Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Cut!”

Phil put down his knife, sighing.

“That’s what I would say if we were filming,” Rosalind said impatiently. “Do you know why?”

“Too quiet.”

“Fifteen seconds,” she told him, waving her stop watch. “Silence.”

“So I’m improving,” Phil said. “Excellent.” He stood clear of the counter as Rosalind ordered Jemma to clear what he had chopped and give him a new onion. “We’re using all of that, right? Somewhere? I’ve made a lot of mistakes.” The assistant smiled awkwardly, taking the bowl full of chopped onion somewhere he couldn’t see. Probably to get dumped like the rest of his wasteful errors.

“Don’t worry about it, let’s work on your intro again, okay?”

Rosalind Price was one of the top producers on the network, and she wanted him for a show. Incidentally she was also an ex-girlfriend, but Phil knew enough about her as a professional to not suspect any overlap between those two things. He was wondering if she was regretting both of them now, as he looked awkwardly into the nearest camera. Ros noticed his stare.

“Alright, clear the set! Take five, no more or you’re gone,” she shouted, and the bare bones crew they had on set that day scattered. “Phil,” she said, walking up to him and sitting at the chair across from his work space. It was set up like some sort of elaborate country kitchen, which was ridiculous because neither his own kitchen nor any of his previous restaurants looked remotely like that.

That was “branding” at work, he was told.

“What’s going on? This should be a breeze for you.”

Phil raised an eyebrow. “What gives you that idea? I told you, the cooking isn’t a problem, but the rest?” He just...froze. What could he add that wasn’t already clear with the visuals? He never realized how quiet cooking was until he was on a closed set. Usually it was accompanied by the loud, endless noise of a busy kitchen or, at the least, some music from his record player when he was at home.

“Why does it need to be live?” He asked, for the millionth time. Rosalind blinked slowly, as if stalling to summon enough patience.

“We went over this. You’re perfect for the morning talk show demo,” she explained, again. “Besides, it’s just a live audience, not live on the air. You’ll have room for error, but not much. Just...be entertaining. Believe it or not, you’re charming when you stop thinking about it.” Her lips quirked into a smile, and Phil relaxed a bit.

He was a friendly guy. A funny guy, when he wanted to be. Sometimes when he didn’t want to be. A big conversationalist. He loved cooking, he loved talking, so what was the problem combining them? Other people did it. People with a lot less opportunity than he had, which again brought him to the major question: why am I doing this?

“Phil,” Rosalind said warningly, somehow able to see him begin to second guess again. “This chance isn’t going to come up again, we talked about this.”

It was true, not that his business was doing terribly (would he be here if it was?) but for his “brand” it was a no-brainer. And he wanted to expose people to great food, right? The joy of cooking and all that?

“Let’s take another crack at it, yeah?” Rosalind ‘asked,’ as the crew reset.

You want to do this.

“Alright, now throw in some orange zest because that’s like, a super quick way to look fancy with basically no effort. Have you ever had a shitty dessert with zest on it? Didn’t think so. So take out your zester and just go to town on it. I’m using a cheese grater because no normal person in history has ever actually owned a zester.”

Phil chuckled to himself in the quiet of his dressing room, watching the girl on his laptop.

“Now that the glaze is all set we can take the cake out, assuming that’s done. Going to be real honest for a second, I forgot to set a timer.”

Kicking his feet up on the desk, he poured the last of his Cracker Jacks into his mouth, tossing the empty bag in the vague direction of the trash can. He would pick it up before he left.

On the screen, the woman nearly ducked out of view below the camera, opening her oven. Her face fell. “Oh no you guys, I think I burned it.”

She sighed.

“Oh wait just kidding it’s PERFECT.” Lifting the cake pan into view, she showed that it did, indeed, turn out perfectly. It always did, whether she was baking or cooking or even just improvising. Placing the pan on a cooling rack, she then attempted a celebratory high kick before laughing self consciously and moving on.

“She’s cute.”

Phil practically fell out of his chair as Ros looked over his shoulder, amused. “Does she do more of these?”

“I--I don’t know,” Phil lied, realizing how extraordinarily creepy he probably looked watching Youtube videos alone, at work after hours. Jemma stood beside Price, but if either of them thought it was odd, they didn’t say anything.

“Is that her real name?” Rosalind asked, leaning in closer. Phil had the strangest urge to cover the screen. He knew that look.

“Probably?”

Rosalind shrugged, standing up straight once again. She seemed to have moved on, but next to her Jemma was looking at his screen, scribbling something on her notepad. Phil shut his laptop, stood up and grabbed his coat.

“I should probably-- it’s late, huh?”

Rosalind smiled--that practiced, producer/shark smile, and waved him away.

“See you bright and early.”

“Double latte?”

“Ohhmygod I love you,” Daisy muttered, taking the proffered cup from Trip’s hand. The man laughed, looking at the mess around her.

“Did you forget to leave last night?” Taking off his coat and throwing on his apron, he shook his head at her. “I told you, this stuff isn’t magic.”

Daisy sipped her latte. “It is when you make it.”

“I know you’re being a smartass but I’ll take the compliment,” he said, grabbing a tray of muffins. “These ready to go up front?”

Daisy nodded, gesturing to the mini banana bread loaves. “Those too, donuts in ten.”

Trip looked at the clock. “Make it fifteen. Close your eyes for a couple minutes, you might have to work the counter today and May won’t like it if she hears her customers were dealing with a zombie.”

“Okay, May does not get to complain about customer service,” Daisy objected, sitting down on a small step ladder in the corner of the kitchen. “Remember how she reacted when that guy asked why we didn’t have coconut milk?” Taking another sip, she frowned. “Hold on a second, why would I be up front?” Trip shrugged, assuming an innocent face. “Did Fitz quit?” Trip didn’t say anything, and her eyes widened.

“I don’t think this is what he was looking for in a part time job.”

Daisy snorted. “Sorry we don’t offer more flexible hours and higher paychecks based on what degrees you have,” she said. “Are getting,” Daisy corrected.

“Speaking of which--”

“If you’re leaving us for grad school I’ll end you.” She shook her head. “No, I won’t, that’s the sleep deprivation talking. You’re not leaving though, are you?”

Trip sighed. “No, girl, what happened to those classes you were going to take?” He asked, exasperated. Daisy couldn’t blame him. It was something she kept putting off, despite encouragements from both him and her boss. She just couldn’t bring herself to spend the money yet, not when she was already technically doing what she wanted to do. And while she did get a measly amount from ad revenue on her channel, it wasn’t exactly a ‘second job.’ With rent and other expenses, dropping a grand on cooking (or media? She hadn’t decided yet...) classes just wasn’t in the cards yet.

