16. Chapter 16
Saint
"Okay, let's do this." Mark, the show's producer, rolls up his sleeves as if he's ready to get his hands dirty.
He directs us to stand behind a large kitchen island.
The set is beautiful. The countertops are all white marble, with sleek white cabinets and copper hardware.
A few open shelves showcase cooking appliances and fancy enameled cast iron pots and pans in bright colors.
Three ovens and an industrial-sized fridge set the backdrop, framed by open displays of rustic baskets overflowing with fresh produce.
It's the perfect mix of modern and homey, with a touch of professional, and a little too close to the kitchen of my dreams. The kind I would have built for myself and a partner I planned to grow old with.
Someone I might cook breakfast for, and then seduce on the dinner table.
Only to do it all over again for the next meal, and the next.
I sigh and glance at Ames.
Yeah, keep on wishing, man.
Five cameras point their large, dark eyes our way.
They temper my excitement to cook in this space.
I'm not a professional at all. It helps that Ames stands next to me, a smile on her face.
She looks confident. It's no surprise, since she has every reason to be.
She's in her element. All I have to do is reflect the light she emits so effortlessly.
Her beauty only adds to her shine. She wears a green dress that plays with the set lights in such a way, a subtle, glimmering blue appears only when hit at the right angle.
It gives a sense of ice and winter and warmth all at the same time.
She pinned her curls at her temples, opening her face and inviting us all to admire her gorgeous brown eyes.
Her lips are painted a bright red, too, of course.
I tap at my stomach. It's a reflex— one that aims to fix my shirt even if there's nothing to fix. The geometric silver pattern on my dark green shirt seems like a poor match for her splendor. I might as well take it off and throw it in the deep fryer.
Mark checks something on his phone. I purse my lips.
Ames gazes at me and mutes her mic. "You look handsome."
I lift both eyebrows and do the same. "I was just thinking that you look so beautiful, I shouldn't have bothered trying to dress up to cook. I might as well have shown up naked."
She blushes. "That would have been quite the Christmas episode."
"Yeah?" I smile and bring a hand to my chest. "There's still time to reconsider."
Several buttons are already undone, and I let my fingers hover at the first closed one.
"Shirt?" I ask. "No shirt? Do you have a preference?"
"Saint."
My name on her lips is an admonishment. I like it enough that I respond to it by undoing one more button.
"Oh my God." She puts a hand over my fingers to stop me. "Don't. You're making me blush right before we start recording."
"Yeah?" I grin, grab her fingers in mine, and press her hand to my chest. "The idea of me naked makes you bashful? "
Our fingers casually interlock over my skin, and I hold on so she can't easily pull away.
It's my natural instinct taking over. Whatever part of me loves to flirt and seduce sees how delightful she is and takes action, no matter the consequences.
That part doesn't care that my heart is involved, desperate to blow oxygen to the flames because it's her .
Neither cares that I'm playing with fire, just to have her close a little longer.
"Shirtless isn't the same as naked—" She blinks a few times. Her blush deepens. "And it's such a safety concern in the kitchen—"
"It would be worth it. You look lovely when you blush."
"Saint…"
"Okay, then." Mark puts away his phone. "We're good to go."
Ames takes her hand away. I put mine in my pockets. We pull back, like two teens caught in a compromising position and unmute our mics. Mark gazes from Ames to me and back to Ames.
"Great. Listen." He smiles. "The vibe for this show is to make viewers feel like they're in your kitchen with you.
Like they're your guests. Like you're the it couple, so happy to be hosting for your first Christmas as, say, newlyweds.
The same kind of interaction you were up to just now— maybe tone it down a notch to keep it family-friendly— but that general energy. Yeah?"
Ames steals a glance at me, but talks to the producer. "Uhm, we're not together."
"Oh— okay. Could have fooled me but— that's fine. Viewers won't know that, right? The point is the vibe . That they can believe the fantasy for an hour."
Ames and I exchange a look. Her deep, brown eyes tell me she's worried. Disappointment feathers through me, that the moment is over and already something she can't fathom with me.
Mark catches the shift in the vibe between us and lifts his hands in a calming gesture. "You don't have to force anything. Just be yourselves and have fun. All I'm saying is show you've known each other for years. Let yourselves be swept up by the magic of the season. It will be great."
