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‘He was truly petrified. I just didn’t realise until it was too late.’
She gripped her hands tightly in her lap to stop them from straying. ‘From all accounts if you hadn’t acted so quickly to smother the fire Ethan would be dead.’ The other actors on the set had labelled Mac a hero.
‘He hasn’t thanked me for that, Jo.’
It took a moment for her to realise what he meant. She stared out to sea and blinked hard, swallowing the lump that was doing its best to lodge in her throat.
‘Do you know how painful his treatment is? It’s like torture.’
‘He’s young,’ she managed to whisper. ‘One day this will all be behind him.’
‘And he’ll be disfigured for life. All because I played the game the TV producers wanted—all because I was hungry for ratings and success and acclaim. At any time I could’ve said no. I could’ve demanded that we remain true to the “reality” part of our so-called reality show. I could’ve demanded that everyone on set be treated with courtesy and respect.’
If he had, she suspected the show wouldn’t have lasted beyond a single season.
‘I didn’t. I chose not to.’
There was nothing wrong with wanting to be successful, with wanting praise and applause for a job well done. If anyone took a poll she’d bet ninety-nine per cent of the population wanted those things too.
‘My pursuit of ratings has ruined a boy’s life.’
And now he was doing all he could to make amends, to make Ethan’s life as comfortable as he could. She shuddered to think how expensive those medical bills must be. She didn’t believe for a moment that Mac should hold himself responsible, but neither did she believe she had any hope of changing his mind on that.
What a mess!
One thing seemed certain, though. If he didn’t ease up he’d become ill. At least he seemed to recognise that fact now.
Or was that just a clever manipulation on his behalf so she wouldn’t go telling tales to Russ?
She glanced at Mac from the corner of her eye as Bandit came racing up from the beach, tongue lolling out and fur wet from the surf. He collapsed at Mac’s feet, looking the epitome of happy, satisfied dog. If only she could get a similarly contented expression on Mac’s face her job here would be done.
Unbidden, an image punched through her, so raunchy that she started to choke. That wasn’t what she’d meant! She leapt to her feet and strode a few steps away. Mac would laugh his head off if he could read her mind at the moment.
Laughter is good for the soul.
Yeah, well, in this instance it would shrivel hers.
She put the image out of her mind, pulled in a breath and turned to face him. His gaze was fixed on her hips. He stared for another two beats before he started. Colour slashed high across his cheekbones.
Had he been checking out her butt?
She wiped her hands down her jeans. Ridiculous notion.
But he couldn’t meet her gaze, and then she couldn’t meet his. She stared up at the sky. ‘So what’s the problem you’ve been having with your recipes?’
‘They’re complicated.’
‘Naturally. It’s one of the reasons your show was so gripping. There seemed to be so many things that could go wrong with each individual dish.’
‘I promised the publisher a troubleshooting section for each recipe.’
That sounded challenging.
‘I’m not a writer!’ He dragged both hands back through his hair. ‘This stuff—the explanations—doesn’t come naturally to me. I don’t know if they’re coherent, let alone if a lay person could follow them.’
And if he refused to actually cook the dishes then how much harder was he making this on himself? He’d always proclaimed himself an instinctive chef. Just getting the order right of when to do what must be a nightmare.
It hit her then. How she could help him. And how he could help her.
She moistened her lips. ‘Why don’t you give me the drafts of your recipes and we’ll see if I can make them? See if they make sense to me?’
She shifted her gaze to Bandit—it was easier than looking at Mac—but she couldn’t help but notice how Mac’s feet stilled where they’d been rubbing against Bandit’s back.
‘You’d do that?’
Forcing in a breath, she met his gaze. His eyes held hope, and something else she couldn’t decipher. ‘I’ll try, but you have to understand that I’m no cook.’
‘You’re the perfect demographic.’
She was?
‘A plain cook who wants to branch out and try her hand at something new—something more complicated and exotic.’
That wasn’t her at all. She just wanted to learn how to make a macaron tower.