“Soon,” Daisy lied, standing up. She looked at the clock. Were there a window, she imagined she’d see the sun just starting to come up. “Alright, come on we don’t have time for this.”

“You know, not that I mind, but I kind of assumed that being the star of the show meant someone else would be going on coffee runs,” Phil joked, eyeing the long line ahead of them.

Jemma smiled. “Ms. Price says that until the show is actually on the air, she’s the star,” she informed him politely. “Sir.”

“Don’t start with that,” Phil warned. He truly wasn’t trying to be an egomaniac, but since they were filming promos that afternoon he would have preferred having a little time to himself that morning, to prepare himself. Standing in a crowded bakery did not give him the same sense of relaxation. “Is this place new?” He asked, looking around. It was pretty busy, for a small place. Or maybe busy because it was small.

“No, actually--” Jemma paused as they reached the counter, and a man on the other side of it smiled.

“Hey you,” he said, and Jemma waved slightly.

“Hello,” she greeted, a blush on her face. Phil smiled awkwardly, as the two made eyes at each other before Jemma’s handsome young friend made himself busy at an espresso machine.

“Can I help you?” A tired looking woman appeared in front of the register suddenly, and Jemma started rattling off orders. Giving the rapid list just a raised eyebrow as she wrote, the woman copied it down.

“And you, Sir?” Jemma asked, nudging Phil with her elbow.

He bristled at the ‘Sir,’ again, but didn’t want to take up too much time correcting her, the place was packed. “Right, black coffee, and--” he noticed the flour covering their cashier’s apron. “Which is your favorite?” Phil asked, gesturing to the racks of baked goods behind her.

She looked surprised for a moment, before considering what he assumed were her own creations. “Can’t go wrong with the cinnamon rolls,” she said, before shrugging. “They’re pretty amazing.” Something about her self-deprecating self-promotion seemed familiar to him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“I’ll take one of those then,” he said, and she nodded, sticking their drink orders on the espresso machine and grabbing some wax paper for his pastry. Next to him, Jemma was fidgeting. “We have plenty of time,” Phil reassured her, knowing what a tough (but fair) boss Rosalind could be.

She just sent him one of those strained smiles and took out her work amex.

The baker handed him his cinnamon roll in a paper bag, then began adding up their order in the register. Glancing at her name tag, Phil noticed there was a cute little flower drawn next to her name, which was--

He knew where he knew her from.

“You’re from New York?” He blurted out, and Daisy paused, raising an eyebrow as she swiped the credit card.

“LA,” she said, “moved here a couple years ago.”

“Hi, I’m Jemma Simmons,” Jemma said, handing her a business card. “We would love to sit down with you for a chat, whenever you’re available.”

Oh no.

“Jemma,” Phil said warningly as Daisy looked over the card.

The executive assistant looked at the line behind them. “Oh, I know, it’s very busy,” she said, then smiled at the young woman behind the counter. “You’re not really ‘lazy’ at all, are you?” She stared at them blankly, and Jemma took back her credit card. “Lazy Daisy? Your cooking channel?” She asked, a little hesitant. Daisy’s mouth dropped open slightly. “And other videos, vlogs, tips, you know. But the cooking bit is what we’re interested in, really.”

How had he not recognized her? Not that he watched her videos that much, but he’d well, seen all of them. Some of them multiple times. She was funny and good at cooking and doing all those personable things he couldn’t seem to bring on once a camera was in his face. He was trying to learn.

And now the show was ruining that too.

“I came up with that name a while ago,” Daisy said. “It’s kind of stupid not, but you know, branding.” Her face was a bit red, and Phil felt terrible.

“Jemma--”

“Just take a look at the card, look us up, see if you’re interested and call me, sound good? We’d love to work with you.” She smiled brightly as the barista brought over a carrier with all their drinks. “Thanks Trip! Nice meeting you, Daisy,” Jemma said, before turning toward the door. Daisy watched her go, then looked at Phil.

“I love your show,” he said, then hurriedly walked out.

“Quick question: what the hell?”

Rosalind looked up at Phil standing in her doorway. She raised an elegant eyebrow, then turned her attention to Jemma, standing behind his shoulder.

“She say yes?”

“She has my card.”

“Sorry, I don’t think you heard me, I said--”

“‘What the hell,’ got it,” Ros said, cutting him off with a wave of her hand. “It’s business, Phil.”

“Really? Because it sure seems like my business, that you’re making your business,” he said, crossing his arms.

“It’s all my business, technically.” She stood up, nearly walking through him on her way out the door. Phil and Jemma followed her down the hall. “You can’t do the talking part, she can. I figured if you won’t listen to me or any of the coaches I brought in, you’ll listen to someone you already like.”

‘Like,’ she said. What was that supposed to mean? Sure he enjoyed watching her channel, and was entertained by her videos but he didn’t know her enough to say he liked her. Would someone know him enough to say they liked him just by watching him cook on TV?

Not that they would like that guy much either.

“Let me know if she calls you back,” Rosalind told Jemma, hitting the ‘up’ button on the elevator. “If you don’t hear anything by tomorrow morning, send a network gift basket to the coffee shop, some branded cookware, you know the drill.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Jemma said, before looking down at her phone. It was ringing. She looked up at Rosalind, who had stepped into the elevator.

“I’ll let you take that,” she said, smiling at Phil just as the elevator doors closed. Phil sighed.

“She really is amazing,” Jemma said staring at the closed doors.

“Your phone is still ringing.”

“Oh right.”

Phil walked away, shaking his head. ‘I love your show?’ He cringed. Part of him was really hoping he’d never see her again.

Daisy ended the call, letting out a slow breath.

She’d like to say she made the call on a total whim, but that wasn’t entirely true. Every YouTuber secretly (or not so secretly) hoped to be “discovered” by a “legitimate” form of media, and she was no different. She’d heard the horror stories of course: losing creative control, getting sucked into a terrible contract, losing everything beloved about a show and facing fan backlash. But this seemed like it could be okay, right? Besides, what if it paid for classes? Or even better, depending on what they had her do, replaced the need for going back to school at all?

“Don’t tell me you’re quitting too.”

She looked over sharply at the back door of the kitchen where Melinda May had just walked in. She hung her coat in the closet, looking at Daisy expectantly.

“No, I just got a...really strange offer,” Daisy answered. May raised an eyebrow. “Not that strange. I mean--do you know Phil Coulson?”

“Andrew asked for a set of his steak knives for Christmas last year,” she said. “Celebrity chef?”

