Every cell in my body is tuned toward her. I want to hold her face in my hands and tell her that it was her, all her. I thought I’d feel dread when this moment came, that I’d be terrified of being back in the spotlight, if only for a moment. And I am scared, especially about what I’m going to cook because now the pressure is on, but there’s also joy and excitement. Joy because she’s joyful and excitement because this time I’m not navigating this alone. There’s no strategy or backstabbing. I have a team plus a force of nature: Amy Chambers.

The way I feel about her is probably written all over my face. I can’t decide what’s worse: my ex-fiancé seeing that I’m hopelessly gone for my business partner or my business partner noticing that I’m stupidly obsessed with her after promising her that this was, that I could be, casual.

“What now?” I turn back to Paul. “I mean, what’s next? What do we need to do?” He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind but hopefully he chalks it up to excitement and nerves.

“We’ll send you an itinerary in the next day or so. There will be paperwork to sign.”

I nod. If it’s anything like Pop-Up Kitchen, it’s a lot of nondisclosures and privacy agreements, filming and ownership rights for the content.

“Scripts,” he says, casually.

“Scripts?” Amy says. “I thought this was reality TV?”

Paul shrugs, looking a little uncomfortable. “You won’t have to memorize lines. But there are themes that get pulled from your backstory to create...”

“Drama,” she finishes for him.

He nods once and she clenches her jaw. For a moment, I want to tell her to fuck it. We don’t need this show if it makes her uncomfortable—especially the idea of drumming up her past, her mom or dad, or her sexuality—but then she smiles again, effortless. I could have been imagining the tension.

“So be it,” she says.

“And you’ll need to start recipe testing,” he says, his voice teasing because he knows exactly how much I love to tinker in the kitchen.

“I’ve got that covered.” I gesture to the bags.

“What’s this?” Amy peers into the first bag and slowly frowns. “You’re making...” She pokes her head into the next bag. “Paella?”

I glance between her and Paul. Is he even allowed to hear this information?

He holds his hands over his ears and lets out a high-pitched scream. “Keep it a secret.” He jogs for the door and grins over his shoulder as he leaves.

“He’s a peculiar fellow,” Amy says slowly, very clearly trying not to insult my former lover and our current television producer.

I giggle. “Yes. He is.”

“Paella?” she asks again.

I shrug. “I thought it might be a better a dish to serve. Better than risotto at least.” I definitely do not imagine the look of relief on her face at my mention of the now unfashionable risotto. “Camilla probably prefers paella to risotto, right?” I ask, pulling ingredients out of their bags and organizing them on the counter based on when they’ll be used in the recipe.