Chapter Four

Ella

I'd decided against querying any more decisions, so why couldn't I just stick to that? Why did I have to go in, guns blazing?

I'm angry about the way Kennedy's handled things, but I'm not sure my attitude helped the situation, and now, although I almost never cry, I'm getting really close again, for the second time in as many hours.

I'm not going to, though, if only because I refuse to let Blake – or anyone else – see how much Kennedy got to me back then.

I get up, wandering over to the kitchen area, and I bring back the folder and the sheet of paper I left on the countertop earlier… although I leave behind my knives. I won't be needing them for a while yet, and sitting back down at the table, I study the question, trying to concentrate on my job, and deal with the tasks at hand… ideally in order of importance. Solving this supposed ‘problem' is the number one priority. I can worry about Blake and his inabilities later.

Although, thinking of Blake, I notice he hasn't returned from the side kitchen yet, and I bend forward slightly so I can see him. He's leaning against the countertop, a cup of coffee in one hand, while the other is in his pocket. I can't see his face clearly from here, but his pose tells me he's thinking. There's even something pensive about the slow, deliberate way he lifts the cup to his lips.

He didn't offer to bring me a coffee, and a tiny part of me feels offended by that, especially as I'm gasping for one. My offense – and my thirst – are overshadowed by my guilt, though. I can't blame him for ignoring me, can I? I did just call him a puppet, after all. And he was right. My apology, such as it was, was laced with another insult. He may not be a chef, but that was no excuse for calling him unprofessional. It's just that our professions are different, and I wasn't expecting to tutor him in the rudiments of cooking, as well as everything else.

Still… that's not his fault.

It's Kennedy's.

I know I didn't handle that situation very well, but there's no getting away from it. I don't like her. It's pretty clear she doesn't like me very much either, but sitting here contemplating that, and my ‘half-arsed' apology to Blake, won't get anything done.

I don't have any writing paper, or a pen, but I have my phone, and I pull it out, noting down the first idea that comes into my head in response to the question about preparing a roast dinner. It's the simplest thing I can think of, but I guess simple is going to be best. I need to keep it interesting, though, so although I don't make any more notes, I give some thought to how I can employ easy cooking methods, and tasty ingredients, to achieve what I'm looking for.

It isn't that difficult in the end, and after just a few minutes, I get up from the table, pocketing my phone and putting the piece of paper back into the folder. I won't need to take it with me… I know the question backwards now, but I guess I'd better see if Blake wants to come with me. He ought to, really, so he knows what he'll have to do.

He still hasn't surfaced, so I wander over to the side kitchen to find he's standing in exactly the same position, his head slightly bent. I cough to attract his attention and he turns, looking at me, although he doesn't smile.

"I'm just going to see Ruby."

"Again?" he says, frowning. "What's wrong now?"

I'm not sure that was entirely called for. "Nothing's wrong. I've just been doing my job." Rather than standing around drinking coffee. "I've got an idea for this supposedly problematic roast dinner, and I was told to present it to her."

"Okay."

"Don't you want to come with me?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "Why?"

Do I have to spell it out to him? For heaven's sake, if he's going to be this difficult, how am I going to teach him to cook? "Because this is supposed to be your show. I assumed you'd want to be involved."

"And I assumed you'd want to keep the conversation between the professionals."

I stare at him for a moment, and although part of me wants to tell him to grow up, I can't blame him for being bitter. My remarks were quite derogatory.

"I'm sorry if what I said offended you. It wasn't meant that way. But if you'd rather stay here and sulk, that's fine. I'm sure I'll manage by myself."

I turn away, aware that my apology didn't come out quite right – again – but before I've taken two steps, I feel his hand on my shoulder, spinning me around. I look up into his face, wondering how anyone can have eyes the color of sapphires, as he leans in close enough for me to feel his breath on my cheek.

"What is it with you? Can't you even say ‘sorry' without being obnoxious?"

"Obnoxious?" Seriously? God, he's sensitive.

"Okay… maybe obnoxious is too strong a word, but you've apologized to me twice now, and both times you've seasoned your words with a further insult."