“Sort of, getting there, I guess.” She’d heard of him, seen him do a few guest spots on morning shows, cooking shows. Not quite at Batali levels, but could be something like an Alton Brown or Rachel Ray, if that’s what they were going for. An ambitious ex had tried to get a reservation at one of his restaurants for some anniversary, but was nearly (politely) laughed off the phone by the hostess.

‘I suggest waiting six months, then trying again for next year.’

The relationship didn’t make it to the next year. For unrelated reasons, obviously. She preferred cooking at home anyway.

“I guess they want me to be some sort of coach for him,” Daisy explained, immediately realizing her mistake.

“For baking?”

Daisy opened her mouth, then closed it. “You see--”

“I know,” May said, putting her out of her misery. If she was pissed Daisy was spending her off hours messing around on the Internet, she didn’t look it. And despite being a practical business owner, worrying about Daisy’s activities affecting the shop’s image didn’t seem like her style. “Are you here when I need you?” May asked, and Daisy nodded. “And when I don’t, you’re gone?”

“Yes.”

May shrugged. “Then do what you want.” Opening the lock box she checked the till, then added the envelopes that contained their paychecks.

Daisy couldn’t help it.

“Have you--have you seen the videos?”

It was strange; Daisy was incredibly proud of her work, and knew people loved it (even chefs, apparently,) but the idea of her friends and co-workers seeing that side of her filled her with a sort of fear she couldn’t quite describe.

“Nope.”

Daisy let out a little sigh of relief.

“Is that what they want you for? The video stuff?”

Her skeptical voice sounded exactly like Daisy felt. What did a professional network need from her? She’d seen this Coulson guy do spots on the View, even the Today Show teaching that tool Matt Lauer a new way to roast a turkey. He didn’t exactly seem out of his element. What had that girl, Jemma, said?

‘With people he’s fantastic, but on his own it’s sort of...flat.’

“Personality? I guess he could use some.”

May smirked a little bit. “Well, you definitely have plenty of that. Are they paying you?”

“We didn’t actually discuss--”

May held up a hand. “Call again and ask how much they’re paying you. If the number doesn’t embarrass you, tell them to double it and don’t agree until they do.” She stared Daisy down until she nodded. “Ask them what days they need you and for how long, and we’ll work something out.”

Daisy hesitated. What if they wanted her during her work hours? She couldn’t just bail on everyone, especially since they were short-staffed now. May rolled her eyes, watching her fidget.

“We’ll figure something out. Call.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

The number did embarrass Daisy the first time around, but just to be sure she paused for a bit until Jemma increased it to an even more embarrassing sum. Maybe she could afford those classes after all.

But first she had to figure out what exactly they wanted from her.

“Remind me again what I’m doing here?” Daisy asked, tapping her fingers against the countertop. She had been freezing in the studio, but once the lights came on she started sweating, it was all very disconcerting.

“Just do what you normally do,” Rosalind Price said from her spot in the front row. “Pretend you’re doing a video for your, you know, Internet thing.”

“Right, that.” Daisy brushed her bangs back from her face, then wondered if she wasn’t supposed to touch her hair. They weren’t really filming, not at least anything they would use. As far as she could tell she was supposed to teach a professional chef how to multitask. Totally makes sense.

As she had suspected, no one was looking to buy her show. They wanted her expertise, as Price’s eager assistant had told Daisy.

Unfortunately, they were probably regretting that decision.

“Uh, yeah,” she said, looking over at Coulson, the soon-to-be celebrity chef himself. After finalizing things with Jemma she did a little more research. Skimmed a feature or two about him in culinary magazines, watched more of his TV appearances, cheesy stuff like that.

But even with all that experience, he didn’t seem to be totally comfortable in the format. Talking to another person was pretty different from talking one on one to a camera/audience, she supposed. And that’s where I come in.

“So I guess just talk to the camera like you’re talking to a bunch of people, or even just one person--”

“There will be a live audience, so technically he will be talking to a bunch of people.” Price interrupted from her seat. “This is all stuff we’ve told him before, tell him how you do things. That’s why we brought you here.” Coulson cringed a little bit. Daisy wasn’t sure if it was the tone or the reminder of having a large audience, but he didn’t look so great.

That’s why they brought me here, Daisy repeated to herself. Because of how I do things. She took a deep breath, setting her shoulders.

“Okay well, when I do things it’s literally me and a camera so all the extra people need to go.”

Price stood up and walked over. Throughout the soundstage, the half dozen or so people seemed to all take a breath at once. “To start,” she clarified, straightening her spine so she’d remember to have one. “He can’t talk to an audience through a camera if he hates the camera. When I got started I always got self-conscious if my friends were watching me tape.”

Once she made that connection, it didn’t matter who was in the room or what she was doing. And this guy clearly needed to have some time with the camera. Price considered her, stony-faced, before shrugging.

“You heard the woman,” she said, waving away the crew. She pointed at the camera operator closest to her, handling the one camera that was actually recording that day. “Mack stays,” she said, staring Daisy down in a way that was intimidating, but not threatening. “That camera costs as much as a studio apartment. Next door.”

Daisy looked at Mack, who seemed to be waiting on her call. “Sure,” she said, and Rosalind nodded.

“Be good for the nice lady, Phil,” she said, exiting the now nearly empty studio. The door closed behind her.

“And then there were three,” Coulson said, and Mack held his hands up.

“Just pretend that I’m not here.”

Daisy raised an eyebrow, looking over at Coulson. He gave her a goofy smile, understanding exactly. A lot of guys she could easily ignore. Mack was not one of them. A sighing noise came from behind the camera--the biggest camera Daisy had ever seen, by the way.

“Okay, so what are we making?” Daisy asked, turning to Coulson. Mr. Coulson? “What am I supposed to call you, actually?” She watched enough Food Network to know that Chef was a title, but it felt so...silly to say out loud. Chef Coulson. It was such a fancy title for such a not-fancy name. And person. Would that offend him?

He looked uncomfortable for a second before gathering himself. “Phil, probably, that works,” he said, rolling up his sleeves a bit. “In the kitchen ‘Coulson’ is pretty standard though.”

“That’s good,” Daisy said, staring at his arms and not really thinking. Phil paused, looking at her questioningly. “I mean, you just looked sort of buttoned up and formal before, and this set is more--” she looked around. Rich white family vacation home. “Casual.”

“It’s terrible,” Phil scoffed, and Daisy raised an eyebrow. “I mean, it’s well made, but I’ve never cooked anywhere like this.”

“That makes two of us,” Daisy said, smiling. Once he chilled out, he was kind of cute, she thought. In a surprising way. She was almost expecting Bobby Flay, but this was so much better than that. With Robert Irvine’s arms, she thought, eyeing them as he finished rolling up his sleeves. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration but only just.

