Deep Dish by Mary Kay Andrews Read Free Book Online Page A

told.
    “And?” D’John asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
    “Feels fine to me.”
    “Fine?” D’John shrieked. “You think it’s fine that your face has the same texture as some nasty old work boot that’s been left out in the sun for about ninety years? You think it’s fine that a man with your looks has never properly cared for his own skin?”
    “Hey, man,” Tate said, his face darkening. He started up from the chair. “I thought I was just coming in here to get my sideburns evened out a little. Val never said anything about—”
    “Stop!” D’John said dramatically. He pushed Tate back into the chair. “Tell me,” he said, pausing for effect. “About your skin-care regimen.”
    “Regimen?” He glanced over at Regina, who’d given up on the magazine, and was now openly laughing.
    “Your routine,” she prompted. “How do you take care of your face?”
    “Ah, hell,” Tate said. “I shower. I shave. I use soap, if that’s what you’re asking. Life Buoy. What else is there to a ‘regimen’?”
    “Life Buoy,” D’John wailed. “Kill me now.”
    Tate stood again and headed for the door. “Okay. Fun time’s over. See you folks later.”
    “Go then!” D’John replied.
    “I’m going,” Tate said. He got to the door, stopped, and turned around, then walked back to Gina.
    “Excuse me,” he said, extending his hand to her. “I don’t think I caught your name.”
    “I’m Regina,” she said, dimpling sweetly. “Regina Foxton.”
    “And what exactly do you do, Regina Foxton?” His southern drawl was suddenly pronounced.
    “Oh, I have a little show. It’s nothing much. Just regional television,” she said, being deliberately evasive.
    “But she’s probably going to be moving over to the networks,” D’John blurted out.
    “D’John, hush!” Gina said sharply. She turned back to Tate Moody with a shrug. “Wishful thinking. D’John thinks I’m cut out for Hollywood.”
    “Ya never know,” Tate said, unfastening the plastic makeup cape and dropping it on the counter. “Anything can happen in television.”
    “Exactly,” she said, giving him a little finger wave. “Bye now.”

Chapter 8
    J erk,” Regina said quietly, as the door closed.
    “Hmm,” D’John said. “Cute, though. If you like the rustic look.”
    “Tate Moody,” she said thoughtfully. “What do we know about him? And why are The Cooking Channel execs in town to see him? I thought you called him a fisher boy?”
    “You know as much about him as I do,” D’John said. “They usually shoot on location or over at Ajax Studios downtown, but Ajax is being torn down, so they’ve moved here temporarily. His producer, one of those ballsy New York–gal types, came by last week and said her talent needed some sharpening up because he was being considered for a network television slot. She said he spends a lot of time hunting and fishing for his show.” He opened a drawer in the counter and dug around among the hairbrushes and combs until he came up with a business card, which he handed to Regina. “Here.”
    “Valerie Foster,” she read. “Executive Producer, co-creator, Vittles , a Southern Outdoors Network production.”
    “Vittles? ” they both repeated it at the same time.
    “What kind of show is named Vittles ?” D”John asked.
    “Well, it must be a cooking show if The Cooking Channel is interested in him,” Gina pointed out. “According to the message Scott left on my cell, he’s the real reason this Barry Adelman is in town. I’m just an afterthought.”
    “Never,” D’John said loyally. “He doesn’t have a prayer.” D’John gave a dismissive sniff. “He’s a goober. And that skin! He has the complexion of an eighty-year-old.”
    “And the buns of an eighteen-year-old,” Gina said. “And don’t pretend you didn’t notice, D’John Maynard. I saw you watching when he walked out of here.”
    “Oh, buns,” D’John said dismissively. “We’re talking about a