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One
DELILAH
“See?” I wink at the camera as I pull the tray from one of the double ovens on set, making sure they can get a good view of the flaky, browned goodness there. “I bet most of you at home were thinking this was impossible when we started, but look how easy that was.” I set the tray on the cooling rack, pulling off my branded oven mitts and making a show of inhaling from the still-hot pastries. “Mm. Look at us. Who would have thought? Making pain au chocolat with stuff we already had lying around!”
I blow on the pastry gently before taking a small bite, making appreciative noises for the camera’s benefit. Not that it isn’t delicious, because it is, but honestly, my stomach is still a little sour thinking about the meeting I have waiting for me after I finish filming this episode.
“Okay,” I say, licking the remnants of chocolate from my finger and setting the half-eaten sweet back on the tray. “If you can stop at just one of these, you’re better than me. I will be shamelessly sneaking seconds the moment those cameras turn off. Don’t forget my hot tip about making your dough the night before and letting it chill overnight, and be sure to tag me in your attempts on social media! I love seeing everyone and their creations.”
I glance at the unfinished dessert on the tray, biting my lip before grinning at the camera. “Okay, I have to finish that, I can’t just let it sit there!” I shove the rest of the pastry into my mouth, mmming loudly. “Wow. That really is so good.” I put on my brightest smile after swallowing it down, zeroing in on camera one. “Next time, I’m going to show all of you how to make éclairs at home with mascarpone.” I hold out my hands. “Trust me, you’re going to want to see what that’s about. But until then, just remember that baking”—I make sure to accentuate the next bit with a practiced twirl of my finger—“is whisk-y business.”
“And cut.”
I relax from the pose I’m holding, blowing out a breath.
“That was great, Dee,” the floor manager, Greg, tells me.
I pull my apron over my head, frowning at the bits of flour that escaped the hem to cover my chest—a common occurrence, with my…ample landing zone. Everybody wants huge tits until there’s flour involved. “What about that egg I dropped?”
“Nah, we can definitely cut that out in post.”
“Perfect,” I tell him, dropping the apron on the counter and moving away from the stage kitchen.
“Hey, Delilah, you want the rest of these?”
I glance back at the pain au chocolat still sitting on the cooling tray, our boom operator, Dante, standing beside them with a hungry look. Normally, I would be snatching up the leftovers and hoarding a few for myself before passing them around to the crew, but as it is, I just shake my head.
“They’re all yours.”
I hear a muted collection of yeses behind me, heading for the little table where we keep bottled water and snacks. I screw the cap off a bottle and guzzle down half in one go, trying to settle the sensation of bees buzzing in my stomach.
“Take a breath, girl,” Ava laughs beside me. She’s tall enough that I have to crane my neck up at her, but at five foot four, that’s nothing new for me.
I shake my head, taking another swig before screwing the cap back on. Ava Carmichael is our junior producer—but more than that, she’s become my best friend over the three years that I’ve been doing the Whisk-y Business show. I know that she’s well aware of the meeting that’s happening far sooner than I’m prepared for, so I think she knows exactly why my face scrunches with frustration.
“Kind of wanted to throw myself in the oven, not gonna lie,” I tell her.
“Stop.” She places one hand between my shoulder blades, rubbing there. “It’s not going to be as bad as you’re building it up to be in your head.”
“Ava,” I sigh, running my hands through the thick mass of my chestnut waves. “We both saw the numbers for last month. It’s probably going to be worse than I’m building it up in my head.”
She tugs on her blond braid absently, something I know means she’s more worried than she lets on, her pert nose scrunching in thought. “I mean, it’s not like they can cut the show, right? You still have the rest of this year on your contract.”
“Yeah, this contract,” I point out. “They could absolutely decide they’re not going to extend it.”
She frowns as if she hadn’t allowed herself to entertain that possibility. “But everyone loves you! I mean, Whisk-y Business basically paid for the new studio. It sure as shit wasn’t Courtney’s Apples to Apples.” She snorts. “How anyone didn’t have the foresight to see that the girl was going to run out of things to make out of apples after six months is beyond me.”
“I mean, at least she’s moved on to pears now,” I offer.
“Yeah, which is really good for branding on a show built around apples,” she mutters. She waves the thought off. “Whatever. All I’m saying is, your show is the headliner of the entire network.”
“Yeah, but…” I bite my lip. “The numbers just keep seeming to trickle down. It’s like people are losing interest. I keep dragging out harder and harder recipes, but it doesn’t seem to be making any difference. The social media manager has noticed a downtick in interactions there also.”
“Right, but…” Ava frowns. “You really think they would cut the show?”
I shake my head. “I have no idea. That’s why I feel like I want to throw up.”
“Fuck them, honestly,” she huffs. “You could make doughnuts in your basement and get a ton of views on YouTube without them.”