"That wasn't an insult."

"What was it then?" he says, shaking his head. "Unless I'm much mistaken, you just accused me of sulking."

"And? If you haven't been sulking, what have you been doing in there for the last twenty minutes?" I nod toward the kitchen behind him.

He pauses for a second. "Thinking."

"Okay… I'll rephrase my sentence then, shall I? If you'd rather stay here to think, that's fine by me. Happy now?"

"You forgot to reiterate that you can manage by yourself."

"It looks like I'm gonna have to," I mumble under my breath, pulling free of him and striding to the door.

I hadn't even realized until just then that he still had a hold of my shoulder, or how close we were standing… so close that I could feel the heat from his body leaching into mine. I hadn't realized his lips were only an inch or two from my own, but as I open the door and step outside into the hall, I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He might have been angry, and so might I, but there's no denying, he's the most beautiful man I've ever seen.

I shake my head. Stop being so superficial, Ella, and get on with what you're supposed to be doing. It's not like you have all day .

I step across the hall, just as the door behind me opens and I turn to see Blake coming out. Although I half expect him to ignore me and wander off down the hall, he doesn't. He steps up behind me, making it clear he intends coming with me to see Ruby.

"I thought you were staying behind to think." I can't help my sarcasm. It's brought on by nerves, I think… although I can't be entirely sure. I've never been in a situation like this before.

"I changed my mind."

"So you're interested now?"

He tilts his head and studies me for a moment before he says, "I think I've always been interested."

I decide against replying, in case I say the wrong thing… which seems quite likely at the moment, and turn around again, facing Ruby's door. I knock, and this time, I wait until I hear her call out, "Come in."

As I go to open the door, Blake surprises me, stepping up beside me and turning the handle. He gives the door a push, and I turn my head, looking up into his eyes again.

"After you," he says, nodding toward Ruby's office.

"Thank you." It's not the first time he's behaved like a gentleman, and I want to apologize again for my ungracious behavior. I don't, because I'm almost certain I'll get it wrong, but I resolve to try harder not to let my nerves get the better of me with him.

He follows me into the room, closing the door behind him, and we step up to Ruby's desk.

"Please… sit down," she says, as she looks up from her computer screen.

Blake waits for me to sit, then copies me and they both stare at me, waiting.

"I—I've come up with a couple of ideas… for the show." For heaven's sake. I need to stop stumbling over my words. I sit up a little straighter, hoping that giving the appearance of having a backbone will help.

"That's good." Ruby gives me an encouraging smile, but I know she's waiting for more.

"The problem is, how to cook a roast dinner and get all the components ready on time." She nods her head. "The easiest solution to that is to roast all the vegetables together, so you're only worrying about two dishes instead of several."

"Two dishes?" Blake sounds confused, and I turn to face him.

"Yes. The lamb and the vegetables."

"Oh… sorry. I forgot about the lamb."

I don't comment, just in case I say something mean to him again, and instead I turn back to Ruby, who's frowning at me. "Don't you like it?" I feel sick with doubt now.

"It's fine," she says. "But the show is an hour long. Is it really going to take an hour to demonstrate that?"

"No. That's why I said I had a couple of ideas. I thought we could offer two recipes, both of which answer the problem just as well. That way, the viewers who want to can go for the slightly more complicated solution."

"And what's the slightly more complicated solution?" she asks, tilting her head.

"There is only one. We can't reinvent the wheel in this instance. That's why I said it was common sense. A roast is a roast, so there's not much point in us preparing a lamb stew, just because it's easier."

Ruby smiles. "I take your point, but you still haven't explained what we're gonna be doing."

"Making roast lamb in the usual way." I'm amazed I needed to explain that, but judging by the expressions on hers and Blake's faces, it seems they're still looking for more. I sit forward and let out a sigh. "Blake would show how to time the meal, counting backwards from when it's due to be served, and demonstrating all the advanced preparations that can be done. Obviously, that takes a lot longer than an hour, but I guess you have ways of accommodating that, so it all fits into the running time for the show?" I raise my eyebrows, focusing on Ruby, and she nods.

