Pistachio Craze for the Holidays (Christmas Kisses & Cookie Crumbs)
Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
N othing ruins a good mood like the hypnotic lull of your ex-boyfriend’s world-famous voice. Especially when you recognize that distinct Aussie accent over the Christmas song you were singing along with.
Someone in the studio is watching Channel Foodie’s Culinary King , and I know exactly who that someone is—my work bestie and shameless traitor, Nellie.
I clench my jaw and chop the cilantro with fresh aggression. "Nellie…"
"I'm turning it down,” Nellie hollers, “I'm turning it down.” She’s seated in the studio living room, which sits just off the kitchen where I film my live cooking segments.
I shake my head and finish chopping the herbs. “It hasn’t even been a year since the breakup. Can’t you at least wait and drool over him when I’m not around?”
Nellie hurries into the kitchen. "I thought the volume was low enough, so kill me."
I scrape the chopped greens into the bowl with the gleaming knife blade. "Don't tempt me." Honestly, I have bat ears where Jude’s voice is concerned. I could recognize that husky tone, rich with that knee-weakening accent anywhere.
Mr. Bruce strides in wearing one of his holiday sweater vests with a matching bowtie. "Hey, Ginger, would you mind meeting me in my office?"
My stomach threatens to bounce into the blender. “Sure,” I squeak. “I’ll be right there.”
Nellie gasps and follows me to the sink. “I bet it’s about the position. You better get it over Bratty Patty . That bleep can’t even cook.”
I ignore the bleep thing; Nelly’s doing a Don’t-Swear-December Challenge. I dry my hands and release a shaky breath. I’m more qualified than Patty; everyone at the station knows it, but since Patty has a Corporate Daddy —she’s got the advantage.
“Wish me luck,” I say as I hurry toward the hall.
“Good luck. Wait,” Nellie adds.
I stop and glance back, hoping she’ll calm my nerves.
She cups her mouth. “Ask if the elves spun today’s sweater from mystical thread.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop it.”
I take the corridor, recalling the way Jude used to encourage me before an audition. ‘ You’ve got this, Lady G. Make ‘em melt.’
The accompanying image that floats to mind is high-broil hot. Those deep brown eyes, that glint of mischief, the trademark quirk of his lip, present in every gif or meme that features him. ‘Who’s ready to get saucy?’
He’s mastered an expression that makes him look like he’s got a secret you’d do anything to uncover.
Bruce Nancy, who prefers Mr. Bruce over the alternative, is at his desk when I walk in. His sweaters habitually feature cats; today’s holiday theme is his favorite breed: hairless felines with sunken faces, pointy ears, and freakish eyes. Tiny elf hats rest wobbly on their shriveled heads.
I shiver. “You’re outdoing yourself with the matching bowtie.”
He grins. “Looks like my little Jinxy, doesn’t it?”
“Yep.” I hope my expression reads admiring more than repulsed. I don’t know what all the fuss is about with the hairless cat craze. It’s like someone took a stuffed animal, shaved off the fuzz, sucked the life out of it with a vacuum hose, then shoved pipe cleaners into its limbs.
Mr. Bruce sniffs. “Is that cilantro I smell?”
“It is,” I say. “Low carb quesadillas with pot roast. I made a double batch.”
“I can’t wait. There’s no turmeric in them, is there?”
I shake my head. On Halloween, I added turmeric to my ghost chili, and Mr. Bruce sampled some before the live segment. His face swelled so badly he barely looked human.
“No turmeric,” I say. “I know now to warn you.”
“Atta girl.” He inspects the papers on his desk. “Now, about the Get Cookin’ position with Channel Foodie…”
My stomach plummets. Please say I’m still in the running.
“They’ve narrowed it down to two candidates, and you’re one of them.”
“That’s great!” My adrenaline spikes—half excitement, half desperation. “Is it…” I start to say.
Mr. Bruce nods gravely. “Yes. The other candidate is Patty .” Her name is like a curse word around here.
