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guy working at a food cart in Central Park and made a film and put it up on YouTube,” the other says in a gossipy voice. “I read all about it in ­People .”
    Wrong, wrong and wrong. It wasn’t a talent scout who spotted him. It was me. And it wasn’t Central Park; it was Washington Square.
    I shouldn’t get my knickers in a twist over the inaccuracies. The show is going to be a hit. Nobody will care how it came into being. But God bless ­People for picking up on the buzz and spreading the word through nail salons and waiting rooms around the country.
    â€œI love all the places they’re going to take the show,” she says.
    I love my job. There is absolutely nothing to complain about. Assuming it’s as big a hit as Martin’s YouTube videos, we’ll soon be able to toss the budget to the wind and go fishing for blue grenadier in Tasmania or head to that cacao grove in Costa Rica.
    By the end of today’s shoot, I no longer love my job. Nothing went right. Mud, rain, noisy equipment, take after take of shots that just weren’t working. I hold back tears as I say goodbye to my mom and brother.
    While I’m melting down, Martin steps up. “Listen,” he says, touching me beneath the chin and looking into my eyes. “You don’t have to do everything. We have a postproduction team now—­a good one.”
    And then something happens between Martin and me. It’s been happening for a while, but as my pulse accelerates, the simmering attraction turns into genuine caring and regard. He leans down and kisses me, and it feels exactly right. I feel as if he’s rescuing me from drowning. Somehow, he makes my heart start beating again.
    Back at the Century City studio, the postproduction team works to create the magic that was lacking during the shoot. I can’t eat or sleep or even breathe during this process, because it’s impossible to imagine turning the Switchback disaster into something viewers will want to watch. Martin and Melissa pitch in with voiceovers and dubbing. Even though I know a good post-­production job can correct a multitude of sins, I’m nervous about the final cut.
    The lead editor doesn’t rest until she finds the perfect soundtrack, one that complements our opening theme. It’s a simple, clean melody that stays in your head—­in a good way—­and holds your attention. The ending sequence runs like a music video to “Autumn Sweater” by Yo La Tengo, choreographed by editing magic. It’s a risky move, but the show is meant to appeal to a younger demographic than traditional cooking shows, and so we go for it.
    While the final cut airs, I sit in the editing suite at the studio in a rolling chair, not daring to move. Since we didn’t release the episode early for critics, the whole world gets a first look at the same time. My heart is full to bursting. I don’t dare to breathe. Staring at the screen, I can’t tell if it’s a disaster or a hit. Panic pulses through me.
    Then Tiger comes in with her smartphone and laptop. “Check it out,” she says, showing me a long list of social-­media feedback. “Viewers are totally loving it.”
    As the closing sequence finishes and the credits roll, Martin comes in with a bouquet of flowers. He scoops me up out of my chair and kisses me, and we go to his place. We’re so high with exhilaration that our lovemaking is filled with as much laughter as passion.
    The next morning, we wake up early to check the news.
    â€œThey loved us,” Martin says, staring at the screen with his eyes aglow with Christmas-­morning wonder. “Baby, they loved us.”
    The LA Times features a photo of Martin leaning against the rough lumber wall of the sugarhouse, sampling a fried doughboy dipped in freshly rendered syrup, warm from the evaporator pan. “Harlow’s infectious love of food will make you hungry,”