Tasty (27 page)

But can their
behind-the-scenes connection last once the world falls in love with
Flint? And will this be the big break both of them need- or leave
them in the dirt?

Find out in Lila Monroe’s fun, sexy
new novel!

AVAILABLE NOW
!

There’s
no business like show business. Actually, let me clarify that:
there’s no business that will make you lose your hair, your
sleep, and your tenuous grip on sanity like show business. Especially
if you’re on the production end of things, like I am. Extra
especially, with a side order of especial, if you’re on the
production end of a high-stress, high-competition field like reality
television. And if your reality television production company is
named Reel World Entertainment, purveyor of only the finest in
exploitation and sleaze? Start mainlining coffee and cancel your
OKCupid date: your social life’s not making it out alive.

Fortunately
for me, high stress and high adrenaline are my two closest friends.
We love to meet up for bestie things like getting mani-pedis and
taking over the world of entertainment, transforming it from
exploitative images of breasts into an empire of class. I want the
corner office with my name on the door: Laurel Young, Executive and
Defender of Integrity and Ratings. Think of me as a good-hearted
Genghis Khan in designer pumps. Which, come to think of it, would
probably be a show Reel World would love. Ugh.

It’s
Monday morning, and I’m starting my regular routine at work—get
in half an hour early, kick off my high heels under the desk while
downing my extra shot, non fat latte, and shoot through my emails
rapid fire—when my desk phone rings. I grab it and balance it
against my shoulder while ripping open the top of my yogurt.

“Hey
Suze. What’s up?” I ask, spying her on caller ID. I smile
and lean back in my chair. Suze is my actual human best friend—stress
and adrenaline never want to go to the Farmer’s Market on
Sunday. I’m just taking a spoonful of key lime Greek when she
says the magic, horrible words.

“Sanderson
went AWOL with Maribelle on the Keys.”

To
any normal person, this sounds like some weird army maneuver with a
bunch of stupid names. To me, this results in a spilled yogurt on my
work-chic gray skirt.

“Dammit!”
I jump up, wiping at the offending breakfast with Kleenex. “Hold
on. I’ll be right there,” I say, slamming the phone down.
Once I’m properly de-yogurted, I run out of my cubicle and down
towards Suze’s. Okay, by run I mean I urgent waddle. Pencil
length fashionable work attire isn’t designed for badassery.

“Look
at this,” Suze says, when I almost crash into her desk. She’s
gone pale beneath her perfectly applied makeup, and brings up some
footage on her computer. The video’s from the set of
Millionaires
in Paradise
,
a show that follows the exploits of the super hot and super rich in
the super ritziest parts of Florida. Brian Sanderson, my boss, is
wrapped up in Maribelle DeJour’s sweet, spray-tanned embrace.

Brian’s
not supposed to be wrapped up in
anything
on screen. He’s the producer! Wincing, I squat down next to
Suze and watch the madness unfold.

“We’re
in love!” Brian cries, doing his best to shield Maribelle from
the shaky cam that’s following their every move. “Mari’s
not going back to her husband. She’s staying with me, and we’re
not going to lie to you people any longer!”

Brian’s
deep orange tan is going red. He actually throws his sunglasses to
the floor.

“Like,
exactly what he said!” Maribelle cries. She looks around, a
little bit lost, like she’s not sure what the next line’s
supposed to be. Maribelle’s a nice person, but she’s
always been kind of confused.

“Get
away!” Brian yells, throwing something else—I think it’s
a diamond-encrusted vase—at the cameraman. Suze pauses the
video and looks up at me.

“Apparently
they got in a rowboat or something and hijacked Maribelle’s
husband’s yacht. They could be in Cancun by now. Or Antarctica,
if they keep going south.” Suze taps her bright red nails
against her desk. “What happens now?”

We
both know what this means. My boss is gone. The show is gone. My job
is gone.

“How
the hell could Brian do this?” I say, leaning back against the
desk and sliding down the cabinets. The world around me is spinning.
Millionaires
in Paradise
was my first big break here. Brian plucked me out of coffee-fetching
obscurity. He was one of the only men who didn’t roll his eyes
when I suggested ideas, who didn’t ask me to go pick out a gift
for his wife on my lunch break. Being an assistant producer on
Millionaires
was the chance I’d been waiting for. I was learning the ropes,
developing my own ideas. And now, in one shattered vase and stolen
rowboat, it’s gone.

