A/N: Ahh! I'm so sorry I missed last week's update. I kind of have no excuse but just that I had been spending time outside lately and hadn't been writing very much. This too I pretty much wrote in a day (today) despite having an extremely long skeleton :( I just got too caught up with the fluffy details and adding a bit of spice whenever Leroy shows up UGH. As much as I want to move on with the juicy parts of the competition I can't resist the STUPID FLIRT.
Enjoy the flirty shit. Next week is more plot. But I have this AU I want to write about Vampire!Vanilla and Werewolf!Leroy U G H it's been in my mind for a while and I really want to write it but I also feel like the plot is SLOW so it's gonna be too distracting and I REALLY CAN'T DECIDE.
Anyway, I'll be sending out the giveaway copies for Baked Love when they arrive next week. Hehe. A huge thank you, again, to everyone who participated and shared the sweetest comments ;v;
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[Vanilla]
Coddle.
A word dangerously close to its disastrous cousin cuddle and rivalled the strange sweetness and warmth the latter seemed to produce on the tongue; words that typically remained in the lonely unused corners of my mental dictionary. Alas, here I was with the little one in my arms, sneaking a hasty nuzzle of comfort before placing him back in his carrier only to be caught in the act by a certain idiot seated within arm's reach—musing privately as he stared.
To think Leo had reduced my worth to a coddle-r, indulge-r, kitten spoil-er and for this to be witnessed in entirety by a fellow, albeit large-sized, cat in the wild.
I'd altogether froze and pretended not to notice, checking on Leo in his carrier and pulling out a pair of complimentary headphones to hide the state of my ears. Fumbling around with the screen of the in-flight entertainment system, I pretended to busy myself with a movie but was really just staring at a still weather report that had our flight route mapped out.
After sending a mandatory safety text to Uncle Al and Aunt Julie, I snapped a photo of Leo in his carrier and sent that to Chip and Miki—who'd developed an interest in cats quite recently and was ecstatic the moment he'd seen a poorly-taken photo of Leo on my private Twitter account. Soon after, the sign to fasten our seatbelts lit up.
I chanced a glimpse of my neighbor. He, too, appeared occupied with something on his phone. Chicken on the other hand, was starting intently in my direction. I looked away. He and his owner were equally illegal, having mastered the art of a criminal gaze. I decided to busy myself with the weather report and a folder that contained an outline of our schedule in Italy for the next couple of days. First Florence, then a private olive farm in Portofino, Genoa for a masterclass, and then back in Florence to shoot the main challenge.
The initial take-off and intense shuddering of the plane had, no doubt, poor Leo in quite the mewling frenzy until the tremors came to a standstill and the plane stabilized in the sky. The neighboring pet however, appeared seemingly unfazed the entire time; as though this wasn't quite enough to warrant any form of concern. The most he did was sniff at the floor twice.
After all, he did go through that fire in Leroy's apartment building. And perhaps much more.
The cabin crew proceeded to hand out light refreshments that included a platter of premium fruits and cheese. A glass of wine or champagne, too, had been offered as an option but I stuck to tea—running through the drafted script and making annotations where necessary. Off to the side, I'd catch an occasional glimpse of my neighbor tossing blueberries in the air for his furry companion's entertainment before going back to something in his lap. A book.
Certainly not the most common sight, I'd say. Which of course, left me mildly curious about its contents but he soon shifted sideways and angled the cover of the book in my direction, gaze peeking above the pages in amusement which um, then understandably had an effect on my wandering attention but a single glance at the cover was enough to identify the 'book' I'd loaned him two weeks ago.
Leroy taking pleasure in reading his old recipes written in the magnificent scrawl of a chicken was not something I could relate to. For instance, the mere sight of a review I'd written in my younger days as a critic—that silly long paragraph about the ice cream parlor's vanilla flavor courtesy of a certain idiot—was enough to ruin the rest of my day.
*
A little less than an hour and a half later, the plane began its descent and it was the Florence Airport; customs; bags; and for Leroy and I, presenting the passes we'd obtained for our little ones to be cleared. Once that was out of the way, we made our way to the arrival hall where crew members were gathered and checking their equipment. Layla had spotted us from afar.
