9
BRYN
This situation went down differently in my head. I had thought of sitting Mitchell down with a cup of coffee sometime during the weekend, drawing on the truce we made the other day. I would have played on his empathy. If I had to—if I were desperate enough—I would have offered him some kind of agreement or deal to play along.
But the kitchen needed unpacking. Flooring was picked out. Seedlings were delivered. Soil was dumped into the raised beds. I was in the middle of testing out a stupid irrigation system when he interrupted me.
I didn’t have the time to tell him by the time the crew arrived Monday morning; I had been too busy. Right?
I make no sudden movements and paste a smile onto my face. I give Mitchell a thirty-second explanation of the situation. “I’ve turned off the mic, but the camera’s transmitting live video, though I think we’re far enough away so it won’t catch who you are.”
“Live video. Do you mean for the public?” His eyes narrow as he pieces together the facts.
“Yes. Online, continuous footage.”
“For people to watch.”
I nod.
“No. This isn’t close to remotely cool.” His nose flares like a bull’s, and he begins to turn around. To do what? Don’t know and don’t care. I grab him by the elbow to keep his body from rotating and put a hand up to his cheek, just like I used to with my little sister when she’d have one of her tantrums.
His face stills in my hand. His skin is soft, with stubble on his cheek and chin. What I’m doing is absolutely wrong and unprofessional, but God, I can’t pull away. Mitchell is beautiful in all the ways the land is, in this old-soul way, where the roots of the vines have dug deep into the earth.
I ignore the fluttering in my chest and focus on my words instead. “Please, I can explain all of this later, when they leave. But I’m begging. Don’t ruin this for me until I have the chance to explain fully.”
He inhales deeply, though his face is placid. This expression is way worse than the frustrated looks he’s given me the last two and a half weeks I’ve lived here, because at least back then, I knew what he was thinking. Now I have no idea if he’s going to rush at the camera or tell me what an idiot I am to agree to a live stream. “Okay. What do you want me to do?”
Relieved, I lower my hands to my sides. “The only option is for you to go. You can’t be on camera without signing a permission slip.”
“And when does the filming stop?”
“About a half hour. I have to go inside in a few minutes and take a Skype call, an interview of a potential chef. They’ll want to stream that, but the cameras will be gone right afterward.”
Moments pass as Mitchell contemplates what his answer is going to be. Today is the first day of the live stream. How many chances will my viewing audience give me before they click away?
“Do you know how to make coffee?” he asks.
The question bowls me over, and I snicker. “You’re asking me, a former manager of one of the best restaurants in San Francisco, if I know how to make coffee? I only have the best cappuccino maker on the market in that kitchen.”
The man looks like he doubles in size. “Let’s make a deal. You make me a cup of coffee, and I’ll clean up the mess out here. I’ll make sure to stay relatively out of sight. They leave. Then we talk, but at my place.”
I scrunch my nose at the trash and supplies littered around the vegetable garden. Toiling outside doesn’t sound fun while waterlogged. It’s not above me to sound grateful, because I am, sincerely. “Really?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
I point at his chest. “You. You’re being awesome right now.” My instinct is to touch him, hug him, or give him a high five. Something. But as I lean in, I catch myself.
Holy hell. Get ahold of yourself, woman.
I leave Mitchell to the dirty business of cleaning up while I rush to turn on my mic and head inside to get out of my clothes. I don’t look at the camera as I pass, hoping Joel won’t ask me about the loss of audio. Crap, will the camera follow me into my room? And then I remember that, no, bedrooms are off-limits, and when I close my door, I deep-breathe through the facts that scroll through my brain like the credits of a movie.
I will have a camera on me for many, many hours.
It’s going to catch me doing everything, undiscriminating of whether it’s right or wrong.
There’s absolutely no editing, no take backs.
And, oh shit. Everyone who comes in here will be seen on live stream.
These words were on the contract, and yes, I signed my name on the bottom line, but I did it with my goal of financial stability overshadowing the cons of this entire deal.
If the following days are anything like day one, this is going to be one of the most painful experiences of my life. Because somehow I’m supposed to be myself and not act a fool.
Shivering, I peel off my shirt, bra, shorts, and panties and rummage for fresh clothes, still in suitcases. Until the small dwelling out back is renovated and the live stream is over, I’ve settled in one of the two master suites in Paraiso. After deciding on leggings, a white tank, and a thin gray cardigan, I coil my hair into a bun. With ten minutes till the interview, I head to the kitchen and turn on the cappuccino machine.
