The F List - Alessandra Torre Page 0,58

sheet and scooped out a heap of Frosted Flakes. “What’s tomorrow? There’s nothing here.”

Eileen shrugged. "I don't know. I asked Dana, and she said they were working on it."

“That’s weird.” I chewed loudly and watched as the sound guy turned down my mic.

“Yeah. They’re probably banking on Johno having an overdose or something.” She worked at the peel of an orange, collecting a pile of shredded pieces on a paper towel.

"Who's having an overdose?" Cash entered the kitchen shirtless, in workout shorts, and a pair of sneakers, a set of headphones hanging around his neck.

“Well, no one yet,” Eileen said, sectioning off a piece of orange.

“There’s nothing on the schedule tomorrow,” I explained. “We’re hypothesizing.”

He frowned, circling the island and coming around behind me. Resting a hand on the counter, he reviewed the sheet. “That’s strange.”

"Yeah. Hey!" I blocked his reach for my cereal and shoved at his midsection. My fingers brushed over the hard notched abs that recently stretched over a Times Square billboard and I fought the urge to lean over and lick my way across the tan divots.

“Come on, Em. One bite.” He held my spoon hostage and out of reach. “I don’t have cooties, I swear.”

I shook my head sternly and held my smile in check. “You dated Marta Pratt,” I pointed out. “You’re lucky we let you eat at the same table as us.”

Eileen grimaced. “Ouch, Cash. She’s got a point, though.”

I reached for the spoon, and he held it out of reach, then behind his back. I zigged left, then right, bumping into him as he kept it at bay. "You know, there are other spoons," I pointed out.

“There aren’t,” he said. “I stole them all.”

“Whatever.” I abandoned my attempt at capturing my spoon and went to the wide drawer that housed all of the silverware. Pulling it open, I reached for the spoon cubby, then stopped, surprised to find it empty. I hadn’t paid attention when I’d gotten the bowl out earlier, but it didn’t matter. I looked up to find him watching me, mischief on his face. Rolling my eyes, I tugged at the dishwasher handle, opening the heavy steel door. Squatting, I checked the silverware caddy, then cursed.

“I told you,” he mocked. “I took them.”

“You were serious.” I stood and slowly shut the appliance.

“Yep.” He stuck the spoon in his mouth. “So, unless you want to eat the rest of that cereal with a fork, it looks like we need to do some negotiating.”

“God, you guys are weird,” Eileen said, stepping on the trash pedal and dropping the peels into the can.

“What kind of negotiating?” I challenged, letting my gaze flick to the closest camera guy in a subtle reminder that we were being watched.

“I think you know what I want.” He hoisted himself up, so that he was sitting on the counter.

I stayed where I was. “A cure for chlamydia?” I asked dryly.

He smirked at me. “Guess again.”

"Hmmm." I took a few steps toward him, letting my hand trail along the counter and suggestively over the butcher's block of knives. I pulled the biggest half out and glanced from it to him. "Circumcision?"

He winced. “No need for that.”

Eileen popped a wedge of orange into her mouth, then spoke around it. “I think he wants your body.”

I blushed despite my steadfast vow not to. “He doesn’t want my body.”

“Oh, I definitely want your body.” His gaze traveled down said body, which was currently on display in plaid pajama pants and a Britney Spears t-shirt that was a few sizes too big.

I glared at him. “Give me my spoon.”

"I will give you your spoon," he announced grandly and damn him if we weren't all, including the brand new producer who still had iron pleats in his khakis, paying attention. "If…" he paused. "If… you kiss me."

One of us gasped, and it was either Eileen or me. I couldn't tell, but I sincerely hoped it was her, because I was struggling madly to deliver detached nonchalance. "I'd rather not," I mused, and it was almost perfectly delivered, as long as you missed the tremor in my voice. I stepped back, edging toward the hall, and if I turned quickly enough, I could sprint out of here without being caught.

Then again… I stopped myself. I was a grown woman and needed, at some point in time, to stop punching people or high-tailing it when a situation grew out of my control. This… this was in my control. I didn’t have to kiss Cash. I