“Ugh.” I throw my head back like a teenager asked to clean her room which is filled with a month’s worth of cereal bowls, half-a-dozen softball uniforms, and an indecent amount of ranch-flavored corn nut wrappers, hypothetically speaking.
“The network is at a deadlock,” he says. “Producer Marsha Langston has assigned a test audience to help make the final call.”
“A test audience?” I can’t hide my grin. If it’s up to Marsha and her team, Patty’s daddy won’t have any influence.
Mr. Bruce stares fondly at the screen.
I follow his gaze to the monitor, which plays a slideshow of photos. “Is that Mardi Gras?” I ask, eyeing the busy street crowd and beads draped over both Mr. Bruce and his cat.
“Yes, that was 2019.”
The cat looks sloshed. I look at Mr. Bruce accusingly. “Did you give Jinxy a little… drink-ski?”
He holds his finger and thumb so they’re all but touching. “Maybe just a pinch - ski. Any-who, since you and Patty both have holiday cookie features in the next week, those segments will count as your final auditions.”
My shoulders lift like dough in the sunlight. I have more experience than Patty. I host the local cooking segments five days a week; Patty has one measly Saturday morning slot.
Still, there’s no telling how far the influence of Patty’s daddy goes. And, of course, there’s one more potential problem.
No, I decide. It won’t be a problem. I’ve grown out of it by now.
I think.
I hope.
Please say I’ve outgrown it by now.
“You’ve outgrown your tendency to…buckle under pressure, I presume?” Mr. Bruce asks like he’s reading my mind. His eyes lock on mine, and an audible gulp slinks down our throats in unison.
He knows as well as I do that the problem is real; I botched the live audition for my current gig to an epic degree. The sudden downturn in Mr. Bruce’s expression says he’s thinking of it, too.
Picture ripping a bag of pasta with your teeth, causing penne to scatter like pale tubes of confetti. Then picture hunching down to scoop it off the floor and smacking a pan handle with your head—a pan partially filled with sautéing marinara.
Had I been wearing a raincoat suitable for a tour of Niagara Falls, we might not have had to cut to commercial. Sadly, most aprons still don’t have hoods.
While I changed, sopped the sauce from my hair, and slicked the marinara-scented strands into a bun, Jude soothed me from the other side of the door. “ Don’t panic, love. People don’t want perfection; they want people.”
Nellie blames Patty for the botched audition, saying she sabotaged things by removing the scissors from the set.
Mr. Bruce, who’d been watching my YouTube channel for months, realized I had a case of the jitters. “That wasn’t exactly your best work,” he said during my follow-up interview. “ But the audience loved you.”
And so, the job was mine.
After the segment, Jude pulled me in for a warm hug. “ My Lady G always makes an impression. Just try and let them forget that.”
I melt at the recollection. Jude is impenetrable, a trait that somehow rubbed off on me when we were together. He never catered to the naysayers, like his jock father, who cursed his only son’s flair for food over football. And look at Jude now.
Reliving moments with Jude threatens to ruin me every time. And while part of me wishes I could hit delete and make the memories vanish forever, I cling to them like they’re life itself. I had that once, and it was beautiful.
“What holiday cookie are you making Tuesday?” Mr. Bruce asks.
I blink, refocus, and then fight back a spurt of panic as I realize I don’t actually know. “I have a few ideas. Maybe you and Nellie can come over after work and I’ll test them out on you?”
He frowns. “I hate leaving Jinxy alone for much longer…”
My desperation spikes a notch, a frantic clawing in my chest like I swallowed Jinxy whole. “ Please ,” I plead. The fact is, I can already feel myself sliding into panic mode. This audition is an ice-covered hill. The prize is glistening brightly on top; my demise is a pool of sludge below, and I’ve got nothing but ballet slippers to trek the hill. “You can bring Jinxy if you need to,” I say.
Mr. Bruce grins. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”