Eventually, we nod.
Mark points at the oven, the fridge, the pantry. "We did all the prep you requested, Amelia. Otherwise, just cook, chat, be friendly. We will film until you're done cooking, then pretend to sit and eat. This will likely be three to five hours, which will be edited down to one hour. Any questions?"
We shake our heads.
"The director and I may give small notes here and there," he says. "Cues to talk about the charity, other content we're looking for. Our directions will be edited out of course, so act like no one else can hear what I'm saying, and ignore the cameras."
"Sounds good," I say.
"Great. Let's get started, shall we?"
Mark steps behind the cameras. The director tells us to get comfortable and start cooking, and reminds us to talk about the food we're making.
I start by making a simple sheet cake with eggs, flour, sugar, and honey. Ames prepares a dish she calls lechón. She puts it in one oven while I put the cake in another.
"Now what, chef?" I ask.
"You don't have to call me chef." She smiles. "Let's make the picada now. That's what we call a charcuterie board in Uruguay."
We cut cured meats, cheese, and fruit.
"What do you call these in Colombia?" Ames asks.
"Picadera. They're a bit different. They have arepas, for example. I should make some for you one day."
"I'd love that."
"One day I'll make you arepas con queso for breakfast, too. Lots of butter. Maybe even a fried egg." I moan just thinking about it. "I could make it for you on a Tuesday— that's our day off— or during the off season."
I place the picada to the side, deeming it ready. I steal a grape and smile at Ames.
She smiles back. "You're going to make me breakfast? "
"Brunch. It's my favorite meal of the day."
"Deal. Now help me prepare the ingredients for a pionono. The cake will be done soon, and I want to be able to roll it while it's still warm."
We collect and prepare the fillings for the savory cake roll. Lettuce, cheese, tomato, hearts of palm, and boiled egg cut into slices. We set them on their own dish, and line them up at the front of the kitchen island, closer to the cameras.
The cake is ready and I take it out from the oven and onto a cooling rack. "Why is it better to roll it while it's warm?"
"It makes it easier, as the proteins are still flexible. We're going to use a clean dishcloth as well to help."
"Yes, chef."
"Stop," she laughs. "This isn't a professional kitchen and I'm not your boss."
"But I like getting instructions. Should I say, 'Yes, ma'am' instead?"
She stares at me like I'm suspicious.
"I'm just trying to be a good student." I grin, letting my flirty side take full control again. "I love winning, and I love praise."
I'll give in to that side for only a minute. No harm done.
"I'll remember that," she says.
Color blooms on her face. She licks her bottom lip.
I wave a metal sheet on top of the cake to make it cool a bit faster. "You'll praise me, then?"
"If you do well."
"I'll earn it."
She fans her face with a hand at the same speed I use to cool down the bake. She stops after only a couple of times, like she just remembered we're being filmed.
"We'll see." She clears her throat. "Now pass me that cake, and we'll get going with the pionono."
"Give us instructions while you do it, please," Mark says.
She takes the cake out of the pan and onto a clean dishcloth, talking us through it.
We put layers of ingredients on top, and she adds little tips and pieces of history to the dish.
She tells me this cake has many names across Latin America, and each country has its own recipes.
A preference for sweet or savory versions.
Without missing a beat, she rolls the sheet cake carefully, keeping all layers intact.
"The rolling looks difficult," I say.
"The dishcloth helps support the process." She smiles. "Just make sure to do it when it's still warm to the touch, but not burning. Do you want to finish the last bit?"
She helps me. With her hands on mine, she guides me through the right motion.
I'm caught on how her hands look on mine— just a smidge lighter tone, and appearing small against my large ones.
Long lines that look delicate against my thick fingers.
They're designed for gentle and confident touches.
The kind that I would welcome all over my skin, letting her explore my body to her heart's content, melting me to an aching puddle of want.
If I'm not careful, just the fantasy will liquify me. The way my blood warms up, it's a real possibility. Yet I need her hands on mine, and this is as good an excuse as any.
"Yeah, like that," she says. "It's a little fragile. Soft hands and firm fingers, now."
"Yes, ma'am."
She laughs. "Don't get distracted."
"Too late."
"Right, well, you're doing a good job." She takes her hands away. "Why don't you finish that up? This is the perfect time for some yerba mate."