“Laurel?”
Suze says, snapping her fingers in my face. “Earth to Laurel.
Paging. Come back to me.”

“What,
Suze? I’m in the middle of a highly professional spiritual
crisis.” I stand up, and Suze looks down at my feet, her
eyebrow quirked.

“Are
you wearing Minion slippers? Like from
Despicable
Me
?”

Damn.
I knew I forgot something. My face heats up. “It’s just
for desk work. Very professional,” I mutter, cursing my
footwear. But they’re so cute, with their fuzzy yellow heads
and goggles. And heels
hurt
,
dammit.

Focus,
Laurel!

“This
isn’t the end,” Suze says, running a hand through her
sleek black bob of hair. That’s the sort of thing your
well-meaning friends say when they know this is the end. I’m
finished at Reel World. No one else will notice or care now. If I’m
not fired outright, I’ll fade into the wallpaper. It’ll
be fabulous wallpaper with a designer blouse, but still: wallpaper.

“I
have to get back to my desk,” I say, trying not to sound as
lifeless as I feel. The Minions and I hike back and sit down to find,
joy of joys, an email bearing the cheerful title ‘Sanderson’s
Departure.’ I click and read, then proceed to do a very
expressive double take. It’s from the assistant to Herman
Davis, executive of development. He’s all the way on top,
looking down over us mere mortals. I don’t think he’s
been below the tenth floor in twenty years; he probably arrives and
leaves via helicopter every day. So yeah, he’s hard to talk to.
But he knows reality television inside and out.

And
this email says he wants to see me in his office now. Right now. No
loitering. I kick off my cartoon characters and slip into my heels
before dodging out of the cubicle. My heart’s pounding as I jab
the elevator button and wait. Part of me is afraid this is a “clear
out your desk” type of meeting, but that doesn’t feel
right. One of the company heavies doesn’t want to do HR’s
grunt work.

It’s
quiet on the top floor. The air up here
tastes
executive. The elevator doors whisper open, and I step out onto gray
carpeting that’s so lush, my heels almost sink into it. I
wobble a little as I pat my hair—brown, shoulder length,
boring—into place. Keep it together, Laurel. You need to
project cool confidence, not little girl skittishness. Already, the
men passing me in the hallway grin sideways or look down to scope out
my ass. Fucking sexist dickwads. Granted, I work at Pilates to make
sure it’s a nice ass, but still. Gross.

The
men up here are mostly executive level, mostly middle-aged and trying
not to look it, mostly creeps with oiled hair and roving hands. With
their buttoned-in martini paunches and desperately whitened teeth,
they see me—young, female—as either a conquest or an
annoyance, depending on how horny they are. But they’re not
getting rid of me that easy. Not if I’m meeting with Herman
Davis. I straighten my shoulders and walk on.

The
assistant looks up from her computer. “Yes?” She’s
got long, bejeweled pink nails that must make it hard to type.

“Laurel
Young to see Mr. Davis,” I say. No squeaky voice. Great start.
She picks up the phone, hits a button, and says, “She’s
here.” After a second, she hangs up and nods. “You can go
in.”

I
enter Herman Davis’s office without tripping, smacking my head
into the door, or initiating a nuclear standoff. Always a good
beginning.

At
first it’s hard to see anything, what with the row of about
twenty golden Emmy awards lined up against the back wall reflecting
the morning sun. Blinking stupidly with my mouth open is surely not
the world’s greatest first impression, but I recover fast.
Behind a spacious, mahogany desk, Herman Davis waits.

Mr.
Davis is somewhere in his early sixties, with a full head of silver
hair, a pair of rimless glasses, and an attitude full of
don’t-fuck-with-me. He looks at me without irritation or lust:
already, this is new.

“You’re
Young, aren’t you?” he asks.

That’s
not a real question about my age. Hopefully.

“Yes.
It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” I try to keep my voice
pitched as low as possible. Otherwise, I come off as the teenage
babysitter hoping to score an extra five bucks at the end of the
night.

“Brian
Sanderson’s an asshole.” He sighs. “Taking off like
that with the star of our show. Idiot.” Poor Brian. He’s
a sweet, loveable dork who remembered birthdays and collected Funko
POP! characters on his desk, not a sharky Hollywood jackass. I have
to resist the urge to stick up for him. “But he told me you’re
one of the best assistant producers he’s ever seen.”
Davis raises his eyebrows.

