by C. J. Anaya
His manly perfection was definitely at its peak. His dark hair was styled in a way that screamed straight-laced and altogether too perfect to be true, while the hint of natural wave looked ready to rebel against its gelled structure. She imagined the image he presented and the real man lurking behind the facade worked much the same way: bad boy with all-American charm. Dark lashes and a square jawline with defined cheekbones just added to his allure.
Totally yummy.
And totally familiar. Why couldn’t she remember where she’d seen this guy before?
Midge lowered her eyes to her work, but her mind strayed to the gorgeous stranger. Without consciously trying, she began to allow her focus to pick apart the low murmur coming from their general direction, and soon it morphed into distinctive phrases. The subject matter; unfortunately, was right up her alley.
“Brody, you can’t back out of this now. It’s too late. The network is offering you an opportunity here, one that shouldn’t be sniffed at simply because you feel appearing on television is beneath you.”
Aha. She knew he looked familiar. The handsome billionaire seated at the table across from her was none other than Brody Prescott, founder and CEO of Shackled And Loving It, an online dating service which boasted outstanding reviews and thousands of successful pairings ending in marital bliss. There’d been a scandal attached to his name several months ago; allegations of breaches in privacy policies. The tabloids had painted the confirmed bachelor as a playboy who used member information to score himself one night stands. The ensuing debacle had wreaked havoc on his personal credibility and threatened to sink the whole company.
Not that Midge paid attention to the tabloids…much.
She didn’t believe the accusations for one second, at least the allegations he’d broken his company’s privacy policies. A wealthy and powerful man like Brody Prescott didn’t get to where he was by making stupid, career-ending blunders of that magnitude. Most likely, the lie had been weaved by a spurned lover…or lovers.
She did; however, absolutely believe he was a playboy.
The handsome stranger shook his head, clearly frustrated.
“I don’t understand how this reality TV show is going to improve my image, Gregg. I’ll only look desperate and stupid.”
Reality TV? Midge groaned as she thought of her father and his profession. Corbin Knightly was a filmmaker, director, and producer. The last several years of his career had been spent dedicated to developing gritty reality TV series. Before Midge had walked away from the family business, she’d had to work on some of those projects with him. She had not been a fan of the process.
Mr. Prescott’s assistant let out a long-suffering sigh, giving her the impression that this argument had been visited and then revisited with essentially the same outcome. She could almost visualize his body deflating into a small puddle on the vinyl covered chair. She’d have to disinfect the whole thing if she ever wanted to sit at that table again.
“Brody, you’ve already signed the contracts. All the marketing for this show centers solely on you. They’re announcing you as the star of this new series next week. Do you have any idea the kind of legal ramifications we’re looking at if you back out now?”
“Look, when this whole scandal blew up, I was ready to jump on board for some serious damage control. I did the interviews, signed the contracts, and even hit the gym so my abs would be film ready once shooting started. At the time, it looked like our only chance at fixing the damage Felicia’s lies caused, but now I’m having some major doubts about how this is going to work in our favor. I never watch this crap myself and have zero respect for people who do.”
Midge’s opinion of him rose by exactly point-five percent. After all, he was still a rich, spoiled womanizer.
“Brody we have to fix this. You already have a certain…reputation with women. No one is interested in joining the most successful online dating community if its creator isn’t successfully matched or at least attempting to stick with one woman for an appropriate length of time, and you can’t use your own company to find yourself a match. That’d be feeding fuel to the fire of these spreading allegations, no matter how on the up-and-up you go about it. This is the only other avenue available to us. By publicly demonstrating your desire to find a wife and then going through that very process on television, you’re giving people a reason to trust and believe in you again.”
“Do you have any idea how many women I’ve dated without ever having been tempted, even once, to make the situation permanent? All they’re after is my money.”
Midge should feel some kind of sympathy for the guy.
She tried.
She failed.
“That’s why this show is so important. It will paint you in a different light. The women you meet will be vetted to ensure there isn’t a single gold-digger in the bunch. You will have the opportunity to go from playboy to steady suitor within just a few months, and hopefully your image will be saved in the process.”
“Ha,” Midge said, and then punished herself by biting her bottom lip. She hoped they hadn’t heard her staccato burst of derision.
“Excuse me, did we say something funny?”
Well, she’d certainly stuck her foot in it. No possible way to duck behind her laptop now. She prepared herself for Brody Prescott’s compelling gaze before looking up from her work. Even then, his perusal of her left her a bit disconcerted. Having dealt with a few arrogant playboys in her day, she knew better than to exhibit the slightest hint of fear or intimidation. Nothing less or more than total indifference was the way to go in this situation. She squared her shoulders, met his assessment of her with a critical one of her own, and brazenly answered the question.
“I find it amusing that either of you think reality TV is going to paint you in a favorable light. These networks are interested in ratings, and they’ll get them any way they can.” She pulled her glasses from her nose and pinched the bridge of it, frustrated to have inserted herself into the conversation.
