Chapter Twenty-Five Rab #2
“You’re not making a fool of me.” I stopped her when she went to walk forward, turning her to me.
“You’re not. If it were something that I truly cared about—which is largely profit and loss statements and sound financial planning for small businesses—I would be upset.
But this means nothing to me. It is important to you, though. So I’m here to help you however I can.”
Lyra’s face softened. “Rab—”
“Oh, good, just the people I wanted.” Vaughn popped his head out of a trailer. “Lyra, you’re in for makeup. Rab, you’re in confessional.”
“Why is it called a confessional? Isn’t it just an interview? Are you a priest?” I grumbled as I followed Vaughn into the room where they filmed private interviews with the producers. Why did they ask a bunch of odd questions that often had nothing to do with baking?
“Because the point is for you to open up and tell us things that will get the audience to like you. Or hate you.” Vaughn shrugged as he took his chair. “It’s your call which way you want to spin that.”
“How much of these reality shows are actually all that real?” I asked, plopping onto the stool and crossing my arms over my chest. “It all gets edited the way you want it to, doesn’t it?”
“Welcome to showbiz, baby.” Vaughn winked at me, and despite finding him annoying, I laughed. At least he was honest.
We waited while the production assistant counted us down, and then the cameras began recording.
“Right, let’s just jump right into the question that everyone is dying to know. Are you and Lyra dating again?”
“What?” I dropped my arms and leaned forward in surprise. “That’s the question everyone is dying to know? Isn’t it something like… I don’t know… how much salt to put in a brownie?”
“And do you know the answer to that?”
“I don’t know. But I would say, toss a handful in there.” I shrugged a shoulder. “Salt goes well with sweets. Doesn’t it?”
“Aye, it does, but you certainly wouldn’t want a handful. It’s not the main ingredient.”
“Which is why my question makes sense. Wouldn’t viewers want to know the exact amount so as not to screw up their recipe?”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“No, Lyra and I are not dating,” I answered, rolling my eyes.
“Do you want to date her again?”
“Is this really relevant to whether I can bake a rhubarb tartlet or whatever?” I asked.
“Food is love, Rab. Baking is about passion and joy. Ever eat a meal where you were convinced the chef hated life?”
I pursed my lips, considering his words.
“I’ve eaten some bad meals in my life, but I think I chalked it up to an inexperienced chef.”
“Or an unhappy one. Perhaps that’s why your recipes are going wrong?” Vaughn arched an eyebrow at me.
“I believe that’s called leading the witness, Your Honor,” I said. I loved watching American legal dramas.
“Are you going to answer the question?” Vaughn sighed.
“Aye, I’d like to date her again,” I said, surprising Vaughn. He perked up, straightening in his chair. Checking his clipboard, he looked up at me.
“Why?”
“Because I love her,” I shocked myself by saying.
But I realized I didn’t care who knew it.
Somewhere along my walk home last night and a long discussion with Merry and Pippin, who just kept running in circles while I sat with them on the kitchen floor, I’d realized that I was done lying about what I felt for Lyra.
My love for her was nothing I would ever hide or be ashamed of again.
“Do you know when it’s absolutely pissing out, and the clouds have all clustered in and are moody and gray? ”
“Aye, that’s typical enough Scottish weather.”
“And then, out of nowhere, the clouds will shift, and the loveliest ray of sunshine will pierce through all that gray. It just lights the whole world up in a way that has made poets reach for their pens and painters grab for their brushes in a desperate attempt to capture that moment of stunning, perfect light.” I lifted my head and looked the camera dead on. “That’s Lyra.”
I stood up, not caring that we were still filming. I needed to go find Lyra and tell her to her face everything that I felt about her.
“Great, there you are, Rab. We’re ready to film.” A production assistant that I didn’t know the name of snagged my arm and drew me toward the back of Mystic Munchies.
“Lyra—”
“She’s already at your table. Everyone’s waiting.”
Bloody hell, but this would have to wait. Annoyed and somewhat flustered that I’d been willing to be so open on television, much to Vaughn’s delight, I’m sure, I entered the test kitchen.
Felicity and Mandy stood at the table parallel to ours, instead of behind us.
The producers must have decided to move them.
But why? Did they think Felicity was an actual threat to Lyra?
Or were they hoping for more drama to explode?
Instinctively, I moved to the side of the table that would place me between Lyra and Felicity.
“No, Rab. The other side, please.” Kelly pointed to the other side of the table.
“Why?” I asked, lifting my chin.
“They’re hoping to distract me with Felicity being near. Or that I’ll distract Felicity,” Lyra murmured, moving to the side they wanted her to be on.
“So don’t give it to them.” I looked down at her, shaking my head. “You don’t have to play into what they want.”
“It’s not that serious, Rab. Remember, it’s just a show, right?” Lyra smiled, squeezing my arm, and everything inside me warmed at her touch. I hadn’t been lying. Every time Lyra smiled at me it was like finding a warm spot of sunshine on a gloomy day.
“If you’re fine with it.”
“I am.” Lyra turned back toward the cameras and placed her hands on the table, ready for battle.
“Right, is everyone sorted, then?” Nevin asked.
I glanced back to Henry, who gave me a wink, and Team Elf seemed enthused to be here with matching reindeer headbands on their heads today.
“And rolling in three… two… one…”
“Good evening, and welcome back to everyone’s favorite baking show, Bewitching Bake Off!”