Now Mack, on the other hand… She looked over at the camera operator who seemed to be engrossed in whatever was happening on his monitor.

“Pancakes!” Daisy said, looking at what was available to them in the kitchen. Phil made a face. “What, has all that fancy schmancy stuff made you forget how to make a humble breakfast food?”

“You want pancakes? You’ll get pancakes,” he said, and Daisy laughed. Grabbing all of the necessary ingredients, they got to work, heating up the griddle (set into the countertop because what was this kitchen?) and getting everything together.

“I’ll do the dry ingredients, you do wet,” Daisy said, then tapped her chin. “Just for curiosity’s sake, what’s the policy on--”

“11 am on a weekday,” Phil interrupted. “Nothing you wouldn’t say in front of your mother. Or grandmother, father, what have you.”

Faking offense, Daisy stopped sifting the flour and placed a hand on her heart. “I don’t know what you think I’m about, but--”

“I saw your New Year’s Eve video,” he said, not looking up from the eggs he was cracking. Daisy almost felt a blush come on.

“There was a lot of champagne involved,” she said, “and cream puffs are like, inherently dirty, it’s not my fault.”

“Uh huh,” Phil said, smirking a bit. That was a good look on him. Somewhere behind a camera, Mack cleared his throat. Phil looked up, slightly panicked.

“So how long are the episodes going to be?” Daisy asked, looking around the set. “Are you only cooking things that take like 30 minutes?”

Phil shook his head, and she let him combine the dry and wet ingredients as he talked. “No, we’ll do a little bit of everything. A lot of the cooking will actually take place beforehand, backstage,” he said, and she could detect a less than enthusiastic tone in his voice.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “I’ll go through all the steps, but there will be parts of it completed through the different stages. I’ll start a roux on camera, but there will be a finished one ready to go so I can show them how to use it, that kind of thing.”

Daisy frowned. “So you’re like, going through the motions of cooking, without actually doing it all yourself.” Seems like a fun job for a chef.

“Looking a little gloomy there, guys,” Mack called, and Daisy shook her shoulders out.

“Sorry, pancake time!” She nudged Phil with her hip until they both stood in front of the griddle. “So, it probably feels silly but you’ll want to tell me what you’re doing,” she said. “Or tell Mack, or whoever you want to imagine on the other side of that camera you’re doing this for.”

“My target audience?” Phil asked, and Daisy considered it as she watched him pour small, perfectly shaped pancakes onto the hot surface.

“Not exactly, but that too if it helps,” she said. “Maybe it’s who you want to cook for, who you’d want waiting in the kitchen watching you, someone you want to taste your amazing food. Or the kind of person you want to teach, maybe.”

For her, it was a mix of that, as well as making someone laugh. Someone like her, who was going through a rough time, or feeling alone. She liked to imagine them in their kitchen or wherever they did their cooking, with her videos playing. Making cooking fun and less lonely. Daisy knew all about being lonely, so the idea of being that voice in someone’s empty home or apartment (or in her case for a while, van,) motivated her to keep it up. It wasn’t just for herself anymore.

Phil looked thoughtful, and Daisy realized she wasn’t exactly keeping him talking on camera, which had been Price’s primary concern. But hey, he couldn’t do that until he was comfortable, right? She looked at the little red dot on the camera. The whole thing was kind of surreal, she couldn’t wait to go back to the shop and tell Trip everything. And figure out what was up with him and Price’s assistant.

“So why’d you go with ‘Lazy’ for your show?” Phil asked, checking one of the pancakes to see if it was time to flip.

“Uh, it rhymed,” she answered truthfully. “Also it was kind of a joke I guess, because I don’t think I’ve slept in...ever? Yeah, I think ever.” Baking for the coffee shop had her in the kitchen at 3 am most days, which she supposed made it a good thing that she was usually a pretty solitary person. And of course Trip rolled in around 5, 5:30 adding some much-needed sunshine (and caffeine,) and hey, the odd hours actually allowed for some video filming/editing time while other friends would be at work anyhow. “I came up with it a while ago, so I guess you’re destined to hate anything you think up at 24, but it’s kind of too late to change it now.”

“Why not ‘Oopsy Daisy,’ or something like that?”

“Because I don’t make mistakes.”

Phil laughed, flipping over the (perfect) pancakes. “Growing up, breakfast was usually cereal or oatmeal, something quick and easy,” he said, and Daisy leaned against the counter, back to the camera. “But sometimes on weekends, my mom was able to stay home long enough to make these. Sometimes before giving me bad news.”

Daisy was going to be honest, when she first looked up pictures of him after talking to Jemma Simmons, she didn’t exactly think much of him. He looked like any other cook she’d seen, aka a human being, and apart from apparently being a sought after chef, she wasn’t quite sure why this dude was getting his own show. It was a little mean, maybe, but the online cooking community was diverse and exciting.

Now, she didn’t exactly think there needed to be another white guy in the kitchen show on the air, but she was beginning to see something. Especially talking about his mom.

“Moms are going to love you,” she said, and he rolled his eyes a bit, but was smiling. He grabbed a fork and speared her a little silver dollar pancake.

“That’s what I’m told,” he said. “I don’t know why, but--”

“Because you’re hot, but not like, intimidating hot,” Daisy said, taking a bite out of the (seriously perfect) pancake. She chewed, then realized Phil wasn’t looking at her. Is he blushing? “And, I don’t know the cooking thing, whatever. Who doesn’t want a handsome friendly guy making her bon bons while she can chill on the couch?”

She didn’t want to embarrass him, and maybe she wasn’t really thinking when she called this guy she was technically hired to assist ‘hot,’ but this was about image, right?

“How long have you watched my channel?”

Oh he’s definitely blushing.

Not only did he watch her show, he ‘loved’ her show, in his own words. How that came about, Daisy was genuinely curious.

“I found it a couple months ago,” he said, both avoiding her gaze and the camera. Looking over at Mack, she saw him shake his head at the monitor.  

“Do you ever take selfies?”

Coulson looked up, confused. He had a neat little furrow in his brow.

Reaching in her pocket, Daisy pulled out her phone and brought up SnapChat. “Here, we’re going to make a video right now.” There was that panicked face again. Was he afraid of being on camera in general? “Relax, we’ll just take a picture,” she said, scooting closer and holding the phone until they were both on the screen. “Okay, next time maybe tell me when I have pancake batter in my hair, Phil.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she said, leaving it. “Smile for the camera.”

He winced.

“Not a smile.”

“Is this really necessary?”

Daisy sighed. “Is it necessary to be able to smile into a camera when you’re going to be paid to do it? I mean, probably. Here, this will help.”