“And you think you know the inner workings of what makes reality TV an actual reality?” the assistant asked.
“Far better than you, I’m afraid.” Midge turned her gaze to Mr. Prescott and watched as his expression changed from skepticism to a strange kind of interest.
Wonderful. He finds me about as fascinating as one might find a few juggling chimpanzees: bizarre and inexplicably entertaining.
She used the pointed end of her glasses to gesture toward Brody while directing her comments to the assistant. It was a way to avoid the billionaire’s stare while simultaneously letting him know she felt comfortable talking about him as if he wasn’t present, a tactic her father had taught her as a result of dealing with one too many self-important players in Hollywood.
“These dating shows resemble the type of interactions you might find in a cult community where plural marriage is condoned because some zealot broke away from mainstream Mormons and dubbed himself king of the county.”
“Mormons don’t practice plural marriage?” Gregg asked.
“Not real Mormons. It’s against their religion. You’re thinking of offshoots,” Brody clarified. He turned a slightly amused look at Midge. “I’m sorry, but what does polygamy have to do with this conversation?”
“Multiple women all vying for your affections, and you can’t find one similarity to that of a man marrying an obscene number of brain-dead females?” Midge shot back, giving him a look that implied he was brain-dead for even considering it.
Gregg held up a scrawny arm to get her attention.
“The pictures taken of Brody with different women, and the accusations involved, have painted a rather unpleasant persona. We need to revamp his image.”
“And your solution is to put his less than charming playboy personality on the screen, allow him to date multiple women at one time, and hope he doesn’t offend anyone in the process?” Midge wondered who Mr. Prescott’s image consultant was because the middle-aged assistant resembli
ng a withered tree branch couldn’t possibly be the one calling the shots here. “You’re absolutely right. I would never label Brody Prescott as a heartless womanizer after watching a full season of him kissing twenty plus girls and breaking all of their hearts once he finally decides which one he’ll marry, only to call the wedding off when the season is over.”
Brody pointed a finger at Gregg as if to say, I told you so. “Finally, someone on my side, though I’m offended by your attack on what I’ve always considered to be a sparkling, affable personality.” He gave Midge a cheeky grin. “You should spend time getting to know me before making snap judgments like that. Would you like to start by grabbing some dinner with me tonight?”
She narrowed her eyes at this and quickly redirected her attention to Gregg.
“In the short time I’ve listened to you two speak, I can already tell your boy here doesn’t have the patience for preening prima-donas or high maintenance, self-absorbed drama queens. These types of women run rampant on any reality TV series no matter the subject. Not everything is going to go according to plan.”
She doubted that either of them would take her seriously. She was only twenty-four, after all, and her tight, frizzy bun paired with her frayed jeans and white T-shirt hardly screamed, “Hey, my father produces reality TV for a living. You should totally listen to me!”
“You don’t think I’m capable of diplomatically handling an emotional female?” Brody asked.
Midge thought he looked slightly amused but couldn’t fathom what might have sent him there.
“You probably handle emotional women about as diplomatically as I handle the rise in price of chocolate croissants here at Café Canapé.” Midge turned to the owner of the shop, a balding Italian with whom she’d developed a love-hate relationship over the last six years. She yelled a playful greeting to him in Italian, and then in English said, “It’s still totally unacceptable, Giacomo. No one in their right mind would ever willingly pay ten dollars for a croissant the size of my palm. I don’t care how sinful that Italian chocolate is.”
He threw a few Italian expletives at her, shook his fist, and then walked into the back of the store. When she turned back to Brody it was to see that his shoulders were shaking ever so slightly as he fisted a hand to his mouth.
Midge trudged forward, figuring she may as well disillusion both of them before they continued on with this ridiculous scheme.
“You are dealing with an attack on your image, and since your image of happily wedded bliss is crucial to your company’s means of survival, it makes more sense to actively pursue one woman rather than throw the inner workings of your dating life on a screen for everyone to see and possibly make yourself look like more of a horses rear end than you already have.”
The assistant choked on his espresso—a poor choice considering his abundant nervous energy—and continued gasping for air as the billionaire stared at her with a transfixed expression. She had expected him to become indignant at her unbecoming description of him, but he stared her down as if he were inspecting a curious organism under a microscope and couldn’t quite identify its subgenus.
“One woman, you say? And how will I find one woman to pursue when pursuing several dozen hasn’t produced any winners for me?”
“Were you really in earnest with any of them? Let’s be honest with ourselves, Mr. Prescott. Your choice in women is typical: fake blond hair, fake double-D boobs, fake booty, fake personality. Are we noticing any themes here?” By the smirk on his face she gathered he’d grasped the theme all too well. “You essentially date the same prissy woman, just with a differently painted face. She may look good on your arm, but you need someone who will challenge you, listen to you, and actually respond to what you have to say rather than someone who looks at you vapidly and giggles when she has no idea what you’re talking about.” Midge leaned back in her chair, getting ready to return to her laptop to resume her now useless efforts in world-altering story telling. “In short, Mr. Prescott, you should try dating someone with half a brain. You might be surprised how much that one factor lengthens the time span of your relationships.”