"Settled the stuff for your kids?"
!!! Was all that appeared in my head after two hours of being in the sky, stumped for words or any sort of expression while Leroy simply nodded—taking her question in stride.
"Yeah." He reached down to rub Chicken behind his ears but because we were standing a little closer than he thought, our fingers brushed and I jumped, startling both his dog and Leo who'd been sleeping in his carrier.
"Good god. That—sorry, I didn't... um," I attempted to calm my supposedly intellectual brain. "I think the here are buses to pick us up."
Layla burst into laughter before I could register my profound English while Leroy's hand hovered above Chicken's head—where our fingers brushed mere seconds ago—meeting my gaze before glancing at Leo mewling and scrambling in his carrier.
"You're not wrong, I did drop by to tell Royroy about boarding bus B for contestants but, you know, I'm also here to prove a point about," she gestured to the distance, the space, the air between Leroy and myself. "The tension, is, peak. You guys acting like you don't know each other is doing the opposite effect of drawing everyone's attention. Just saying. Anyway. Time to go—half the crew's already waiting at the villa to film us arriving."
"Yes. Yes, they're waiting for you," I repeated raising my gaze to meet his for a second before backing out at the sound of emergency bells in my head. "You should go now."
He was warm and that was to blame.
How long it had been, exactly, since our last embrace; even a brief skimming of bare skin, warm to the touch—a sip. A sip after a drought was one that would turn into a wave; growing as it rolled, washing over the shore that was cold and dry and had, in time, nearly forgotten the comfort of its gentle stroking. The heat it once indulged in.
I struggled to return. Lingering still, in the moment that had passed.
"Alright, I'm out," Layla raised a hand before backing away from us both and turning to leave. "You catch up or we're leaving you behind, 'kay."
Leroy snorted, adjusting the weight of the duffel bag he had over his shoulder before grabbing his suitcase and nodding down at Chicken. His cue to follow. Then his owner turned to leave but quickly paused midway.
"See you there?" He said over his shoulder with a hint of something on his lips.
And fortunately by then, I'd recovered. "Well, not if you continue to look at me like that, no. I'd have to ring the authorities and have Raul translate the reasons for your arrest. Enjoy the rest of your day, Leroy."
He responded by presenting a grand show of his indecent finger despite busy hands before leaving with Chicken by his side—the latter matching his owner's pace in perfect rhythm. I watched his back recede, joining up with Layla who pointed him in a certain direction, and coincidentally another contestant who'd lagged behind. His name was Pierson.
Again, even observing him from afar, I found his profile and general silhouette oddly familiar and yet, no other information surfaced at the forefront of my mind despite having entered his name in my mental search engine. This therefore called for further research, delving into the deeper, darker webs with additional information.
I made a mental note to give his details another glance once we were settled in our rooms at the villa.
"Banilla, how was the flight?" Chef Pao's voice had an immediate effect of bringing me back to the present. I refocused. "You look a bit, you know, not so good. Our private bus is arriving soon. We are sitting with the producers. Ay, you sure you okay?"
I nodded briefly, thanking him for his concern before gathering my bags and heading to the pick-up point with Chef Pao. Chef Streisand was on her phone waving us over. Siegfried Cox stood further down the line, spotting us as we joined up with our fellow judge. He smiled, nodding in our direction. It was merely out of courtesy and manners that I did the same.
Raul appeared alongside Chef Streisand's assistant minutes later, boarding the same bus and quite obviously making, his, um, moves, and also seemingly, quite, successful in doing so as the pair indulged in what sounded like a delightful conversation about street food in Florence throughout the twenty-minute ride to our accommodation.
I took in the streets of Florence as we passed the river Arno, several piazzas, squares and a beautiful historic garden I would've loved to visit after the shoot but knew that was rather unlikely since the program schedule had, beforehand, warned about filming through the night which therefore meant that the luxury of time was unlikely.
