NORA
I shoot my deadliest glare across the studio. Tiffany glares right back. She's spent the last twenty minutes introducing herself to every breathing soul in the building—twice—like she's running for mayor of Reality TV.
She’s tall, auburn, stunning, and currently staring at me like I murdered her favorite houseplant.
The Taste of Tomorrow offices are pure chaos. The producers are sprinting with clipboards, the assistants juggling coffee and the signing of contracts. And right in the middle of it all is me. The freshly married walking disaster.
"I still don't understand why she's here," Tiffany announces loudly enough for the entire floor to hear.
I slowly lift my gaze from my coffee.
A producer winces. Someone else suddenly discovers that the carpet is fascinating.
Tiffany cross