She put her glasses back on and began typing, feeling satisfied that she had given the undeserving seat-stealer sufficient cause to nip this madness in the bud. Soon; however, a dark shadow hovered above her and then lowered itself atop the chair directly across from her.
Did there always have to be two chairs at each table? She was going to have to have a word with Giacomo about his cafe’s seating arrangements. Midge raised her eyes above the black rims of her glasses.
“Was there something else, Mr. Prescott?”
He appeared delighted by the question, a reaction that surprised her.
“There certainly is. I find your advice much more applicable than Gregg’s over there.” He threw a dismissive wave over his shoulder, and she watched as Gregg sank a little in his seat and then bounced upward as if the caffeine in his system wouldn’t allow for bad posture.
“If I’m going to be taking advice from you, I’d like to know your name.”
The idea that Brody Prescott might be taking her warnings to heart loosened her lips when she normally would have told him to take a hike.
“Midge,” she said.
Brody waited, looking as if he expected more.
“I don’t get a last name, here?”
She contemplated the idea of giving him her full name, the one name tied to Hollywood, her father, and the inadvertent fame she’d done a bang-up job of turning her back on. She didn’t want him to know who she really was. She didn’t want him to begin calculating what her ties to Hollywood might do for him. She simply wanted him to go away.
“You’re a desperate person, and I really don’t have time to solve all your problems. I don’t want you hunting me down for more advice. Midge is all you get.”
He smirked. That delightful smile of his widened even further.
“That’s too bad, since I want you to take the job.”
Midge couldn’t have felt more perplexed if Giacomo had come swinging out of the back kitchen, arms flailing, offering his chocolate croissants for free.
“The job? What job?”
“I want you to pose as my girlfriend.”
“Not a possibility,” Gregg said in a warning tone.
Brody waved away his protest as he continued to study her.
“Pose? You do want to actually find someone to marry, correct?”
He shook his head and laughed.
“I’m a confirmed bachelor, Midge, but my image is more transient. If I do the show, I’ll probably end up with someone I can’t stand. We’ll break up once the show is finished, which will only confirm my playboy status to the public.”
“Not if you actually fall in love and get married….or…at least get married,” Gregg interjected in exasperation.
Midge watched as Brody rolled his eyes but essentially ignored his assistant.
“You’ve suggested I date a woman of intelligence who covers herself as a nun would and is about as blond as the day is dark.”
She slammed her laptop closed and pointed a warning finger in his face.
“Just because my cleavage isn’t reaching my ears and my hind end isn’t exposed for all the world to see doesn’t mean I dress like a nun! It means I understand the difference between what’s classy and what’s trashy.” He reached for her finger in a playful gesture, but she pulled it back before his skin could make contact. She was not interested in finding out what his touch might do to her central nervous system. “There’s no doubt I’m more intelligent than the lumps of flesh you sport on your arm, but any woman within a ten-mile radius could claim that accolade, and my hair color isn’t really up for discussion.”
“I like the flaming red curls. They suit your personality.”
She narrowed her brows into a tight V, feeling certain he hadn’t intended that as a compliment.
He held his hands up in surrender. “You’re the one who thinks I
should chase after a girl who is the exact opposite of everyone else I’ve ever dated.”
“Yes,” Midge punctuated her response with a slap of her hand on the table. “A relationship that you enter into willingly with an equally willing partner instead of hiring someone for a job and then walking away once you feel the damage to your image has sufficiently recovered.” Midge shook her head at the amused gleam in his eyes. She couldn’t tell if he was seriously being this obtuse or if he simply enjoyed bating her. “At the very least, be in a relationship where both parties are attracted to one another.”
“I don’t mind your mousy librarian look. Throw on a pencil skirt and some high heels and you can take me to the library any day.”
Midge didn’t miss a beat. “I was talking about finding someone who is attracted to you, genius.
Surprise flickered across his features before that look of amusement returned. “Are you saying you don’t think I’m hot?” He leaned forward in his seat, practically crawling across the table to hear her response.
This man was the essence of too-hot-to-handle and whoop-der-it-is, and Midge would have died a torturous death at the hand of her materialistic, Hollywood producer father before she ever admitted to Mr. Prescott or herself just how attractive she found him.
She raked him over with her eyes, giving a cool assessment of his appearance before allowing her gaze to meet his again. She shrugged her shoulders.
“I’m sure someone in this world finds you attractive. It just isn’t me.”
Instead of sending him away with his tail between his legs, all Midge got for her rather remarkably disinterested response was a low chuckle that sent a rush of heat swiftly curling around her heart, securely lodging itself there in the process.
“Bull,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
He quickly reached over and plucked her glasses from their perch across her nose, eliciting a startled gasp from Midge. “If we’re going to be an item, I want to see all of you. Those freckles are too cute to cover up.”