My job as the general manager of True North required me to be cross-trained. I could tend bar, host customers, serve and clear, and make coffee like a boss. For my birthday last year, my dad gave me this silver behemoth of a machine, and it’s become the centerpiece of Paraiso’s kitchen. Because the second choice of beverage for folks who want to relax? Coffee.
The first, in my opinion, is wine.
After making the espresso, I steam milk and froth it in perfect three-to-one, steamed-milk-to-espresso proportions, and scoop foamed milk on top. I peek outside—Mitchell’s about done, and he’s even raking the topsoil. It’s only now I notice he’s got running shorts on, with a shirt that has Redwood Race 26.2 written on it. A marathoner, with the legs of one. With muscles that coil and flex with every move.
The man just can’t help himself, jumping in when he finds something amiss. Not that it’s a bad thing. There are worse qualities in a person, though it miffs me he noticed my weaknesses, and he did it without asking.
But I must put my previous misgivings about Mitchell Dunford aside. The ball is now in his court. I’ve got to play nice now that he knows about the live stream. I can’t have him stand in the way of this potential income stream.
I knock on the window, and Mitchell looks up. He puts away the last of the equipment as I walk out. He meets me at the side of the house.
I hand him the mug, then reach to my waistband and turn off the mic. I wince while doing so, not knowing if Laurel will get wind of this. “Thanks for cleaning up. You didn’t have to rake the topsoil. I could have done that.”
“No big deal. I had a couple of extra minutes.” He brings the cup to his mouth, sipping almost tentatively. “Oh, that’s good.”
“Thanks . . . um, I know you’re probably going to find this picky, but could you not do something unless you ask?”
He laughs into his cup. “You want to talk to me about asking for permission?”
“Yes. How could you have known I was ready for the topsoil to be pushed around? I always tell my staff assumptions are the worst. It’s better to ask permission rather than for forgiveness.”
He nods. “Hm. First of all, I’m not staff. And I dunno, it’s kind of like how you should have asked me before assuming I would be okay with a camera crew hanging around my property.”
“It’s not the same thing,” I protest, because he’s got my point all wrong. But a bell pulls my attention to the phone in my pocket. The caller ID tells me it’s Ellie Reyes, a Filipino chef from a fusion restaurant in Dallas. She’s our number one candidate for the position, and we’ve been emailing for the last couple of weeks. Through my muddled thoughts I’ll need to discern if she’s a good fit during this online face-to-face interview. “I have to take this.”
He nods, wiping sweat with the back of his hand, and now his cheek bears a dirty mark. Then his hand touches his forehead and leaves two distinct fingerprints.
I can’t ignore it—I point to the mess. “You . . . you’ve got dirt.”
He palms his cheek, turning it gray. I can’t help but laugh. My experiences thus far with Mitchell Dunford have been weird, for lack of a better word. This moment is about as cute as realizing he has a grandmother he calls Granny who still drives him to town.
I reach up and swipe the dirt with my thumb, and by the time my brain catches up to what I’ve done—this is twice today I’ve reached out to him—I freeze. Shit. What am I doing? I must have not eaten enough today, hypoglycemic from living on coffee and stress and this so-called natural fertilizer for the flowers up front.
I drop my gaze and recoil, only to realize Mitchell has taken my hand in his, squeezing it then letting go. An intense heat rushes to my cheeks, equal parts uncertainty, awkwardness, and desire, not helped at all by the way he’s looking at me. Again, with this incredulousness.
“I’ll wait for you at Mountainridge,” Mitchell says, voice hoarse.
Right. He’s only here to get an explanation, not because he planned to help me this afternoon or because he felt a twinge of attraction between us.
I shake my head in an effort to get my mind back on track. “I’m not sure how long this will take. If the interview starts out well, I might give her a virtual tour of the house.”
“Makes sense. Just head on up when you can, then. Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I’m grateful for his seemingly sincere tone, and head into the house, stealing a glance at Joel, whose face is shadowed behind his equipment and ball cap. Unlike my sister, a quick study of social situations who gives me detailed feedback on how I fared in them, this guy is deathly silent.
Did the crew catch my rambling subconscious on camera? Can the viewers see right through me?
First things first, though—the call.
I press the green button and brace myself to lure this fantastic chef to Paraiso.