simply put.”
“But how?”
Faye shrugs. “Just do what you do, and my crew will shoot it. I’m picturing more of a documentary-style show.”
“Like a reality show?”
She nods and shrugs as though she’s still considering her options. “Possibly. We wouldn’t dig into your personal life as much as we’d be going behind the scenes of running a cooking school, mixed with the art of cooking from scratch. The ladies will love you, Desmond.”
“What’s the angle? Isn’t there always an angle?”
Faye cringes a little. “I’m hoping we don’t need one. The concept is original, and that should be enough. You’re a pretty face, Desmond Blake. Just so happens, you make a damn good meal too.” She swivels her head to face the kitchen. “What was on the menu today?”
“Lobster ravioli from scratch.”
She grins. “Sounds delicious. How’d that go?”
I chuckle as an image of a flustered Maggie floats through my mind. “Great for most.”
She laughs. “Why do I feel like whatever went on today would have made a great episode?”
I nod. “You’d probably be right. It was comical at best.”
“Well, if you like the pitch, I’d like to get some things down on paper and fly my production crew here to scope things out. I’ll warn you—I like to move quickly. I want to aim for a fall series premiere, which means we need to have a pilot in the can in just a few months to get the full green light from the network.”
“Just like that?”
Faye shrugs. “Just like that. You’ve got something special here, Desmond. It’s time for the world to see it.” She stands up and glances around the room. “Now while you’re thinking about it, how about some of that lobster ravioli?”
See Through
Maggie
A series of clacks from a pool game going on somewhere in the room almost cause me to drop the phone in my hand.
“Are you at a bar?” My mom’s accusing tone still makes me cringe, even though we’re thousands of miles apart.
I’m at Shooters, a sports bar below Edible Desire that specializes in billiards. The atmosphere is classy and chic with its windowless walls and dim lighting, which goes perfectly with my current mood. Between the distressing phone call with my mom and not getting that damn certificate, I have every intention of drowning my sorrows in gluten-free liquor.
“It doesn’t matter where I am. I just wanted to call you back and tell you that I’m still fine. I’m still alive, and I hope you’re fine too.”
My mom huffs her dissatisfaction. “You can’t possibly be fine. It’s been three months, Maggie. Where are you living? What are you doing for work?”
“Can you please trust me when I tell you that I’m doing fine? I just needed some time away. Some… space.” I push out the words, trying my best to control my tone.
There’s a beat of silence before her cold tone blasts through the line. “The agency is asking for you. They’re still trying to book you despite your little absence.”
I grind my teeth in response to her words. Little absence. She talks to me like I’m a toddler in need of some tough love. But really, everyone knows my mother cares more about her manager’s cut than she does about being a mother. I need to tell her that I’m not returning to modeling. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I know she’ll freak out more than she already is.
“Mom, stop, please. Just tell them I’m taking a break and that we’ll contact them when we’re looking again. Can you do that?”
A heavy sigh breaks through the phone line. “Oh, sweetie, you don’t need a break. You’re just embarrassed because of your fall.” Her coaxing words can almost be mistaken for caring. “It’s been months. All will be forgiven and forgotten. Falls happen to the best of us.”
“That’s not what this is about. I just need this time. I need to figure out if modeling is still what I want.” I cringe the moment the words hit the air. There it is, the setup to ease the blow.
“What?” Her shriek is so loud, I have to pull the phone away from my ear.
Another crack sounds from the pool table behind me, causing me to jump. My mom always gets me so worked up when we talk. I had good intentions by calling, but this is exactly why I’ve been avoiding it.
“You are at a bar,” she accuses. “Are you drunk?” Her voice lowers menacingly. “Are you with your sister?”
I’m definitely not ready to open