Do
I take a seat now? I can’t hesitate: in Hollywood, perfect
confidence gets you the corner office. I sit down in front of his
desk, fighting the urge to smooth my skirt. Nervous habit. He doesn’t
say anything.

“Brian
always listened to my ideas,” I say, sounding casual. In
reality, Brian’s attitude towards women in the workplace was
like a golden unicorn: beautiful and impossibly rare.

“Mmm.
You were the one who suggested the Yukon expedition for
Millionaires
in Paradise
sweep week.” Davis nods, looking gruffly pleased. “People
didn’t expect that; pampered princesses in rugged territory.”
He leans back in his leather chair. “Big ratings hit.”

Brian
stuck up for me, good man that he was. He didn’t claim my idea
for his own. Why the hell did he have to blow everything up like
this?

“Let
me explain this situation to you.” Davis leans forward again,
clasped hands on the shining top of his desk. “We’ve got
a gaping hole in the Thursday night lineup now that
Millionaires
is
gone. It’s a hole that needs to be filled at once. I’m
accepting emergency pitches for a new show.” He nods. “I
want to hear your ideas.”

Oh
God, does he mean right now? Frantically, I start the wheels in my
brain spinning. Come on. Hot girls find love with gamer geeks? Four
families are sent to the bottom of the Mariana trench to see who
survives? I’m blowing this.

“You’ve
got a week.” Praise Jesus! Davis stands up, and I do the same.
A week. Seven whole days. I can work with that. “I want to see
if you’re as good as Sanderson told me you were. Deliver me a
great pitch, I’ll do more than take it. I’ll let you
produce the entire thing yourself.”

I
do a great job of not dropping dead on the spot.
Produce
the entire show?
That’s a fast track I never thought I’d be on. That’s
a career-making move. Davis clearly sees this is making me too happy,
because he adds,

“I
need capable producers. What I don’t need are hangers on with
nothing to do.” He doesn’t smile. “And with
Sanderson gone, you won’t be very busy.”

Okay.
It’s feast or famine, producer or unemployment line. If I
succeed next week, I’ll finally be a producer, full fledged and
shiny. I’ll have control of my own show. No more bowing to
other people, even good guys like Brian. I’ll be running the
place myself. Those sweet images of world ratings domination float
through my mind.

But
if I don’t make the cut, I’ll probably be back in my Ohio
hometown, looking for a job at the local public access station. New
mantra: Don’t fuck this up, Laurel.

“You
won’t be disappointed, Mr. Davis,” I say, almost reaching
to shake his hand. But that’s not a smart move. I don’t
know that he’s touched anyone below the executive pay grade
since 1989.

“I
better not be. All right, Young. Off you go.” He nods to the
door, and I walk away, wanting to do little twirling dances and sing
dumb songs. I imagine a full-on Disney musical number, complete with
animated sidekicks, but not here. Outside.

Before
I can touch the handle, the door opens. And I’m face to face
with my worst nightmare. There he is, five foot ten of gelled,
chiseled-jaw, Axe body sprayed douche canoe. Tyler Kinley.

“Hey,
it’s Young Laurel. Still as sexy as ever.” He gives a
smile so white it belongs at a GOP stump speech, and raises his Ralph
Lauren sunglasses. His eyes go down my body, lingering on my breasts.
I resist the urge to knee him in the groin.

Young
Laurel. That was the “nickname” he thought was so fresh.
Back when we were sleeping together, I let him get away with it. I’m
not in the mood for his wacky verbal shenanigans now.

“Hey,
Tyler. If you can try squeezing your ego through the doorway, I’ll
be able to leave.” I give him a professional, hollow smile. He
gets to leer, and I have to shut up and bear it. It’s a healthy
dose of the real world over at Reel World, let me tell you.

He
laughs and sweeps into the room past me, a perfumed cloud of jackass
suffocating me in his wake. “Mr. D! How are you, man?”
Tyler actually walks up and grabs Davis’s hand. I can’t
tell if the executive is pleased or not, but he doesn’t say
anything. Could I have gotten away with that? Or would it have been
too ‘immature’ coming from a woman? “I heard it
through the grapevine that you’re accepting pitches for
Sanderson’s misfire. Happy to volunteer my brilliance.”