Well of course it was. This entire visit had one purpose; strictly professional. Perhaps the knowledge of a certain idiot being close by had its effect on the delusions of my mind but still, I would be to blame for the longing of a private holiday.
"Banilla." Chef Pao was seated in the row directly behind me and had tapped my backrest before presenting me with what looked like a vial of transparent liquid through the gap between the seats. "Take this."
"Oh! Thank you. That is very kind of you. What... well, um. What is it, may I ask?"
"White flower," he said simply, displaying a thumbs-up through the gap. "White flower oil. Cure everything. All types of pain. Just apply a little bit on anywhere and massage. You feel sick from the flight right? Dab a little and rub your temples. You will feel better."
It was very kind of him to be concerned and for a moment, the image of my godfather crossed the back of my mind. He had a habit of being extremely caring and generally concerned about the wellbeing of the people around him. Even strangers. Which was the only reason his and my family eventually became acquainted with one another.
I read the ingredient list on the back of the tiny vial with dark blue accents, following Chef Pao's instructions and rubbing a drop of the essential oil on my temples. It had an intriguing scent that reminded me of Asian aromatherapy spas.
Villa Cora was located in a park that overlooked the Boboli Gardens, on the hills just outside the historical center of Florence. It was an aristocratic residence that once hosted distinguished guests of importance, ranging from royalty to the all-famous Tchaikovsky—a favorite of Vaughn Alekseyev's. Visually speaking, it was any film director's dream.
Needless to say, people were too busy raving about the location to think about the program schedule; the camera crew included. The first half who'd arrived on-scene to set up the cameras and dolly tracks for shooting were distracted by the refreshments that were being handed out by the hotel staff. Assistants were running around directing the chefs who'd arrived before us, loading their bags onto the hotel's luggage trolley manned by a bellboy.
The villa's exterior was magnificent to say the least; marble statues flanking a circular fountain against a backdrop of lush greenery and perfectly trimmed bushes. The building's terrace and balustrade were a tasteful shade of French grey that complemented the tall arched windows that spanned the front of the villa.
How unfortunate for this all to be ruined by the chaos of a production crew mounting microphones in bushes and rocks and all things imaginable. I spotted the director speaking to the owner of the hotel some thirty feet away while assistant producers escorted contestants further past the courtyard so as to not block the entrance.
Chicken's tail was the only thing that revealed his excitement toward freshly mown grass and a fountain. And butterflies. Still, he stuck close to his owner and brought little attention to himself.
"Judges," Siegfried came by just as the three of us unloaded our bags and were waiting for another bellboy. "Director Stan has decided to switch up the order of the program schedule—we're having the opening shot for the chefs done first thing tomorrow instead. From now till dusk and the evening, the crew will work on b-rolls and location fillers. He says he'd like some time to scout the area and that we'd missed the optimal light for subject filming."
"Ay, that's okay. It's good too," Chef Pao nodded. "Banilla's not feeling very well. So is the reading still at five p.m. or is that delayed too?"
"We'll be combining that with a producer's meeting, so yes. You are free to roam the grounds as you wish until then—since we have the entire facility to ourselves. But if you wish to go beyond that, I suggest speaking with the staff at the front desk for recommendations."
"And you've informed all contestants as well?" I asked carefully and Siegfried turned to me with a strange, almost difficult expression in his eyes. As though trying to figure out how, exactly, I seemed under the weather.
"Yes. They've been given the same instructions. Except the meeting. So technically they have until dinner time to do as they wish," he went on to explain. "Although I assume most people would like to settle in the rooms and unpack. Everyone's given a list of things to bring for the shoot in Portofino tomorrow."
We thanked him for relaying the information and he took his leave as soon as a bellboy arrived to assist us with our luggage. Frankly, I was relieved for a short break before the meeting since the extra two hours to settle in would've been perfect to spend with Leo. More specifically getting him accustomed to the room.
Chef Streisand then asked if I needed to see a pharmacist and that she could have someone at the front desk arrange for a doctor if necessary but I explained that it was a mere case of motion sickness (an excuse, of course) and thanked her for her concern. She and Chef Pao then shared some interesting information about chioschi, street food trucks enjoyed by locals that served delicacies like trippa, cow's stomach, and signature schiacciata sandwiches. Raul joined in by elaborating on his favorites.
