The Holiday Swap(13)

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The Sweet & Salty set was in Hollywood, and earlier that morning Cass’s phone had shown it was a twenty-five-minute drive from Charlie’s Santa Monica apartment. But Cass, who had been living in a town where you could walk just about anywhere within fifteen minutes, was unprepared for the relentless buildup of traffic. It was only when she was bumper to bumper that she remembered one of Charlie’s most important instruction: give yourself an hour to get to the set, especially in rush hour.

Now Cass was late as she raced through the revolving door and came to a stop in front of a security desk.

Here goes. First chance to pretend to be Charlie. No problem. Cass glanced at the security guard’s name tag and said, “Good morning, Eddie,” as if she had been greeting him every day for the past year. But he just looked at her blankly, and Cass realized this guy clearly had no clue who she was.

“ID, please,” the security guard said. “Holly, Jolly Christmas” was playing in the lobby. It made Cass homesick for Starlight Peak. At this time of day back home she and Walter would be getting the loaves in the oven, the bakery filled with mouthwatering smells and the windows steamed from the heat of the ovens. The local radio station would be playing nothing but Christmas music.

“Oh . . . um . . .” Oh no. She had left the identification card back at Charlie’s apartment. “Silly me. I changed purses, and um, I don’t have it. I mean, I have it but not on me.” She tried to rein in her nerves. You are Charlie. You are Charlie . . . “I work on Sweet and Salty. I’m Charlie Goodwin, one of the host-judges. You must have seen me?”

“Lady, I have no clue what Sweet and Salty is. The only show I watch is football. And whatever Netflix show my wife is currently obsessed with. So, identification, please.”

“I can’t go home and get it. I’m already late! Can you just call someone? Someone on the set?” Cass thought fast. “Priya! Ask for Priya Basu.”

The guard sighed and picked up the phone.

Cass drummed her fingers across the counter nervously.

Soon she heard the click-clack of high heels and a woman appeared. She was tall, with a sleek black-haired bob and dressed in a cream pantsuit. Sasha Torres. Cass recognized her from photos on Charlie’s Instagram page and struggled to remember what Charlie had instructed her to say. Sasha gave her a concerned frown. “I had to see this for myself, because I clearly remember telling you to take today off,” she said, her tone clipped with irritation. “You look terrible, Charlie.”

“Oh, well . . .” I barely slept last night? I had a long drive? I’m not actually my glamorous sister? Cass was drawing a blank. She attempted a shrug and a rueful smile—and felt a moment of indignation on behalf of her sister, who clearly worked in an environment where casual insults about her appearance were fair game.

Sasha Torres, according to Charlie, was tough but fair—and apparently had an enviable shoe collection. Although when Cass glanced down at Sasha’s shoes—mile high and electric blue—she didn’t feel a hint of envy, only wonder. How on earth did people walk in those things? Sasha now had her arms crossed and looked none too pleased. Think, Cass.

“I went to the hospital,” she said, as her sister’s words came back to her. “They checked me over. All good!”

Sasha’s expression lost a fraction of its irritated skepticism. “What exactly did they say?”

Cass was quickly realizing she’d have to wing it. Charlie had given her far too much information for her to retain it all. Back home, her days were predictable. It wasn’t going to be like that here.

“It was nothing more than a bump on the head,” Cass said. “Honestly, it’s not serious. I was just a little dazed yesterday from all the chaos after the accident, but I promise you, I’m fine to be working.”

Sasha stepped closer and held Cass’s gaze in a terrifyingly intense way. Cass held her breath, tried to keep her face neutral. “You look . . . different.”

How did Charlie live like this, with her appearance constantly under scrutiny? “It’s a new skin treatment I’m trying,” Cass replied quickly. “It’s . . . supposed to be skin-brightening.”

Sasha stepped back a foot and nodded with approval. “I’d like the name of the cream.”

“Sure thing.”

Sasha continued staring at Cass expectantly until the silence between them became awkward, and Cass realized Sasha was expecting the name of the fictitious skin-care product right that moment. Wing it, Cass. She said the first thing that came to mind.

“Sourdough.”

“Sorry?” Sasha asked.

“It’s sourdough starter. From my family’s bakery back home. I . . . started putting it on my skin once a week as a mask. I know how weird this sounds, but it really works.” Cass tried not to wince as she heard the feeble explanation leave her mouth.

“Sourdough starter, from your family’s bakery?” Sasha gave her a look like she had lost it, which was fair enough. Cass was blowing this.

“Yep. It’s, uh, full of nutrients, and probiotics and basically all the things expensive over-the-counter creams say they have in them. I started using it a few weeks ago, maybe? Anyway, guess it all just kicked in. Last night.”

Sasha blinked a few times. “This is a revelation,” she finally said.