You Had Me at Hockey (Bears Hockey #2) - Kelly Jamieson Page 0,3
My eyes widen as I chew and then I do a little dance. “Oh my God! This cookie is the best fucking cookie I’ve ever tasted!” I pump a fist into the air. “Success!”
I stop recording to retrieve the cookies from the floor. Some broke, but I pile them all onto the cookie sheet and set it on the counter. I resume filming. “Well. They aren’t Instagram worthy. But they taste damn good! Because honestly, that’s what matters, right? We’ll just pretend they weren’t lying on my floor.”
I’m not the perfect Insta girl. In fact, I’m the opposite, and that’s why I’ve been so successful. People call me “relatable.” I’m not wearing makeup, my hair’s in a messy ponytail on top of my head, and I’m wearing a sweater I picked up at a thrift shop.
“Okay, so if you’re using one of these things”—I pick up the silicone mat—“be careful! Anyway, thanks for tuning in! I hope you had fun hanging out with me. I’m going to pour myself a big glass of milk and sit on my couch and binge eat these chocolate chip cookies. And next time you see me, my face will be full of zits! Probably. I love you all!”
Okay. Done.
Now I just have hours of editing to make that perfect and on-brand.
Good thing I love what I do because I have no life other than this. Holy shit, things have taken off the last few years and I barely have time to sleep anymore.
I ignore my messy kitchen and carry a plate of cookies (checked for any obvious dirt) and a glass of milk into the living room. I need a rest. After this I have a lunch meeting with my publicist and then I’m heading to the studio where I record my podcasts.
I rest my feet on the glass coffee table and gaze out my apartment window. Despite paying over a million bucks for this apartment, I don’t really have a view. Fucking New York. But I love it here.
I down the cookies and wash them down with the milk while looking at social media on my phone. I have to remind myself not to read the comments on my last YouTube video. Too many haters out there. That’s the price of success apparently. I don’t handle it very well, so it’s best if I avoid it.
Then I go change and get ready for lunch. It’s frickin’ cold out, so I dress in jeans, a thin black turtleneck with a huge chunky cardigan over it, and knee-high boots. I brush out my hair and put on a little makeup in Harper’s honor—mascara and pink lip gloss. We’re meeting at a place on Lexington, which I can walk to. As well as my coat, I add a hat, a big scarf, and sunglasses.
I walk briskly a couple of blocks over to Lexington and then down to the restaurant. I see Harper already at a table. I love Harper—she’s great at what she does and she’s been fantastic for my career—but lately there’ve been a few times we haven’t quite seen eye to eye. Apparently she has a few new things lined up she wants to run past me.
I enter the restaurant, reveling in the warm, delicious-food-scented air, and head straight to her table. She stands and smiles, her lips bright red, her brown skin smooth and perfect, her hair a mass of gorgeous natural curls around her face.
We greet each other with a hug, and I hang my coat on a nearby hook.
I pick up my menu. “I love this place,” I say. “I never know what to have. Everything is good. And I love that it’s all plant based and organic.”
“I appreciate that,” says vegan Harper. “I’m going to have the vegetable tajine.”
“Yum.” I make a face, trying to decide. “Okay. I love this Tibetan bowl—brown rice, coconut peanut butter curry sauce, greens, and kimchi.”
The waitress comes and we order, both of us electing to drink water. She sets a carafe of water on the table for us.
“So what were you working on this morning?” Harper asks.
“Chocolate chip cookies.”
“That seems…tame.”
“It was tame until all the cookies landed on the floor. You know me by now. I make the most ordinary things weird.”
She laughs. “True.”
“I have a ton of editing to do tonight on it. But this afternoon I’m recording a podcast.” I just started doing podcasts and they haven’t exactly taken off as I’d hoped.