She flipped to the dog filter, then watched as they both magically gained puppy ears and noses (and subtly clearer skin.)

“What is--”

Daisy opened her mouth and saw the dog tongue appear on the screen, snapping a photo just as Phil giggled in amusement and surprise.

“Okay, that’s adorable,” she said, showing him the photo. “A little blurry, but it’s okay it’s your first time.” About to add a caption, she looked up at him questioningly. “I probably shouldn’t post this, not without checking with Price first right? My SnapChat following isn’t as big as YouTube but it’s kind of up there.”

Phil looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure,” he said. “It would probably fall under promotional material, right?”

“Uh, guys?” Mack called from behind his camera. “I think it will be fine.” He held up his own phone, so Daisy stepped down from the stage to grab it from him.

“Oh,” she said, looking at the screen.

“What’s wrong?” Phil asked, concerned.

Daisy gestured to him, looking at Mack, who nodded, She brought the phone over and let Coulson look at the network tweet. It was a photo, clearly taken by Price or Jemma, of the two of them talking on stage earlier.

“#ChefCoulson is back in the kitchen, giving some tips to Youtuber @LazyDaisy! Follow for more #BTS looks at his brand new show, coming soon!”

Phil looked up at her, stricken.

“It’s fine,” Daisy said, waving it away. “I mean, that’s not actually my handle, so they may want to fix that, but yeah, don’t worry about it.”

You know, just this guy giving cooking tips to the nobody we asked for help, no big deal.

They’re paying you, she reminded herself, not that it was much comfort.

“I’m so sorry, that’s not right,” he said, looking genuinely remorseful.

“Don’t worry about it,” Daisy said, bringing Mack’s phone back to him and smiling at his uncomfortable grimace. “It’s no problem.” She pulled out her own phone. “I’m totally posting the puppy selfie though, that’s my right as...whatever my job is right now.”

She was contemplating a caption when a hand rested on her arm.

“I have another idea.”

Rosalind pushed through the doors of the studio, fire extinguisher in hand. “What’s burning?” Ros asked, not letting the lack of clouds of smoke deter her.

“Sorry,” Phil said, waving from behind the griddle. “I lost track of these.” In front of him were two blackened pancakes, but apart from that there seemed to be no damage. He looked a little frazzled, while Miss Johnson was concealing a laugh with her hand.

“Okay,” she said, turning to Mack. “How are we doing?” He gave her a thumbs up. “Good, Phil I need you to record some radio promos, Johnson that’s a wrap for you today, thank you.”

Daisy looked a bit confused, like she wasn’t sure if she was in trouble or not. Rosalind smiled. “Same time tomorrow.”

“Ah, thanks!” Daisy said, patting Phil on the arm before walking down from the stage. “Later, Coulson.”

“See you!” He called, and Ros noticed that the side of his hair seemed to be sticking up a bit.

Standing outside of the recording booth, Rosalind looked over to Jemma who seemed to be giggling at something. Catching her boss’s stare, Jemma blushed and handed over her phone.

“Daisy’s Snapchat,” she explained, and played the brief video.

“Hey guys, I’m in the kitchen with Phil today and we’re making--”

“Pancakes!”

“Yup, pan- ohnowait what did you--”

The image was suddenly filled with a cloud of smoke, then the phone seemed to dramatically crash as the video ended.

“Can you play that again?”

Jemma reached over and started the video over again. It opened on Daisy’s smiling face taking up most of the frame, with Phil visible in the background. At his line he looked up at the camera, smiling contentedly. She watched it a couple more times before catching him pouring water on the griddle, causing the sudden burst of "smoke."

“Cute,” she said, playing it again. “Can you save that?”

“Not really, it’s sort of temporary but some people are able to--”

“Find someone able to.”

“There’s a photo as well, actually,” she said, opening Twitter. "@DaisyJo" had in fact tweeted a photo of the two of them, Phil holding a spatula in one hand and his head with the other, looking dramatically at the burned pancakes. Next to him Daisy covered her eyes with one hand, her posture broadcasting pure exasperation. 

“Make a man pancakes and you’ll feed him for a day, teach him to make pancakes and just be ready to call the fire department #PhilsKitchen”

Coulson and the network account were both tagged.

“Cute,” Rosalind repeated, handing the phone back to Jemma. “The show isn’t called ‘Phil’s Kitchen’ though, let’s get some materials ready with the title to release before that one catches on.”

“On it.”

“Ooh, there he is,” Trip called from behind the counter, and Phil gave him an awkward little wave. “Your face has been blowing up, those photos are tight.”

Phil felt his face heat up. Ah yes, the promo photos. They released them online, along with the premiere date and final title, and Phil wasn’t sure how he felt seeing that much of his face. He supposed he signed up for that, though. He really should be used to it right now.

“Yup, that’s me,” Phil said, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking around. This was the emptiest he’d ever seen the place, which was probably because he’d never stopped by at 4 o’clock on a weekday.

“Can I get you something while you wait?” Trip asked, and Phil perused the thoroughly ransacked shelves of confectioneries and baked goods. Daisy’s creations never stuck around too long, and for good reason. Phil pointed at a pink frosted donut.

“Large pour over too, if you can,” he asked.

“I sure can,” Trip said, handing him the donut in a sheet of waxed paper. “Elena, can you ring him up?”

Phil took a bite and walked over to the register, watching as Trip made the (perfect) cup of coffee. Elena came over from the back and rung him up. Looking at his face, she smirked.

“You have a bit--” She pointed to her lip and Phil hurriedly wiped at his.

“Thanks,” he said, handing her a ten and then stuffing the change she gave him in the tip jar. Elena looked at the extra bills and raised an eyebrow. “What? Saving me from humiliation is priceless, I’m going to be on TV,” he said, “paparazzi could be anywhere.” She rolled her eyes.

“That’s bull. It’s the coffee, isn’t it?” Trip said, handing him said coffee.

“That too.”

“Big, dark and strong,” Elena said quietly, smiling, and this time Trip rolled his eyes.

“Yeah yeah, we know.”

Mack had made a coffee run with him right around the same time Elena had taken up the vacant cashier position. He proceeded to make many more following that first meeting over the past two weeks, rivaling only Jemma for frequency.

(Phil wondered if he should be concerned about the number of people working on his show casually dating out of the same coffee shop. If they broke up and he needed to get his pick-me-ups somewhere else, he would be heartbroken.)

Taking a seat at a free table, Phil scrolled through his Twitter feed. The shots were, as Trip said, ‘blowing up,’ with lots of mentions and retweets and the occasional parody. He was barely reading them when a retweet from Daisy(‘s channel account) caught his eye.