"Yes, we do." She gets up, surprising me. "This should work well."

I feel myself sag with relief. "You're sure?"

"Positive," she says, nodding her head. "Ordinarily, you'd already be practicing the dishes for this week's show, and we'd work on the script this afternoon, but you don't have any ingredients to practice with, so I think it's gonna be best if we bring forward the production meeting, so at least we can make a start on something."

"Bring it forward to when?" I ask, getting to my feet.

"Now. I'll gather everyone together and we'll join you in the rehearsal studio." She stops talking and looks at Blake. "I almost forgot, Kennedy wants to see you."

"Me?" He sounds surprised. "What about?"

"I don't know. She sent me an email just before you came in here, asking if you'd go to her office. I was about to come and tell you when you knocked on my door."

Blake stands up too. "Where's her office?" he asks.

"Do you remember where the meeting room was?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Find your way back there, and Kennedy's office is opposite."

Blake nods his head, then without another word, he leaves the room. I feel like calling out ‘good luck', but I'm sure he doesn't need it. Kennedy seems to like him. It's me she hates.

"If you want to go back to the rehearsal studio, I'll join you in a minute," Ruby says, and I turn back to her.

"Okay."

"In the meantime, can you write out a list of the ingredients you're going to need?"

"Of course, although I don't have anything to write on, or with, for that matter."

She smiles, turning around to open the cabinet behind her, then pulls out a notepad, handing it over to me, before grabbing a pen from her desk, which she offers. I take it, glancing at my watch, and I try not to register my surprise when I see that it's only just gone eleven. How is that possible? I feel like so much has happened already, and it's not even lunchtime.

"If you head back, I'll round everyone up," Ruby says and I come to my senses. It might feel as though a lot has happened, but in reality, we've achieved almost nothing.

"See you in a minute."

I leave her office and cross the hall, going back into the rehearsal studio, and after dropping the notepad and pen on the table, I make my way into the kitchen and fix myself a coffee. I've barely sat down again when the door opens and Ruby comes in.

"They won't be long," she says, sitting opposite me, and I take the lid off the pen and start writing, just as a thought occurs.

"How many times are we going to need to practice this and rehearse it?" I ask. "Just so I know how much of everything to ask for."

"Just put down what you need to cook it all once, and we'll work it out."

I nod my head, although I wish she'd answered my question. It would have been interesting, and useful, to know how many times I'll be expected to cook these dishes in the next few days. Still, I expect I'll find out, eventually.

The door opens again within moments, and several people come in, talking among themselves. I recognize some of them from this morning's meetings, although I can't remember their names, or what they do. They all settle around the table, except one of the men, who goes straight back out again, returning a few moments later with a couple more chairs. One of the women goes into the side room, bringing back several cups of coffee, which she dumps in the middle of the table. A few people take one, and a silence descends.

"Thanks for coming, everyone," Ruby says. "Ella's got our menu ready, and as we're short of time, I thought we'd make a start."

"So, what's cooking?" One of the men says and Ruby smiles at him in such a way, I can't help wondering if he might be her husband, Gavin.

I go to open my mouth, but Ruby holds up her hand. "You carry on with what you're doing. I can explain." I nod my head and get back to writing my list, which is getting ever longer, while Ruby gives them a very brief outline of what I described earlier… not that it needs much explanation. It's very simple.

"Is that it?" A female voice speaks out, and I look up, unable to tell who spoke.

"I'm sorry?" I don't give Ruby time to respond, and a young woman who's sitting at the other end of the table leans forward.

"I said, is that it?"

"What were you expecting? Crepes Suzette? It's a roast dinner."

There's a ripple of laughter and two dots of red appear on the woman's cheeks as she narrows her eyes at me. "Is that a reason to make it boring? Surely you can teach people to cook roast lamb and still keep it interesting, can't you?"

Who does this woman think she is? "You've never tasted my food, but I guarantee it'll be interesting."

She shakes her head as Ruby leans forward. "I'm sure it'll be lovely, and in any case, we don't have time to argue about it."

