Write. Eat. Repeat.

Chapter 3: BBQ

 The shoot last night went really well. Brooks and Chelsea were the perfect models, posing in the romantic party-for-two that I set up on my couch. It was hard seeing her lean all over him, and feed him bites of fried pickles from the cute little popcorn bags I swiped from the theatre down the street. Especially after our conversation—I can't seem to stop mulling over his words, "I came back for you." It's probably the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me. But it couldn't have come at a worse time. I'm at the precipice of my career. Everything I want is laid out in a clean line before me, all I have to do is focus on the articles and my dream will come true.

So, why do I feel like crap?

My phone rings as I step onto the grass, it's a standard ringtone, which means I don't know the caller. I adjust the armload of lights and lanterns, and fish it out of my purse—Frank encouraged another group setting, and I decided to take-on an evening picnic in the park. A little eager, I know, but I'm on a roll.

"Hello?" I answer.

"Mrs. Woods? It's Genie from the cleaners. I got your message and your shoe."

"It's Miss, but no worries, and thank you. Do you think you can get the stain out?" If my article does well, I might be able to keep the pumps, and maybe even buy the matching purse.

"Apologies Miss," she says, "I'll do the best I can. Suede is never an easy lift. We may have to dye them a red color."

Red hair and red shoes, a fashion faux pas!

"White is my preference," I say. "Please keep me posted, thanks Genie."

We hang up and I carry my armload to the big oak tree and dump it at the trunk-base. Chelsea and some of the singles group drag a picnic table across the lawn.

"Stick it right here," I say, pointing to a flat patch under some overhanging branches. The plan is to decorate the table and hang lighting in the tree—it's going to make for some epic third-article pictures.

I spot Brooks, following the table crew. I pat down my red curls and run my hands over my little black dress. He's carrying a heavy box of flatware and decorations. I try my best not to stare at the way his arms flex around the box.

He catches my eye and grins, glancing me over, head to toe, and whistling his approval. "Where would you like this, boss?"

I glance away, pointing to the table, and then busy myself by untangling strands of lights.

"Not there," Chelsea shrieks, "I'm trying to set it." She spreads a red-checkered cloth over the worn wood to prove her point.

He chuckles and puts it on the ground, then saunters over to me. "Let me help with that," he says, grabbing the knotted strand, his arm brushing mine.

"I...here." I drop the other end and shuffle past Brooks, over to the table. "Hey um, Chels, who was bringing the food again?"

She gives me a look that reads, I'm too busy helping you to be your excuse for avoiding him. 

"You know Miku, right? She's on her way with it."

Miku's in the singles group, we talked briefly on the phone when she offered to cook the next meal, but that's about it. I'm a bit worried that the food won't turn out. "Do you know how she did with cooking?" I ask.

Chelsea rolls her eyes and steps up on the bench seat. "It's fine, she's a good chef. Relax would you. And hand me that box of crystal tear drops."