Reach for a Star

by Kathryn Freeman

  About the Book

  Reach for a Star

  by Kathryn Freeman

  What if your dreams were so close you could reach out and touch them?

  How could anyone resist Michael Tennant, with his hypnotic blue eyes and voice like molten chocolate? Jessie Simmons certainly can’t. But Jessie’s a single mum who can’t sing to save her life – there’s no way she’ll ever cross paths with the star tenor.

  At least that’s what she thinks until she’s unexpectedly invited to take part in a new reality TV show. The premise? Professional singers teach hopeless amateurs how to sing. The surprise? Jessie’s partner is none other than Michael Tennant!

  As she becomes better acquainted with the man behind the voice, will Jessie find out the hard way that you should never meet your idols? Or will she get more than she bargained for?

  Where heroes are like chocolate – irresistible!

  www.choc-lit.com

  Contents

  About the Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  About the Author

  More Choc Lit

  Introducing Choc Lit

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright information

  Preview of Crikey a Bodyguard by Kathryn Freeman

  Chapter One

  Jessie stared into the hypnotic blue eyes of Michael Tennant as his rich, smooth voice flowed over her like molten chocolate. Words of love slipped from his tongue and into her heart where they nestled, warm and satisfying. His voice was like a gift, a place she could go where her world was filled with flowers and sunshine. With candles and soft velvet cushions.

  ‘Mum, time to turn this crap off. You’re burning holes in our shirts and Football Focus is about to start on the other side.’ Jack, her twelve-year-old son, grabbed the television remote control and switched channels, promptly shattering her fantasy.

  With a deep sigh, she stared down at the scorch-marked school shirt. In her daydreams she was Mrs Michael Tennant, wife to the sexy modern tenor. A woman who paid someone else to do her ironing. Outside those dreams, she’d somehow become a divorced mother of two boys and seemed to do nothing but iron. Unless she was cooking, or cleaning. Or working.

  ‘What is it with that Tennant guy anyway?’ Luke, her younger son by two years, ambled in and flopped down on the sofa next to Jack. ‘His songs are like sooooo boring.’

  ‘You just don’t understand music.’ She gave the next unwitting shirt a good thump with the iron. ‘You think anything with a loud drum beat, fronted by a crazy man shouting, is music.’ Oh God, when had she turned into her mother? ‘Well, it’s not. Michael Tennant is music. I’m not the only one who thinks he’s got the most beautiful voice in the world, either. Take a look at his album sales. And while you’re doing that, listen to one of them, instead of the racket you usually put on.’

  ‘Hey, keep your curly hair on!’ Luke rolled big blue eyes uncannily like his father’s. ‘You’re so easy to wind up. Anyone would think you’re in love with the guy, the way you go on about him all the time.’

  Jessie shook her head and focussed back on the ironing, knowing there was no way her sons would ever understand her little crush. They thought she was nuts. Embarrassing, too, but mainly nuts. Even, Annabel, her best friend, struggled to grasp why Jessie needed her trips into fantasyland. According to Annabel, Jessie was a lonely romantic, and idolising Michael Tennant was her way of making up for the lack of a real man in her life. The theory held an element of truth, sure, but there was so much more to her dreams than an escape from being single. Marriage to Phil – thankfully put out of its misery several years ago – had been like putting on a comfy pair of slippers. Maybe she’d read too many romance novels, but damn it she was thirty-six, not sixty-three. She didn’t want slippers. What she wanted was knock ’em dead Louboutins with red soles and eye-watering heels. And maybe they’d hurt her feet, maybe she wouldn’t be able to walk in them, but that didn’t stop her longing to try.

  She wanted to live, not just exist. She wanted excitement. Passion. To rip the shirt off a man. Not iron the damn thing.

  ‘The dude’s probably got bad breath.’ Jack had finally dragged his eyes off the television long enough to add his considered opinion to the discussion.

  ‘Yeah and if you met him he’d be like blah, blah, blah.’ Luke yawned dramatically. ‘Snoozefest.’

  Jessie opened her mouth to protest – she’d seen Michael Tennant interviewed and hadn’t felt like snoozing once – but then caught the wicked gleam in her sons’ eyes. ‘You’re probably right,’ she agreed, smiling at their look of disappointment as she refused to take the bait. ‘It’s perhaps just as well I’ll never find out.’

  The boys exchanged a look before turning their focus back to the TV. When Jessie glanced up a moment later, she swore their shoulders were twitching up and down, as if in silent laughter. ‘What’s so funny?’

  Another non-verbal exchange took place between them before Jack replied, ‘You’re the one that’s funny, Mum. You so want to meet him.’

  ‘Not if he has bad breath.’ Even as she muttered the words, Jessie knew it was a lie. She’d breathe through her mouth. And offer him a mint.

  A little while later

  ‘It’s the postie!’ Luke exclaimed. ‘I’ll get it.’