The woman doesn't seem convinced, and as I look back down at my ingredients list, assessing the spices I was adding before I was interrupted, I can't help wondering if she's going to be trouble. She's very pretty, and not a lot older than me, I'd have said, with blonde hair and blue eyes. They're not a warm blue, like Blake's, though. Hers are a steely blue… as cold as ice.

"Are you ready yet, Ella?" Ruby's words interrupt my train of thought.

"Just about."

I check over the ingredients list one last time and tear off the sheet of paper, handing it across to her.

"Thanks." She doesn't even look down at it, but puts it on the table in front of her and glances around, before her eyes settle on the man who asked what was cooking, her lips twisting into a smile again. "I think it would make sense if you came and sat beside Ella, don't you, Gavin?"

He smiles back and stands, bringing his chair with him. The woman beside me gets up, shifting a little further away, and Gavin sits beside me, holding out his hand.

"We haven't been formally introduced, but I'm Gavin."

"Ella."

He nods his head and we shake hands, before we both look back at Ruby. "We're gonna take the premise of your plan and fire ideas around the table. Gavin will make notes that will eventually become the script. I want you to jump in whenever you feel like it, Ella… especially if we're getting something wrong."

"Okay."

That all sounds very chaotic to me, but I assume they know what they're doing, and I take a sip of cool coffee as they all pitch in.

"Obviously, there needs to be an introduction piece." A man further down the table leans forward, trying to get Gavin's attention.

"That goes without saying. I can write that later… maybe with Blake's input."

It strikes me as odd that Blake's taking so long with Kennedy, and that we're not waiting for him. This is supposed to be his show, after all…

***

Mac

I make my way along the corridor, wondering what Kennedy can want with me, while trying not to beat myself up too much over what just happened with Ella.

I wasn't very gentlemanly to her, but in all fairness, I hadn't been expecting her to appear at the kitchen door and invite me to come to Ruby's office with her. I'd been deep in thought at the time, and hearing her voice took me by surprise. Even so, my response wasn't what it should have been, and it set the tone for what followed… which was yet more acrimony.

Did Ella need to imply I hadn't been doing my job? Probably not. Was it true? Absolutely it was. I'd been drinking coffee and avoiding her. But I didn't need to make that sarcastic comment about her keeping the conversation between professionals. I don't even know why I said it… other than the confusion that was rolling over me at the time. She was mocking me – or that was how it felt – and that jarred with the thoughts that had been running through my head. I wasn't about to explain that to her, although I didn't need another half-hearted apology either… not when I'd barely recovered from the first one.

When she turned away, I had to go after her, and although I did little more than continue our argument, that was a cover. At least it was for me. I wasn't really offended, so much as I was completely bewildered. Her accusation of sulking might have been inaccurate, but what was I supposed to say? That sulking had been the last thing on my mind, because it was full of thoughts of her? That I'd spent the last twenty minutes wondering how she could wind me up, and turn me on at the same time, and with so little effort? Or maybe that I wanted to close the narrow gap between us and kiss her? There was no way I was about to say any of that out loud, although what came out of my mouth instead was hardly helpful.

She pulled away from me then, and my initial reaction was to stay behind… not to lick my wounds, but to put some necessary space between us. Except that was when I realised she was right. She'd been doing her job, and I hadn't. Admittedly, that was mostly because I've got no idea what my job is supposed to be. But while I'd been in the kitchen, day-dreaming about her, she'd been getting the work done. While I'd been wondering what it might be like to kiss her – and whether we might stop fighting long enough for me to find out – she'd been more diligent.

It was time to pull my weight.

So, I followed her out into the corridor. And when she asked – with customary sarcasm – if I was interested in what was going on, I couldn't help myself. I had to tell her that I think I've always been interested. I don't think for one second she understood what I meant. She didn't get that the ‘interest' I was talking about was in her. It hadn't really occurred to me before that moment, but I've been interested in her since the first time I saw her. Is that because of her delectable backside? Possibly. I don't claim to be any less superficial than the next man. But there's more to it than that. I know there is. We might have done little more than argue since we met, but there's something about her that I'm finding harder and harder to resist… and I wonder if it's worth trying.