“Look at this handsome fella! I guess things are heating up (in the kitchen, pervs) at 11 am!”

That tweet itself had a few replies, including a number of excited fans asking her if she was finally going to be on television and sending pre-emptive congratulations.

Daisy had assured him that she had zero interest in being on television over their sessions, but it didn’t make Phil feel any better about how the show was using her for promotions.

“This is working in my favor too,” she’d told him, “do you know how many followers the network has?”

(Fewer than you, he’d realized after they were done. Far fewer.)

Still, he thought he might recommend that Ros pay her a bit more for the social media marketing she provided by tweeting and promoting the show. Even in her explanatory vlog “Daisy is NOT going to be on television (and that’s totally okay)” she was kind about the arrangement, saying she was “helping out a friend.”

“When do you guys start filming?” Trip asked from behind the counter.

“End of the week,” Phil answered, trying to match his enthusiastic smile, which was actually impossible. “Yeah, exciting stuff.”

Granted, it had become more fun. A LOT more fun, working with Daisy. Even when they opened it up beyond just the two of them making brief improvised videos, it kept the same excited energy that she brought to set. Even when she took a step down, leaving him on the stage alone. Having her there calmed him down, and made him feel less silly about talking to no one. There would be moments of audience applause and reactions, but those were pretty mortifying. He had a hype man, this loudmouth British guy who would warm up the audience with some mild standup then essentially serve as a “please clap” sign, kicking off applause and laughs and "oooohs."

Bringing in test audiences had been another helpful step, as not all of the reactions felt forced, and it felt like he was genuinely teaching people how to cook and how to enjoy it.

So despite his reluctance to admit it, it was going really well. He and Daisy made a good team.

(And if the screencaps of their snapchat videos/selfies all over Twitter were any indication, a good number of her fans agreed.)

Which was why he was dreading this evening.

“Hey there,” Daisy said, walking over. She was still in her apron, looking a bit exhausted, but happy to see him. “You’ve got a little--” she pointed to her bottom lip.

Phil hurriedly swiped at his mouth with a napkin.

“That strawberry frosting will stick with you,” she said, laughing. She wasn’t wrong, it was probably the best donut frosting he’d had. Not too sweet, didn’t come in a color you wouldn’t find in nature. “I’m just going to finish up and we can head out, okay?”

Phil nodded, lifting his coffee in her direction. “Take your time, no rush.”

Please take your time. The sooner they left, the sooner he had to break the news.

Of course she hurried anyway, and the two of them were waving goodbye and in an uber in ten minutes.

“If you want to stop at your apartment and wind down a bit before coming over, that’s fine,” Phil said in the back of the car. “I don’t want to rush you out right after work.”

Daisy waved it away with a hand. “I’m already out, and besides, the earlier the better. You don’t want to know what time I have to be up tomorrow.” She looked self-conscious for a moment. “Unless--should I change?” She didn’t wipe at the white flour marks on her black pants, but did stare at them accusingly.

“No, don’t worry about it,” Phil said. “Unless you want to.”

(They eventually decided to stop at her apartment first so she could run in to change her clothes. The driver didn’t mind an extra stop, he just seemed relieved they finally came to a decision.)

“Swanky,” Daisy said as she stepped into his apartment. “Found your kitchen.” She smiled at him mischievously, taking a look around. The kitchen was in fact the first thing to see in the open plan apartment, and probably the second biggest section apart from the “sitting room.” The whole thing was kind of weird and overly modern but he liked it for now. He hated to think about more money (as if he didn’t already make too much,) but he wasn’t going to lie about looking into buying a brownstone once (if) the show took off. Something that didn’t look as shiny and new (but cost god knows how much more.)

Daisy stepped further in, taking a look at the couches, TV area, bookshelves. Then her eyes landed on the back corner.

That was the thing about open plans. His bed was sort of...out in the open. He cleared his throat, opening the refrigerator door. “So, what do you want for dinner?” He asked, and Daisy walked over. She sat on one of the stools at the kitchen island, resting her elbows on it.

“Wow, Chef Phil Coulson cooking just for me,” she said, but Phil frowned, pouring them each a glass of wine.

“I’ve cooked with you before.”

“With me, not for me,” she corrected, accepting the wine with a grateful look. “I did my work today, this one is all you buddy.”

That was true, he supposed. “Well then, I’m revoking your right to decide what I make then,” he said, turning his back on her and her faux offended gasp. Smiling into his cabinets, he tried to shake off the feeling he had since they hopped in an uber together.

He was cooking dinner for her at his apartment.

But this was not a date.

He’d picked her up gone grocery shopping specifically for this evening.

But it was not a date.

Unthinkingly he had told his way-too-smart hands free speaker to ‘play cooking music,’ most if not all of which was pretty sexy stuff.

But it was not a date.

She was sitting at his kitchen, wine in hand, watching him cook with that face she sometimes made and he avoided thinking about, but--

They worked together, sort of, for one, and even if that was ending, Daisy was still about half his age. He was more like a mentor, probably.

Except she’s the one that’s been teaching me.

Placing some ingredients on the counter, he tried to make the mood decidedly less datelike. “This is similar to something my mom and I used to make, albeit with some swanky touches now. Did your parents cook too?”

Daisy paused mid sip, putting her wine down on the counter. He’d messed up. Phil racked his brain, trying to remember if he ever mentioned her parents or any family in their past talks. She hadn’t. He thought. In fact, they never came up in her videos either, as far as he knew. The look on her face, though replaced quickly with a more neutral one, didn’t sit well with him.

“Uh, no, actually, not that I know of,” she said, not making eye contact. “Foster parents, maybe some of them cooked but nothing that really stood out.”

“Daisy, I’m--”

“It’s fine, she interrupted, finally looking him in the eye. “Really, it’s not like, something I get super emotional about anymore, just, awkward, you know.” Phil nodded, but still felt terrible. He had no idea. Someone as chipper as Daisy, and as kind as her? He never would have imagined it. Of course, hindsight is 20/20, and he started wondering how he missed it. How hard she worked, how self-sufficient she was, she had probably been cooking for herself since she was a child, no wonder she was so good at it.

He thought about that first time they were in the studio together, and she talked about cooking for someone else. Cooking on camera was her doing that, even if there was no one in the kitchen with her.

“Oh my god, are you going to cry? Coulson I promise I’m okay, really, please don’t cry!” Daisy’s distressed voice brought him out of his train of thought, but it took him a second to register what she had said.

Phil’s eyes widened.

“I’m not--”

“But your eyes got all--”

He wasn’t going to cry, was he? His eyes felt a little itchy, okay, so he could see how she might think that. He cleared his throat, making an effort to look her in the eye. “Sorry, I’m not--we’re good.”

