No co-host to have to share the spotlight with; no grating or witty banter between two people who really couldn’t stand each other; more freedom to spread her creative wings; and a lot more money, because Bake My Day had an impressive budget. Charlie wanted the job, and she deserved it. She was the better pastry chef, and it was no secret that, of the two of them, she was easier to work with. She had noticed Sasha’s eye rolls at Austin’s arrogance on more than one occasion.
Working with Austin had become mentally exhausting, and Charlie was glad the special would wrap soon. He was always getting on her case, then laughing it off and saying it was all part of his “Salty” persona. Today, she had been so distracted by him she’d delivered her lines in the wrong order—something that never happened—and just before she’d escaped to the stockroom to get her thoughts together, he had pounced on her momentary lapse.
“What’s up with you today, Charlie? A case of the Mondays?” He’d known they were still miked and that everyone, including Sasha, would hear. He then made a show of putting a hand on her shoulder and rubbing it, faking concern. “Don’t worry. I can pick up the slack. I have both our scripts memorized.”
Before Charlie could respond, let alone brush his hand away, the bottle of peppermint extract—which Austin was supposed to have capped after measuring out a tablespoon for the candy cane truffles they were making—tipped over, emptying quickly across the stainless-steel worktable and soaking into Charlie’s skirt.
“Oh,” Austin said as Charlie jumped back, though too late. “Thought the lid was on tight. My bad.”
Charlie smiled wanly at him, curtly said, “It’s fine,” and then asked Sasha if they could take five. None of the contestants were on set; they were filming B-roll so the timeline was more flexible—although Sasha always ran things like they were trying to beat the clock. Charlie escaped to the storeroom, where they kept the pots, pans, and baking dishes, knowing she had only a few moments to try and meditate away Austin Nash.
It wasn’t working. Instead, along with her frustration, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time: Charlie was homesick. Starlight Peak, her hometown only a few hours north of Los Angeles, was so festive this time of year, with sugary snowcapped mountains as backdrop, and every home, shop, and street corner laden with Christmas decorations. Life in quaint Starlight Peak was so much simpler than city life. And the best part about her hometown? Austin Nash wasn’t there.
Suddenly, the storage room’s overhead fluorescent bulbs lit up with a flash. Charlie quickly pushed off the wall, dropping her phone to the ground. She and Austin’s new assistant, Nathan （she made it a habit to learn everyone’s names, no matter what their role on the show）， stared at each other for a moment, the melodic voice coming from the meditation app on her phone the only sound in the room. Now focus on your shoulders . . . how much tension are you holding there . . . Breathe into your belly . . . Be aware of all the sensations in your body . . .
Nathan sneezed—likely the peppermint extract—then cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He was obviously nervous to have interrupted the show’s “talent,” especially when she was clearly not having the best day. “Oh, uh, sorry, Ms. Goodwin. I didn’t realize—”
“Hi, Nathan. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Charlie picked up her phone and stopped the meditation. “And call me Charlie, okay?”
Charlie wondered about Nathan’s story, what his great L.A. dream was. This town was filled with a lot of ambition. It was rare to meet someone who wasn’t hustling a few jobs at least, hoping for their big break.
“Did Sasha ask you to come in here and get me?” Charlie asked.
“Well,” Nathan said, drawing out the word. “Kind of? But she also told me to season a few of the frying pans for the next segment.” He was shorter than Charlie, who stood about five-seven without shoes, and he had to go up on his toes as he reached past the Christmas decorations for the nonstick enamel pans on the top shelf. That was when Charlie knew that whatever Nathan’s big dream was, it had nothing to do with cooking.
“We don’t season nonstick pans,” Charlie said, tucking her phone into the pocket of her skirt and rubbing her nose against another minty tickle. “The coating can crack.” She reached for one of the cast-iron pans. “Here. Cast iron. The workhorse of the kitchen.”
Nathan took the pan from her, misjudging the weight and then cringing as he almost lost his grip.