I reach Kennedy's office, although now I'm here, I'm even less sure why I've been summoned. Is it because I've done something wrong? Or have they changed their minds and decided Ella's right, and that they need someone who at least knows what to do with the sharp end of a knife? It wouldn't surprise me. I might have boasted to Ella that I have a knowledge of TV production, but in reality, it's very limited… and maybe they've worked that out.

I guess there's only one way to find out, and although the prospect of not working with Ella makes me unusually depressed, I knock on the door.

"Come in." Kennedy's strident tones echo straight back at me, and I enter her office. It contrasts harshly with Ruby's and I stand for a moment, taking in the size of it – which is enormous – as well as the slightly over-the-top furnishings. Her desk looks as though it would have been more at home in a 1960s spy thriller, with its modular design, and I have no doubt she – or someone, at least – paid a small fortune for it.

She doesn't stand, but holds out her hand, indicating the two seats in front of her, and I close the door, crossing the room to sit.

"How are you getting along?" She seems genuinely interested in hearing the answer to her question, and I realise I'm not about to be fired.

"Fine." I don't tell her I haven't done anything yet. I doubt that's what she wants to hear, and it won't do me any favours.

"I'm glad to hear it," she says. "We know we haven't given you much time to prepare, considering it's the first show, but it can't be helped, I'm afraid."

I nod my head, feeling fairly sure she's not expecting an answer, although I note she doesn't take personal responsibility for the lack of preparation time. It seems that must be born collectively.

She surprises me by getting to her feet and smiling down at me. "I need you to come with me."

I stand up too, unsure why she invited me to sit if she was only going to take me somewhere else almost immediately.

She doesn't say another word, but heads for the door, and I follow, noticing when I turn around that, across the other side of the room, is an enormous white couch. It has the same retro feel to it as Kennedy's desk, and although she doesn't dress like someone out of The Man From Uncle , I can't help asking myself if this is her style. It's not mine… but each to their own, I suppose.

Out in the hallway, she turns to her right, walking away from the rehearsal studio and back toward the reception area, although before we get there, she stops at a door on the left, which she opens without knocking.

The room inside is quite large and, other than a couple of chairs over by the window, is devoid of furniture, although as I come further inside, I notice that, at the far end, there's a dark backdrop and some lights, all set up around a man, who I assume is a photographer. He's currently doing something with a tripod and has his back to me.

I look down at Kennedy, frowning.

"We need some publicity shots," she says, clearly noting my expression and explaining my presence.

"Oh… okay." I guess that makes sense.

She doesn't wait for me to say anything else, and wanders over to the photographer, who turns as she approaches. He's tall, although not as tall as me, with dark hair and a handsome face, and he smiles his greeting. She says something to him in a soft whisper, and he steps back, picking something up from a stool that's positioned in front of the backdrop. He hands it to her with a nod of his head before he returns to his tripod and she comes back to me.

"We need you to wear this," she says, holding out the ‘something' in her hand. I take it from her, unfolding it to reveal a bright red apron with the words ‘Meal Master' emblazoned on the front in bright white lettering. It's incredibly tacky, but I suppose needs must, and I turn it around to put it over my head, just as Kennedy reaches out and grabs my arm. I stop, looking down at her, but she leaves her hand on my bicep, and I'm tempted to ask her to move it. She's got my attention, so why does she need to touch me?

"What's wrong?" I ask, and take the opportunity to step away from her, forcing her to release me in the process.

"You need to take your shirt off first."

"Um… excuse me?"

"We're going for a particular theme with this show, and we'd like you to take your shirt off."

"What's the theme? Cooking half naked?"

She laughs, although it's forced and completely unnatural. "Of course not." She steps closer again, and once more, she rests her hand on my arm, gazing up into my face. "But you're a very attractive man, Blain… and we might as well capitalise on that."

"My name is Blake, not Blain." Ordinarily, I'd say my name is ‘Mac', but Kennedy doesn't strike me as someone I'd ever call a friend, so we'll stick with Blake.

"While you're working here, it's Blain." There's a harder edge to her voice, and I can hear the underlying implication that she holds all the cards.

