The Billionaire’s Bun In Her Oven - Ellie Rowe Page 0,46

we’re in the Porsche and flying back to New York City. She rolls the windows down and lets the wind blow through her hair. I crank up the tunes.

She puts her hand over mine on the gear shift. We go the whole way back like that.

I’m feeling so good by the time we pull up to the restaurant, I don’t notice anything wrong until we’re inside.

There’re cameras and crew milling about the dining room, but they’re not from my show. I stare dumbly at all the activity. I feel Cynthia tense beside me at the exact same moment I realize what I’m seeing.

The place is lousy with press. And at the center of the media swarm? Nadia, of course.

I put two fingers in my mouth and whistle. The kind that used to stop kitchens clanging with the noise of a dinner rush. The sound cuts through the bustle of media questions and camera shutters. The room goes quiet, and all eyes fall on me.

“This is a closed set,” I say.

All eyes fall off me and on Cynthia. Then the cameras do, too. Flashbulbs go off. Microphones fly in our faces. Questions fill the air.

“Out! Out, get out!” I shout.

Scanning the restaurant, I see Chase come racing from the back offices. I signal him, and he starts herding the press outside. When the last one is gone and the door is locked, I storm over to Nadia. She blinks her sabre-like eyelashes at me in feigned innocence.

“What was that?” I demand.

“It’s a little thing I call ‘work’, Stephen.”

“It was a mob scene.”

“No. It was a press conference. And I’m sure the two of you bursting in… together like that… refusing to take questions… will definitely be noted.”

Glancing behind me, I see Cynthia’s face drop. She shakes her head and marches over to the bar where she buries her face in her hands.

“What did you tell them?” I ask Nadia, turning back to her.

“I gave them a sneak peak at how I was spicing up the show. Then I might have mentioned how, speaking of ‘spicing’ things up, you and our contestant both mysteriously vanished from production at the same time.”

“There was nothing mysterious about it.”

“Oh. Then let me know what’s up. I’m all ears.” She leans back against a table, her arms crossed under her enormous boobs, eyes wide in expectation.

“It’s none of your business.”

“This show is my business. You’re both on this show.”

“No,” I correct her, “you’re on my show.”

Nadia pushes herself up from the table. “We’ll see,” she says, stalking past me.

“Anyway, I have my theories about you two…” She smirks at Cynthia’s back, then disappears into the offices.

I make my way to the bar to talk to Cynthia when, suddenly, Chase pops over. “Hey, boss…”

“Not now, Chase.”

“It’s just that –”

“Not now.”

“It’s about the edit.”

“Later.”

“What about the edit?” Cynthia asks, removing her face from her hands.

Chase looks back and forth between the two of us. “I did everything I could.”

“Oh no…”

“I’m just your assistant. I’m not even a junior producer or anything – although if you would finally just make me a producer –”

Cynthia’s already tearing past him for the office. I quickly follow.

Just as we get to the office door, it flies open. Rachna is standing there. “Oh. You’re both back. That might’ve been good to know.”

She looks over her shoulder, back into the office. “Good work everyone. See you tomorrow.” She turns back to us. “Hopefully, we’ll see the two of you tomorrow, as well.” She brushes by us and heads out of Origin.

A moment later, Nadia emerges and follows her. I watch them out the window as they get into a cab together. Fuck me.

Inside the office, Kenny is gathering his things. He glances at the two of us. There’s a mix of regret and anger in his eyes.

“Kenny…” I say, the plea evident in my voice.

He shrugs helplessly. “Rachna just approved the final cut of the most recent episode.” He steps through the office door. “I warned you,” he mutters before he goes.

Cynthia stands in the middle of the tiny office, staring at the blank monitors. Tug, the editor, sits at the desk, looking at us like a kid who just came over and discovered his friend’s parents fighting.

“Go home, Tug. I’ll shut everything down,” I assure him. With a sigh of relief, he hightails it out of there.

“Want a drink first?” I ask Cynthia.

She doesn’t answer, just sits herself down in a chair at the far end of the room. I cue up the