Please let this embarrassing moment pass, he prayed. He didn’t mind being a sensitive guy, but crying in the kitchen with company was a general no-no for him.

Daisy watched him for a few seconds then nodded, watching him over her glass as she took a sip of wine.

They sort of stared at each other for a bit before he waved her away. “Make yourself useful and pick some music while I do prep,” he said. “Just shout it out and the system will pick it up.”

Daisy raised an eyebrow but swiveled away from him, listening.

“I don’t know, I kind of like this,” she said, before standing up from her chair and walking around to his side of the kitchen. She was getting awfully close, and he was getting awfully nervous.

“I lied,” she said, stepping into his space, and the confusion on his face had to be evident. “I can’t just sit and do nothing, please let me chop something.” Phil gave a jerky nod and they both turned to the counter as he started doling out instructions and pointing out where everything was.

Now it definitely isn’t a date, he thought.

He’d never cooked with a woman in his apartment before.

That wasn’t romantic at all.

“Ohmygod,” Daisy groaned, taking another bite. “Best gnocchi ever.” She stabbed another little precious pillow of deliciousness coated in brown butter sauce. “I mean, I’ve never had gnocchi before this, but now a seriously high bar has been set.”

Across the kitchen counter Coulson smiled shyly, finishing up his own dinner. They had decided to eat at the kitchen island instead of the dinner table once he’d wiped it down and put everything away, but Daisy kind of liked that. It was kind of like hanging out on set, except the decor was completely different. Plus setting the table and everything, that would make it like a date, right?

And that’s not what this was.

She was pretty sure.

She was on wine #2, maybe 2.5 now, but she drank wine with friends, and hell, by herself. Didn’t mean it was a date.

But she kind of wanted it to be. Phil was all fidgety and nervous at times, and she thought maybe that signaled that this was more than just a friendly dinner, but then she saw his face every time she brought up the show and put two and two together.

It wasn’t a date. She was getting dumped.

Well, not dumped, but not necessarily fired either since she wasn’t technically an employee. ‘Outside Consultant’ was what was written on the contract she’d signed, after getting the whole thing approved by both May and her husband Andrew to make sure the show wasn’t trying to screw her over. She trusted Phil to do right by her, but it was pretty evident from the loose social media language that the powers that be would likely try to do whatever was best for them, not her.

And now that the show was getting ready to kick off and its star was doing just fine, there was no reason to keep her on.

Emboldened by wine and delicious food, Daisy straightened her back. “So, should we get to what this dinner was really about?”

The moment the words left her mouth, the second she saw Phil register them, she nearly died.

“That’s not-- oh shit,” she muttered, covering her eyes.

Across from her Coulson was rapidly trying to regain his composure, between looking flustered and horrified and who knows what else.

“Daisy, I promise, I didn’t have an--an ulterior motive or anything here,” he said quickly, and Daisy shook her head, mortified.

“That’s not what I meant, I promise,” she said, reaching a hand across the table and grabbing his wrist. He didn’t pull away, but looked startled. “I just meant how you’re firing me, I swear.”

Coulson’s eyes widened for a different reason now, probably something between guilt and being caught. In a surprising move, he placed a hand over hers, looking at her calmly.

“Daisy, I can’t even begin to tell you how much you’ve helped me with this,” he said, and Daisy was reminded why she tried to keep it light around this guy. When he got serious it was serious. And frankly she wasn’t used to people taking her that seriously, it felt like she was exposed under a spotlight.

“If it were my choice, we would take you on full time,” he said, and Daisy had to make an effort not to roll her eyes. It was a sweet sentiment, really. But she didn’t want that.

“I’m happy with what I have now,” she said, reaching over with her other hand and adding it to the pile, patting him in a kind of goofy way that made him smile. “I like my show and I like working at the shop. It’s stressful, yeah, but I’m still doing something I love. And I just don’t think there would be a lot of that, in whatever role I would get.” Phil nodded, looking kind of sad. “I mean, you’ve been in this position, right? And I know even though you’re kind of bummed, you’re also probably relieved to not be doing all of that cooking yourself. And you’ve earned that. I’m not there yet.”

Phil looked thoughtful. “I know you’re letting me down easy, but you know that I’m not actually offering you a job, right?”

Daisy rolled her eyes.

“I mean, you’re just going to a lot of effort and that’s nice but--”

“Okay.”

“Really, it was a totally theoretical position so you don’t have to--”

“Shut up.”

They sort of smiled at each other for a little longer, and Daisy realized they were still kind of holding hands in a really awkward and excessive way so she retracted hers. Phil did the same, kind of stretching out his arms and looking behind him.

“So, think you’re ready for dessert?”

Daisy looked at him skeptically, knowing exactly how much food they both already ate.

“Yes.”

“Excellent,” he stood up, and Daisy wondered if they were going to make something else or if he had something planned. Instead, he grabbed two spoons, opened the freezer and placed two pints of Ben and Jerrys on the counter top. “Pick which one you want.”

Daisy stared. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Coulson said. “I’ve tried almost everything you bake, I’m not opening myself to ridicule like that.” She laughed, and Coulson swiped one of the pints and walked over to the sitting area. “You took too long, this one is mine.”

Rolling her eyes Daisy grabbed the other one, plopping next to him on the couch. His apartment was insane, and not at all like him. But also clean and surprisingly open and really kitchen-focused, so yeah, kind of a lot like him actually. They both dug in, and Daisy looked over at him, contemplative.

Phil looked up at her curiously. “What?”

Daisy pointed to her lip. “You’ve got a little…”

Phil sighed. “Again?” He asked, reaching up to wipe his mouth on the sleeve of his probably way-too-expensive shirt. Daisy reached over and grasped his chin lightly before he had a chance. She ran her thumb over his lip, feeling the sharp intake of breath.

“Nope,” she said, leaning in and pressing her lips to his. She lied.

He didn’t seem to mind.

“What the hell is that?”

“Sorry,” Daisy said, sitting up and scrambling to look for her phone. “It’s my alarm.”

Phil sat up, and it was too dark to tell but Daisy was pretty sure he was staring at her incredulously. He just gave off that vibe.

“You’re not seriously going to work right now.”

“Well, not right now," Daisy murmured, finally finding her phone (on the floor next to the bed, under her pants) and shutting off the alarm.

“Daisy, we went to sleep like, three hours ago,” Phil sighed, but turned on a lamp anyway. She saw him wipe a hand over his face, leaving a couple of tufts of hair standing up.

“Well, that’s not my fault, is it?” She asked, pulling her sweater over her head.

“Yeah, kinda.”