I want to argue that it isn't, but decide it's best to pick my battles, and in this instance, the battle is about what I'm wearing, or not wearing, to present this show.

"Can I get one thing straight here, Kennedy… are you expecting me to present this show wearing nothing but an apron and a pair of jeans?" If they are, she won't need to fire me. I'll quit.

She smiles again, but if anything, I feel slightly less comfortable. The look in her eyes speaks of appetites that have nothing to do with the food I'll be pretending to cook.

"No, but the production team have decided a black t-shirt will look really good with the red apron, so we've ordered some in… and we'd like you to wear black pants, too."

"By ‘pants', I assume you mean jeans or trousers?"

She laughs, with a little more authenticity, and caresses my arm while nodding her head. "I keep forgetting you're British." I can't see how. My accent is a huge giveaway, I would have thought. "Black jeans would be fine," she says. "They won't be seen very much, anyway."

"Why don't you leave us to it?" I turn as the photographer speaks, and see he's wandering over, his hands in his pockets. He's wearing stonewashed jeans, and a dark grey t-shirt, and although he's talking to Kennedy, he's looking at me with a friendly smile on his face. Now he's closer, I can see he's probably a few years younger than me, although he has an air of professionalism that makes him seem older.

"You don't need me to stay?" She releases my arm at last and turns towards him, the disappointment obvious in her voice and demeanour.

"No. We'll be fine. I know what you're looking for."

I think I do, too… but she's not getting it.

"I could stay, just in case you have any questions," she says, but he shakes his head.

"I work better alone." As he speaks, he folds his arms across his broad chest, his feet set firm on the floor. This is a battle of wills and although Kennedy isn't renowned for backing down, I get the feeling he won't budge, either. After just a few seconds, she steps away, relenting, and moves towards the door.

"I'll be in my office if you need me."

He nods his head. "I'll come find you when we're through."

She frowns, but doesn't say a word, and finally leaves the room.

I turn to the photographer, letting out a sigh of relief. "Thanks for that."

He smiles. "My pleasure. Believe me, I didn't want her hanging around here any more than you did."

"For different reasons, I imagine."

"Yeah," he says. "In my case, she'd have just gotten in the way. In your case…"

"She's only interested in the packaging… or so it seems." I hold up the apron. "Is this really necessary?"

"You mean, do you have to take your shirt off and put that damn silly apron on?"

"Yes."

"To get what they want? Yeah, you do. Didn't they tell you this was part of the deal?"

"No, they didn't. And, before you say anything, I know I won't be naked in the pictures. It's just that…"

"You didn't sign up for this?"

"Exactly. Don't get me wrong, I'm not worried about being topless in front of you, but…"

"It's the principle?" he says, tilting his head.

"Yeah. I don't like being kept in the dark, and I'm concerned about how bad the end result is gonna look."

He smiles. "I'll make it as tasteful as I can."

I shake my head. "Bearing in mind that the apron has ‘Meal Master' written all over it, that's going to be a challenge."

He chuckles. "Do you have any alternatives?"

"Like what?"

"Like putting principles first and quitting?" he says, raising his eyebrows.

"That's not an option. I've grown accustomed to having at least two, and sometimes even three meals a day."

"In which case, shall we get on?"

"Sure."

I guess time is money for him, and I hand him the apron while I unbutton my shirt, shrugging it off, then look around for somewhere to put it in this virtually empty room. The chairs by the window are my only option and I saunter over, laying it across the back of one of them, and then return, putting on the apron.

"Do you mind if I do it up?" The photographer steps forward and I frown at him. He smiles, holding up his hands. "I need to make absolutely sure the logo appears in the centre and isn't skewed by the way the apron is tied."

"Oh… I see."

I turn around and he takes his time, doing it up behind me, and then walks around in front, eyeing me closely, adjusting the strap around my neck by a fraction of an inch, and nodding his head.

"Okay. Let's get started."

"Where do you want me?"

He leads me over to the backdrop, setting the stool to one side. "We're not gonna need that, after all," he says, almost to himself, and I step to my left, keeping out of the way, while he adjusts the position of the lights by a few inches in each case. "Okay… come stand over here." He shifts to one side and I take his place, feeling self-conscious.