  Quite why the route he took had to entail him scrambling over the back of the sofa, Jessie didn’t know. Especially as there was never anything in the post worth rushing for.

  But it was the fourth day on the trot her sons had shown an interest in the post. ‘Are you expecting something?’ she asked when he came back in.

  ‘Nah.’ Why were his eyes not meeting hers? ‘Here you go. Four for you, one for the previous owners, and none for me. Again,’ he added heavily, as if getting post was something a ten-year-old should expect on a regular basis.

  ‘Well, if you ever feel the need to read glossy brochures trying to sell things we don’t need, or to pay the bills, you’re welcome to my post.’ Relieved to have an excuse to stop ironing, she thumbed through the envelopes. ‘Umm, this one doesn’t look like a bill.’ With practiced ease she tore it open, scanning the contents. ‘I’m invited to… what? An interview at some studios with a view to me taking part in a pilot TV show, The Week of Your Life. What show? How on earth did they get my name?’ She checked the address – correct. Checked her name – also correct. ‘This must be some sort of scam.’

  She glanced over to Jack and Luke, expecting to find them gawping at the TV. Instead they were grinning at each other like a pair of demented Cheshire cats. The first ripple of co
ncern eased through her. ‘Do you two want to let me in on the joke?’

  Luke pointed to Jack, who gave her a sheepish look. ‘We saw the TV show advertised on the telly. They said they were looking for people who wanted to learn to sing with a professional, so we gave them your name.’

  ‘You what?’ She knew her sons. This had to be one big wind up.

  ‘It’s about time you learnt how to sing,’ Luke added, backing up his brother. ‘Your singing makes our ears hurt.’

  ‘Plus Michael Tennant’s one of the singers taking part,’ continued Jack. ‘So you can find out if he has bad breath.’

  Jessie shook her head, trying to make sense of what she was hearing. It felt like… what was the right analogy? Wading through cold porridge? She’d only ever eaten it, but walking through it sounded freakishly difficult.

  Then again, so was getting her sons to write thank you letters at Christmas, which could explain why she was having a hard time grasping the idea that they’d spontaneously sent a letter off to a TV company. A letter apparently persuasive enough for the producer to want to see her.

  And if she added into that mix the prospect of maybe, possibly, meeting Michael Tennant. Well hell, no wonder her brain hurt.

  ‘Are you going to give them a call?’

  The question came from Jack. Dark like her; the more thoughtful of the two, more serious.

  ‘Yeah, go on, Mum.’ Luke was fair-haired and the spitting image of his father. Laid-back like him too, though he got his chatty – some would say gobby – nature from his mum.

  Both were watching her as if they, too, understood the enormity of what she might be about to commit to. The time for joking was over. If she picked up the phone, she could be facing the prospect of singing on national television. She, who couldn’t find the right note if it was dressed in fluorescent yellow and winking at her. Her stomach plummeted just thinking about it.

  Then again, they’d gone to so much trouble.

  And there was the little matter of Michael Tennant.

  Taking a deep breath, she gave them the answer they wanted. ‘Of course I’ll call them. I can’t believe they took a letter from a couple of young boys so seriously. What on earth did you put in it?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Just stuff about how badly you sing. And how we want them to make you sound better.’

  ‘And we told them you fancied Tennant.’ Luke grinned. Cheeky, irrepressible, he was destined to break hearts in another ten years.

  ‘You’ve really set me up, haven’t you?’ Because it all seemed so utterly bonkers, she started to laugh. ‘At least I won’t have anything to live up to.’

  It’s just an interview, she told herself as she picked up the phone. Not much chance of making the final programme.

  But as she dialled the number, a hum of long-forgotten excitement ran through her.

  One week later

  Michael looked again at the itinerary Georgina, his PA, had put together for him, and sighed. Why in God’s name had he agreed to take part in a reality TV show? It was so far out of his comfort zone he might as well enter The X Factor and totally blow his career.

  Making a snap decision he shoved on his jacket and called the studio. He might just get there in time to see the shortlisted contestants being put through their final auditions. As pulling out of the blasted thing wasn’t an option – not without blackening his reputation – he might as well show an interest. At least this way he could have a say in who he was partnered with.

  Unaware of the way female heads turned as he strode into the studio lobby a short cab ride later, Michael shook the hand of the show director, Stuart Kennedy, who was waiting to greet him.

  ‘Remind me again, Stuart. What’s the set up?’ he asked as he was shown into the main studio where the auditions were being held, and the live show was scheduled to be filmed. He noticed a couple of the other celebrities sitting at the front – pop singer Tegan, with all that blonde hair, and Jerome, the dreadlocked rapper, were hard to miss – but he turned and headed for the back. He’d make his assessment in private.

  ‘We’re going to watch a shortlist of contestants to see how they come across in front of the camera. From them we need to select a partner for each of you. A girl with a boy.’ He gave Michael a small smile. ‘As you’ll be spending the week with whoever it is, it’s only fair you have an input. But I have the final say.’

