Deep Dish(5)
He buried his head in her hair, kissed her forehead. “It’s all right, baby,” he murmured. “We’ll think of something. You’re the best in the business. Wiley Bickerstaff is a moron. Tastee-Town’s gonna live to regret getting rid of us. It’s you and me against the world, babe.”
She fought back sudden tears. God. She’d been so mad at him for keeping secrets from her, she hadn’t thought about losing the show. Her job! She’d worked since she was fourteen years old. Made straight As in school, never failed at anything in her life. And now, staring thirty in the face, she was out of work. Fired, essentially. And if she was out of a job, so was Scott.
She felt a chill of fear run up her spine.
The previous spring, after years of renting and scrimping and saving, right after Tastee-Town signed on for another year’s worth of shows, she’d bought the two-bedroom town house in Buckhead, the first home she’d ever owned. What hadn’t gone into the down payment, she’d spent on furnishing it. Her five-year-old Honda Accord was paid for, but the transmission had been making weird sounds for the past month.
Now what?
“I’m almost thirty,” she said aloud. “Now what?”
“Now you get back to the set and finish the show,” Scott said, kneading her shoulder muscles.
“Okay. But no more secrets.”
“Deal,” he said.
Gina managed a small smile. “That’s my girl,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose. Gently, he dislodged her from his lap and stood up. “We’ve got ten shows left under contract. Let’s make ’em the best damned shows you’ve ever done. And in the meantime, I’ve still got some irons in the fire. I’ll figure it out.”
She pulled a tissue from the box on his bookshelf and blew her nose. “Okay,” she said, her voice unsteady. “I’ll do my best. I just have one question.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“What’s the E stand for?”
“Huh?”
“E. Scott Zaleski. You know, your résumé. I never knew Scott wasn’t your first name.”
He rolled his eyes.
“No more secrets, remember?”
“Eugene,” he said. “Now you know the worst.”
Chapter 3
Somehow, she managed to get through the rest of the day. After the lunch break, Scott was back in his usual seat, guiding the new crew patiently through the process of filming a fairly technically complicated cooking show.
They filmed through the dinner hour, and once the last segment was in the can, Scott congratulated everybody on a good day’s work, and sent them home.
“I’ll call you later,” he whispered to Gina as he was packing up his laptop for the day.
She smiled. Officially, their romance was a secret. But she was fairly certain Jess and the others knew that she and Scott were an item.
After Scott and the crew had gone, she walked around the kitchen, letting her fingertips trail across the scarred countertop. Spotting a grease spatter on the stainless steel cooktop, she buffed it out with the edge of a paper towel. It might be a crummy kitchen, but it was, for four more days, her crummy kitchen.
Feeling weirdly melancholy, she decided to hit the break room for a Diet Coke before she headed home for the night.
“Oh!” she said, spotting a tall man with his back toward her. He turned. It was Andrew Payne, her lighting engineer. He was tacking a note to the bulletin board.
“For Sale,” it said, listing a Fender guitar and amps, a Seadoo Set Ski, and lastly a 2006 Harley-Davidson Fat Boy. “Awesome condition. Sacrifice at $18,000.” All his toys.
“Oh, Andrew,” she said softly, squeezing his arm. “You’re selling the Fat Boy?”
“Got to,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Heather’s pregnant.”
“I’m so sorry,” Gina said. “I only found out about the show today.”
He shrugged. “Heather hated that bike.”
“But you loved it. It was your baby.”
“Got a real baby on the way now. And no job.”
He turned away and headed for the door.
“Andrew,” she called.
He turned around, his face unexpectedly sullen. “Yeah, I know. You’re sorry. Scott’s sorry. Everybody’s sorry. And me and Eddie and Jackson are the sorriest of all. Cuz we’re out of work. You have a nice life now, Gina. Okay?”
She felt stung by his simmering anger. “Andrew, I really am sorry. I could kill Wiley Bickerstaff. You know what they’re doing, right? Pulling our show because they think NASCAR racing is the next best thing to sliced bread. Can you believe it? The women who shop at Tastee-Towns don’t care about NASCAR. They want to know how to fix simple, delicious meals for their families.” She shook her head. “I don’t get it. Not at all.”