He moves behind the camera, looking through the view-finder, and then steps out again, coming up to me.

"Do you mind?" he says.

"Mind what?"

"If I move you around a little?"

"Not at all. Go ahead."

He smiles and puts his hands on my shoulders, shifting me to my left and turning my body, so it's at an angle to the camera.

Once he's happy, he moves away again, returning to the other side of the tripod. "That's better," he murmurs and I hear the shutter click a few times. "Fold your arms across your chest," he says, and I do as he says while he takes another few photographs. "You'll like those. The logo is completely obscured."

"Yeah… but that means Kennedy won't use them."

"Probably not, but she's got the option. Okay… now… let's try this…"

He steps aside, crouching down to a small bag, and pulls out a rolling pin, coming over and handing it to me.

"Are you sure this shouldn't be a riding crop or a flogger?" I ask, and he laughs.

"We'll get around to that later." Once again, he manoeuvres me into position before getting back behind the camera. "Can you try looking masterful?"

"Masterful?"

"Yeah… like the name of the show."

"I'll try it."

It's at times like this I'm grateful for my acting experience, and I take a deep breath, trying not to shift my body at all, but puffing myself up and glaring down the camera lens.

"That's perfect." He snaps away. "How long have you lived over here?" he asks, making conversation, which I guess is to help me relax.

"A couple of years."

He nods his head, coming back to me and taking away the rolling pin, only to replace it with a large whisk. I glance at him and he shrugs his shoulders, smiling. "Just doing as I'm told."

"Fine…"

Once he's happy with the way I'm standing, he moves away again. "Can you just tilt your head slightly to your left?" I do as he says. "So, how did you end up working on the show?" he asks.

"I was with a theatre company, playing the part of an alcoholic chef, and unbeknownst to me, someone from the studio must have been in the audience. The next thing I knew, I got a call from my agent, telling me to come here for an audition… and the rest, as they say, is history."

He stands, looking over the top of his camera. "So, you're an actor?"

"Yes."

"You're not a chef?"

"You sound almost as surprised as the woman I've just started working with."

He smiles. "Didn't she know?"

"No. She was hired as the culinary consultant, and it seems no-one mentioned to her that she'd be working with a total amateur."

"How did she take it?"

"Not well. Although I can't blame her, really."

He looks back through the view-finder and then stands up straight again. "What happened to that masterful look?"

"Oh… sorry."

He shakes his head, smiling. "Can I guess that the dreamy expression on your face has something to do with the culinary consultant?"

"It might do."

"So, she doesn't blame you, either?"

"I don't know. I think she might. She seems to be pretty angry with me most of the time, and all we've done so far is argue. But that doesn't mean I'm not in danger of falling for her."

"It's incredible when it happens, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never fallen for anyone before."

"Neither had I, but when I did…" He stops talking, his brow furrowing.

"Can I assume it didn't end well?"

"You can."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugs his shoulders. "I'll get over it," he says, although there's absolutely no conviction in his voice, and I wonder if he believes a word of what he's saying. "We'd better get on with this."

I nod my head and do my best to put that ‘masterful' expression back on my face, while he gets on with taking more photographs, changing the whisk for a long-handled ladle, which makes me smile. He does too, although he's shaking his head.

"Don't blame me for the props. Kennedy supplied them. I guess this is the image she's going for."

"Making me look like an idiot, you mean?"

"I think she's going more along the lines of sex symbol…" I nod my head, a thought taking shape in my mind. "You need to raise your head again," he says, and I realise I've let it drop. "And if you can look over my shoulder, rather than directly at the camera for this one?" I do as he says, although I'm not concentrating, and it obviously shows. "What's wrong?" He stands again, letting out a sigh.

"I'm sorry. I can't focus."

"Why not?"

"Because I've just had a thought." He tilts his head, like he's waiting for me to elaborate, and I realise it can't hurt to tell him… in fact, it might even help. "I was just wondering… am I so very different to Kennedy?"

