He glanced over where he’d left the postcard on the nightstand in the other room.

But it wasn’t there.

He got up and walked into the bedroom and flipped on the light.

“No way.”

“What’s the matter?” Lori asked.

“Maid must’ve stolen my postcard.”

“The one to Kelly in North Carolina?”

He peered around the corner. How did she know? “Yeah.”

“I saw it when I picked up the call sheet this morning. I dropped it in the mail slot in the hall on my way down.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure whether to be mad or thank her. It wasn’t really the worst thing that could happen. He wasn’t sure he’d have had the guts to send it himself anyway. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks.”

“Andrew you’re being way too hard on yourself. Relax. Your skills are going to shine no matter what you make. Don’t try so hard. Let your personality come through in your desserts, not just your culinary acumen. Have a little fun with it. Smile. That goes further than you think. They’re watching you all the time.”

“I’m sorry I was short with you.”

“It’s okay. On another note, not to re-stress you out more, but that chef in Paris is blowing up your phone. How important are those calls? Can they wait until after we’re done filming?”

“I don’t know.”

“We can listen to them together.”

The pizza arrived, and Lori jumped up and paid for it on her corporate card. “Smells good.”

They both dove into the pizza, and Andrew opened the mini-bar. “Beer or soda?”

“Water’s good.”

He tossed her a bottle of water, then grabbed a soda and popped the top. “Let’s hear the messages.”

“Here we go.” Lori put the phone on the coffee table and pressed the button to play on speaker.

Three messages. All from Francois Dumont. With his heavy accent, it was almost hard to understand them, but Andrew had been face-to-face on these rants enough to know that Francois had been red-faced and practically spitting his words. He was in an all-out ego-driven tirade over one of the chefs.

“What is wrong with that guy?” Lori’s face twisted into a grimace. “Did the guy he fired work for you?”

“No.” Andrew handled his own kitchen. If there was a problem, he’d have taken care of it long before Francois ever caught wind of it. “I’m Chef de Cuisine in a different restaurant he owns.”

“Then why is he calling you?”

“He’s mad and wants to rant. Probably wants me to do the dirty work, or clean up after he created a mess by firing someone on the spot.” It was truly exhausting. “Happens all the time.”