  Michael raised an eyebrow. Bad enough he’d be spending a week with a woman he didn’t know. He wasn’t going to be railroaded into spending it with one he’d taken an instant dislike to. Unconsciously a quiet groan escaped him. Christ. Meeting new people wasn’t his forte. He could stand on stage and act the part of the tenor, Michael Tennant, no problem. It was being himself he was diabolical at.

  ‘The show will feature six contestants, three men, three women, each paired with a professional.’ Stuart was now staring at him in earnest, no doubt worried by Michael’s obvious lack of enthusiasm. ‘We’ll film you during the week as you learn to sing a duet together. On the night of the show we’ll play back the highlights and then you’ll each sing your duet, live. The studio audience and the people watching at home will vote on who’s made the greatest improvement.’

  Michael smiled politely, though his heart had now settled somewhere round his feet. If they were filming them all week, it was going to be hard to take shortcuts. It meant he was pretty much going to be stuck with his partner 24/7. Especially if he was going to win the damn thing. Because there was only one thing worse than entering a competition like this; entering and losing.

  Thanking Stuart, he settled into his seat, crossed his legs, squared his shoulders, and prepared to find his partner.

  An hour later, Michael had listened to eight warbling, self-obsessed women clearly in it for the limelight and not to learn to sing. With a despairing sigh, he glanced down at the running order he’d been given. If this last one, Jessica Simmons, wasn’t any better, he was going to have to develop a mystery illness.

  He watched as a short, curly-haired woman came onto the stage. Involuntarily he found he was sitting up, taking a better look. She was pretty. Really, sweetly pretty. A pretty that came from dimples and a ready smile. She wasn’t deathly skinny either, but had curves that filled out her dark jeans and black jumper rather spectacularly. He could appreciate them even from this distance.

  Finally he had something to smile about. If she sang as well as she looked, he was going to bagsy her for his partner.

  Hell, maybe the week wouldn’t be that bad, after all.

  ‘Which song would you like to sing for us?’ the studio technician asked her, handing over a sheet of paper.

  She glanced down, biting on her bottom lip. ‘How about “Simply the Best”?’ she suggested finally. ‘At least I know the words, though Tina Turner probably won’t recognise it by the time I’m finished.’

  Sitting in the dark on the back row, Michael smiled. The woman had a nice line in self-deprecating humour.

  ‘When you’re ready, give the cameraman a nod and sing the words as they come up on the screen,’ the technician clarified. ‘Sorry there’s no music, but I’m sure you know how it goes.’

  She laughed. Not a self-conscious titter, or a polite chuckle but a real laugh that seemed to dance its way over to Michael. ‘I don’t have a problem with knowing the tune,’ she reassured. ‘As Eric Morecambe would say, it’s singing the right notes, in the right order, that’s the challenge.’

  Fascinated, Michael sat forward and watched as she took a moment to collect herself, drawing in a deep breath.

  ‘I call you when I need you, my heart’s on fire…’

  He lurched back, almost giving himself whiplash.

  Christ, she was murdering the song.

  While he winced and cringed, she continued to murder it all the way to the end.

  His eardrums ringing with tuneless screeching his cat – if he’d had one – would have been appalled by, Michael wondered what he was supposed to do n
ow. This Jessica person was by far the most appealing. And she seemed… genuine. Down to earth, at least compared to the women who’d come before her. But that voice?

  What would it to do to his career if he sang a duet with someone like Jessica Simmons? Sure, he had a shot at improving her, but her voice needed more than a week of coaching. It needed the wave of a ruddy magic wand.

  Yet spending a week with any of the previous candidates was a definite no. Jessica might kill off his eardrums and his career, but a week with the others and he’d want to kill himself.

  As Jessica made her way off the stage, Stuart glanced over in Michael’s direction.

  Taking a deep breath, Michael nodded.

  Chapter Two

  Two weeks later

  Finally… finally, Jessie was on her way to London.

  In the two weeks since she’d had the call from Stuart telling her she’d been selected for the show, time had passed in slow motion. Like a child waiting for Christmas, she’d resorted to crossing the days off in her diary.

  But now the day was here. And sitting on the train on her way to the studio, she couldn’t for the life of her remember why she’d been so damn excited. She’d left her boys, and to do what? Make an utter twit of herself on national television.

  The knots in her stomach tightened and, for a horrible moment, she thought she was going to be sick. Snatching at the bottle of water stashed in her handbag, she took a big swig, swallowed, and tried to calm herself.

  The sound of her ringing phone jolted her out of her misery.

  ‘Excited?’ Her friend’s voice came out in a rush, but that was Annabel all over. Always on the move.

  ‘Try upset and bloody terrified.’

  Jessie heard a door slam in the background, followed by a rustle of clothing. A minute later, Annabel’s voice returned. ‘Sorry, just had to shoo the kids out of the way. Did I hear you right? You’re not sitting there buzzing with adrenaline and saturated with hormones at the thought of meeting your idol?’