because it’s a competition and because they’re sitting at home, watching chefs cook, looking at the food and thinking that they might like to eat this dish or that dish. Our job is to either confirm their thoughts or burst their bubble. Either way, we give them the truth as we see it, and then we get together and choose the best dish.” She leaned close once again. “I will admit that there are times when I want to spit the food out and make a yuck face like I did when I was a kid.”

  “Oh, thank God,” I whispered, because there had been times when I’d done that just watching the television. I chuckled, and she laughed softly but with genuine feeling. I was beginning to really like her.

  Others began filing in, and Rachel returned her chair to face the table. Everyone took a seat, with the place next to me remaining empty.

  “Where is he?” one of the producers—I think his name was Claude—said, and an assistant standing behind him ran out of the room like it was on fire.

  “We’ll get started in just a minute, but it’s good to have you both with us,” Claude said, folding his hands on the table. He must have been the lead producer, because no one else made an effort to speak, even when he grew quiet. “This is our eighth season, and we wanted to do a few things to shake it up.” The assistant returned, whispered something in Claude’s ear, and then stepped back. “It seems our final judge was caught in traffic, but he’s just passed through the gate.” He spoke softly with the man next to him, and then the door opened.

  My heart fluttered for a second as Meyer strode through the door. He looked as fantastic as he always had, with that incredible long hair and those amazing eyes.

  Then it hit me—Meyer was who we were waiting for.

  I forced myself to remain sitting upright in my chair as he looked around the room. I knew the instant he spotted me. I suppressed a smile as he paled slightly, then walked to the seat next to me and sat.

  “What are you doing here?” he whispered.

  “I’m a judge this season,” I answered, and grew quiet as Claude got everyone’s attention.

  “I want to keep this meeting brief because we all have work to do, but I’m pleased to introduce all of you to our judges for season eight of Cooking Masters. Rachel Green is returning as our host, and Meyer Thibodeau is joining us as our head judge for the season. I’m sure you are familiar with his other work on the network. Food blogger Luke Walker will be stepping in as our third, seasonal guest judge.” He cleared his throat and paused for a second, probably for dramatic effect. “Meyer has quite a following on the network, and we believe he is going to do an amazing job for us. We have worked with Rachel before, and I know she will bring her sense of style and pizzazz to the show. So it is going to be a great season.”

  I didn’t take offense at not being mentioned again. The others had real cred on the show, and I was an unknown.

  The doors opened, and a young lady wheeled in a cart with coffee and water. The meeting paused as people moved about to get drinks.

  “You’re a judge?” Meyer growled under his breath. “I didn’t think that would be something you’re qualified for.”

  What a snarky ass.

  “Yeah, and you’re going to have to put up with me for the next two months,” I retorted, then winked at him, putting on my most mischievous “I know a secret” grin. Two could play that game. “I think it’s going to be so much fun seeing how you work.”

  Meyer paled.

  “Do you two know each other?” Rachel asked.

  “Yes,” I answered. “Meyer and I—”

  “Knew each other in Philadelphia before I relocated to Los Angeles.”

  I noticed he left out the part about it being in the biblical sense. The crack in Meyer’s composure lasted only a few seconds, and then it was gone, the wall of his facade concreted and whole once again. Not that I had any intention of telling anyone anything that Meyer didn’t want known. He and I had a past that Meyer still seemed desperate to keep under wraps. I didn’t know why, but the reasons were his, and I was never going to out anyone,
for any reason. Yes, if I was honest, the closet case had hurt me pretty badly, but his secrets were still his to tell. The way someone came out and grew to be honest with themselves was their business, and I wasn’t going to take that from anyone. Dante had a certain level of hell reserved for those who were that despicable.

  “Meyer and I were friends some time ago, but we lost touch, and I don’t think he was expecting to see me here. Right, Meyer? It was a surprise to both of us.” I gave him a friendly, guy shoulder bump. He stiffened, and I could tell he was trying not to overreact. Lord, the man was as uptight as anyone I had ever met.

  “As I was saying.” Claude drew everyone’s attention back to him, getting control of the meeting once again. “The episodes will largely be filmed here on the set, but we have arranged for two of them to be filmed in two of Meyer’s restaurants. Those location shoots will be done on Mondays, when they are closed, and are noted in the filming schedules. One episode will be filmed outdoors with cooking over open fires or something along that line, and we have secured a private location for that. The remainder of the episodes will be filmed here on the set under various circumstances, and a number of them will be built around Mr. Walker’s blog.”

  I swallowed. “Excuse me?” I said. This was the first I’d heard of it.

  Claude seemed surprised. “Since you agreed to judge, we thought that we would build some episodes around you. As an example, one of our signature challenges will feature bananas, and the chefs will need to make a dish that they think will change your mind about them. There will be four such challenges throughout the season, and we have picked the ingredients you seem to hate the most: bananas, mushrooms, salmon, and gravy.”

  I couldn’t help making the yuck face and shivering in disgust. The thought of eating God knows how many dishes with those components nearly overwhelmed my system. I could almost feel my taste buds rolling over to play dead, and I swallowed hard as I tried to keep from gagging. Just the banana episode was going to be death on a plate, let alone the rest.