He smiles, just slightly. "I can think of several ways in which you're vastly different."

I shake my head. "Obviously. But what I mean is, I've been admiring the show's culinary consultant ever since I met her. That's only a few hours ago, I'll admit, but even so, is that any different to the way Kennedy behaves around me?"

He thinks for a moment or two. "I guess that depends."

"On what?"

"On what you're doing about it?"

"Like I said, other than arguing with her, I'm not doing anything. I'm just admiring from afar at the moment."

"In which case, I don't see what your problem is."

"That I think I'd like to do a lot more than argue and admire?"

He smiles. "I get that," he says. "But the point is, how would you respond if you were to get the chance to do more, and she said she wasn't interested?"

"I'd apologise and back off, of course."

"Exactly. And that's the difference. I saw the way you reacted to Kennedy. You made it very clear you weren't happy with her touching you, and you had every right not to be. She didn't pay any attention, though, and came on to you again."

"Hmm… I noticed."

"The thing is, she's your boss, and she clearly thinks that gives her rights."

"It damn well doesn't."

"I know. And that's why the two situations are different. You're finding out about the woman you work with, getting to know her, and maybe at some stage, you'll take it further… with her consent. Kennedy is using her position as your boss to her advantage. If a man did that, it would be called sexual harassment, but in reality, there's no difference."

"Are you speaking from personal experience?"

"Kind of. It's never been done to me, but I work with models all the time. Exploitation is never far from my lens."

I nod my head, realising why he asked before he touched just now, and perhaps why he placed so much emphasis on Kennedy leaving us alone. I hadn't fully appreciated any of that before, but I do now, and I'm grateful for it.

"I guess we'd better take these photographs."

"Probably." He smiles. "Otherwise Kennedy might come find us, and if she sees you looking like that, I dread to think what she'd want to do with that ladle."

I have to chuckle, although the reality is, I'm not finding this very funny.

It's only when I'm walking back to the rehearsal studio, having thanked the photographer for making me feel at ease, that I realise I forgot to ask his name.

Still… I doubt I'll meet him again, and I check my buttons are all fastened before opening the door, to be greeted with a wall of noise. There are ten or twelve people sitting around the table, which I guess means someone must have found some more chairs and brought them in. They all seem to be talking at once, too, and I can't make out anything they're saying.

Ella looks up, just briefly, but doesn't acknowledge me. Instead, she turns towards a blonde woman at the other end of the table, who's berating her over something, although I'm not sure what. I vaguely remember her from this morning's meeting, but I can't recall her name or what she does. Either way, she's not shy in saying what she thinks, and although I can't hear very much above the din, I make out the words "undercooked," and "raw lamb."

"It won't be raw." Ella raises her voice, sufficient that everyone can hear, and they all stop talking. She blushes, evidently surprised to have become the centre of attention.

"What will it be, then?" The blonde narrows her eyes.

"It'll be pink, just as it should be. Blake can give instructions for those who want it well-done, but I'm not serving lamb like that… and if you don't agree, then someone a little further up the managerial ladder is welcome to fire me."

"Okay… okay." Ruby holds up her hands, like she's trying to get control of the situation, and then she turns to the blonde. "Ella's the expert, Vivian, so I think we'll let her decide how she wants to cook the lamb, don't you?"

Vivian…? I remember Ruby saying she was her assistant, but judging from her expression, I don't think she appreciated being told off in front of everyone. She sits back, clearly angry, but rather than gloating or enjoying her moment of glory, Ella just slumps into her seat like she's exhausted. I can't help feeling sorry for her – again – although there's no denying my attraction to her now. My cock won't let me. In my defence, Ella looked really sexy just now, with her eyes on fire. Between that, her tousled hair, and her incredible backside, I'm going to need to learn a little more self-control around her…

She looks up at me again, and all thoughts of self-control are immediately forgotten. How can I even consider such a thing when gazing into those perfect amber eyes? I smile, but rather than returning the gesture, she simply takes a breath, letting it out slowly. Then she sits forward again, looking at the notes in front of her, making it very clear she neither needs nor welcomes my sympathies.