He had a point. Looking over at his own phone, Phil frowned. It was even more pronounced in his tiredness, and god he looked adorable and weird. “What’s wrong?”

“Rosalind texted me,” he said, reading the screen and then handing her the phone.

“I gotta tell you Phil, I’m not the jealous type so these kinds of mind games won’t work on me,” she joked, planting a kiss on his forehead before grabbing the phone.

“Wait what?”

“When you say ‘collaboration,’ what do you mean exactly?” Daisy asked, and Phil was pretty curious too.

The texts were somehow both vague and convoluted, not unusual for a late night brainstorm from Rosalind. The important part was, “Do NOT end relationship. Change of plans, involving Daisy further, stay tuned. Meeting on calendar for tomorrow.”

(The “relationship,” it went without saying, was the professional one.)

“We like the buzz the show is getting online from your involvement, it brings in a different demo we didn’t think to look at,” Ros explained, sipping her latte. She looked around the coffee shop, at the staff behind the counter who were working and totally pretending not to listen. “So this is where you’ve all been going?” She shrugged, taking another sip.

“Okay, so what sort of involvement are we talking?” Daisy didn’t sound impatient, but she had every right to. Phil was sort of hoping Rosalind would get to the point soon.

Given their past, Phil was slightly concerned she would know immediately what had happened between him and Daisy, even with their noon arrival. Daisy looked tired, but that was expected with her hours. And on their way out of the office, Ros did give Phil a strange look. Seriously, did she know?

“We’d like to sponsor some of your videos, one a month, preferably with Phil making a guest appearance.”

That was...not what he expected.

Daisy’s brow furrowed.

“She makes one video a week,” someone behind Phil and Rosalind said. She walked over, leaning on the chair next to Daisy. It was Melinda, the owner. “One a month, that’s a fourth of her videos a year.”

Daisy looked baffled, staring up at her boss like she didn’t recognize her. The other woman raised an eyebrow at Daisy, who straightened up. “May’s right. That’s too many, my fans wouldn’t like my content being steered that much.”

Rosalind nodded, looking steely but a little annoyed. “One a quarter,” she offered, “seasonal. Maybe they can be holiday themed.”

Daisy thought about it, then shook her head. “That’s still a lot. And if I happen to talk about the show or Phil during other videos that could seem like I’m getting paid to plug it and they won’t trust me, I’m sorry.”

Phil fidgeted in his chair a bit, hoping that Rosalind wouldn’t question why exactly she would be talking about Phil in her videos. She didn’t seem to care.

Rosalind sighed. “Okay, well, I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t understand this stuff at all, but my social media interns seem to be really adamant that it’s a good thing. What can we do to make this work?”

With a loud squeak, Melinda pulled out the chair next to her and sat down. “Six a year but it’s a separate series, hosted by Daisy on your network’s channel.”

Daisy’s eyes were the size of saucers now, and Phil wondered if maybe this was unusual behavior from the business owner.

“That okay with you?” She finally asked, and Daisy thought about it, then nodded.

“Yeah, that I would do. Keeping it separate. But linking back to my channel somewhere on the page.”

Rosalind considered it. “Deal. We’ll draw up the contracts,” she said, standing up.

“Compensation?” Daisy asked in a firm voice, and her boss looked at her approvingly.

“To be determined,” Rosalind said, and Phil could tell she was amused. “We’re open to negotiation.”

“Great,” Daisy said, standing up and holding out her hand. The two women shook hands, and Rosalind looked over to Phil.

“Six web videos a year,” she told him. “Think you can deal with that?”

Trying to look like he had any reservations at all, Phil nodded slowly.

“Awesome,” Daisy said, smiling at Phil. “There’s just one--”

“Daisy I think something’s burning,” Melinda said suddenly, yanking a bit on her arm. Daisy frowned but nodded, waving at the two others before running off to the kitchen.

“I’m going to grab something for the road,” Phil told Ros, who nodded and looked at her phone, walking out the door. Daisy peered out of the kitchen (where nothing seemed to be burning after all) and watched Rosalind leave. Making significant eye contact with her boss, she walked over.

“Neither of you say anything until you have a contract in hand,” Melinda said, standing up from her seat and walking out back.

“How did she--”

“I didn’t even think she watched my show, ” Daisy said, mystified. She shook her head, letting out a sigh as she looked him up and down. “So yeah, all that happened. Is happening.”

“Will continue to happen?” Phil asked cautiously. This whole thing sounded like, on a professional level, it wasn’t going away any time soon. She might soon be contractually obligated to deal with him. Did that still make this appealing, if this started when she thought they might not work together again?

“As soon as I get some sleep, sure,” she said casually, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ll have to figure out a way to explain it to my followers though.”

Phil frowned. “What do you mean?”

Daisy sighed. “Well I mean, if I’m going to be posting lovey dovey selfies and embarrassing snapchats of you, they’ll probably need to know that’s separate from my work with your show,” she said.

“‘Embarrassing snapchats’ aside, do you think that will be an issue?” Clearly Daisy’s channel was important to her, probably way more important to her than this show was to him. Would she get labeled a sell out?

“We’ll figure it out,” she said, straightening the lapels of his jacket. “I’ll just have to make sure the selfies are so embarrassing and gross that there’s no way the network would sponsor that. Like, not ‘lose your job’ gross, but ‘ugh no publicist should ever approve that much adorableness’ gross.”

“That gross, huh?”

Daisy nodded matter-of-factly. “Oh yeah, it’ll be really bad for your career.”

Trip came over smiling--a little too widely-- at the both of them. “Good Morning,” he said, handing off a bag and a cup of coffee to Daisy before moving back to the espresso machine.

“Here you go, on the house,” Daisy said, handing both items to him. Phil looked in the bag and saw a pink frosted donut. “What’s that face? Go be on TV or something,” she said, waving him off. “I’ll be around soon to save your whole show and teach all of you how ‘The Youtube’ works.”

“Mmhmm, okay,” Phil said, leaning in and kissing her, tasting the flour and powdered sugar he hadn’t realized she always seemed to be covered in. Or maybe that was just how she tasted in general.

“See, already disgusting,” Daisy murmured, giving him one last peck on the mouth before shoving him away lightly. “Now get out of here before the paparazzi see us and ruin my contract. Mama’s gotta pay the bills.”

“One last thing,” Phil said, pulling out his cellphone and stepping back into her space. “Smile!”

He took the selfie--his first--then stepped away. Daisy’s face was a mix of pride and surprise, until Phil pointed at his temple.

“Oh, you have pink frosting in your hair. Have had, this whole time,” he told her quickly, patting her on the arm before walking out the door. He would show her embarrassingly sweet snapchats. Once he figured out how to post them.