There were several hotel staff at the front desk assisting the contestants with their respective keycards and escorting them to their rooms while others lounged in the lobby with refreshments. Leroy and Chicken were off to the side speaking to a bellboy, who seemed to be pointing at the latter and struggling to express himself.
I tapped Raul on the shoulder and propelled him in the idiot's direction. "See what he needs."
"You, probably, but unfortunately you don't speak Italian," my subordinate had the gall to tease to which I returned with a pointed look. He did as instructed and, moments, later, returned with a triumphant smile. "I was correct."
I raised a brow. Waiting.
"Okay no I wasn't. But almost," Raul's hands moved as he talked. "They forgot to tell him that pets in the rooms cost extra. Eighty euros. They're asking the producers if it's included in the bill but Leroy says it doesn't matter anyway he'll just pay even if it's not. Since you have your cat too, I think you should go with him to that counter over there to let the hotel people know." He then gestured to the owner of the most well-behaved border collie, who, coincidentally or not, already had his gaze fixed on us both.
"Thank you. I understand now, but you have to come with me," was what I told Raul and immediately he had both hands raised.
"I'm not volunteering to be your third-wheel, Vanilla you you can't do this to me you know, yes, you paid for my ticket but but you don't have... ah fuck fine but if anything goes down, I'm backing out."
I rolled my eyes, declaring in a lowered voice that obviously Leroy and I were not going to be chummy with one another with twenty-odd people in the same room who'd have every reason to report a corrupt relationship between the show's contestant and judge.
"Sorry to bother," I joined Leroy at the counter, speaking directly to the staff behind the front desk who'd just received his credit card. "Um, I brought my pet too. Should I be requesting for a special room besides paying for the additional fee?"
Raul translated and the attendant turned back to me with a professional smile. "I can arrange that. Also, can I have your name please sir? And that would be eighty euro. Will you be paying by cash or card?"
"Ca—" "Charge it to mine."
I paused. Turned to said idiot. Stared.
Silence ensued until Raul gave in with a groan and begrudgingly translated this to the hotel staff, who then smiled and nodded. Thankfully, I recovered in time and reached into my coat to produce my wallet full of cards. Oh no you don't Leroy Jeremy Cox—
"Here's my card," I held it out to the attendant. Two hands, just to seal the deal and ensure that she accept it at once. "Please take it. Don't listen to him."
Flustered, she turned to Raul with a bewildered expression and presumably asked what was going on. Said professional then turned to Leroy and myself with indecent fingers by his side (hidden from the staff's view) that had transformed from a single finger to all five converging at their tips.
"Dude. I said no dirty business!" He whisper-shouted. "Just decide on one."
I then turned to Leroy with the same whisper-shout. "You're not paying for me or Leo! I pay for me. End of story."
"You smell different," was what the sheer criminal mind thought of voicing first, leaning closer while I stared at him in complete bamboozle-ment, gobsmacked into outer space.
"Leroy!" I shyed away from his proximity, gaze darting around. "W-wh, you—where is your—I-I'm not in the mood to deal with any criminal activity at present and and and please will you pay attention to the matter at hand because there are people waiting for us and we're being very rude and quite frankly, rather unprofessional." "...tell me why you smell different." "It's it's an essential oil. Chef Pao gave it to me. And how... how did you even... no one said a thing—" "I'm a professional." "That's not what I meant, but admittedly I would've... no wait." "We heading out after this?" "I. Sorry, excuse... no, Leroy. We were talking about credit cards."
"I'm out," said Raul, turning to the staff behind the counter and saying something in Italian before throwing her a wink. She proceeded to charge my additional fee to Leroy's card.
Alas, I was defeated. Leroy was all amusement and nothing else, moving on to the next matter of seeming importance.
"There's this place I wanna go," he returned to the topic of spending the next couple of hours outside of the facility. "You coming?"