by Hope Tarr
She shuddered. “You’re quite a colorful character, aren’t you? Is it real or an act?”
Greg stopped mopping the spillage from the tops of her feet and looked up. “Oh, I’m for real, all right. What you see is what you get. Ever think maybe you could use a little color—the kind not imprinted on textiles?” His gaze connected with hers again and, for the following few breath cycles, he forgot what a bitch she was being.
“You’re staring,” she accused, though her tone had lost its edge. “Other than the obvious, that I’m wearing your lunch, exactly what do you find so mesmerizing?”
As usual, he blurted out the first thought that came to mind. It also happened to be the absolute truth. “You. You’re a lot prettier than I remember.”
Her mouth parted and for a fleeting few seconds he found himself fantasizing about what it might be like to kiss her. Would her full lips feel as soft as they looked? Would she taste anything close to the lusciousness that her cherry-colored lipstick promised?
One delicate dark brow arched. “Yes, well, given that you could barely be bothered to unglue your gaze from your computer screen, I shan’t let your forward remark go to my head.”
The reference to their previous meeting had Greg stiffening. He hadn’t set out to compliment her but, given that he had, she could be at least a little gracious about it. Her haughty attitude really chapped his ass—and got his adrenaline pumping.
“Great, then don’t. I’m betting your head’s plenty big already.” He finished and stood. “You’re good to go.”
She looked down at her shoes, wiped as clean as he could get them without water, and nodded as if they met her approval. “I suppose I should thank you?”
He shrugged. “Don’t bother. If this tech CEO gig doesn’t work out, I’m thinking about setting up a shoeshine business at the airport.”
Improbably, her lips twitched. “There’s always that, I suppose.”
“Yeah, well, sorry if I’m babbling. We colorful characters don’t have much of a filter.”
“Apparently not.” She took a step back and turned to go. “Meeting you is always…memorable, Mr. Knickerbocker, but I really must find the loo before the press conference.”
Shit, the press conference! Caught up in damage control, he’d as good as forgotten it. Watching her whisk off toward the nearest exit, Greg cursed beneath his breath.
Way to go, Knickerbocker. Your fairy god-bitch fucking hates your guts.
He probably should have dialed down the sarcasm. Okay, not probably—definitely. Francesca St. James—Medusa—seemed to have a talent for bringing out the worst in him.
Beautiful enough to be a Bond girl, she was too hot to handle—and too bitchy to trust.
He’d gotten that much a year ago when she’d barged into his office. At least then he’d been in the power position. Not so now. He couldn’t kick her off the show, nor could he afford to risk her blackballing him among the other coaches. As much as he hated the thought, for the next eight weeks he was going to have to suck it up and play nice—at least pseudo-nice. Because like it or not, like her or not, he needed her help.
He needed her help to win.
…
Gregory Knickerbocker here on set—as a contestant!
Still reeling from the shock, Francesca pulled back the lavatory door marked LUCY, apparently a tradition commemorating the late comedienne Lucille Ball, and walked in. She moved to the sink and stared into the wall mirror. Cold water wasn’t going to suffice, but she had to start somewhere. Fortunately her shoes were patent leather and already wiped clean. The dress, a black-and-beige-striped Lanvin sheath, was ruined, likely the jacket as well, although the latter’s solid black hue might render it salvageable by a savvy dry cleaner.
Along with looking as though she’d fallen into a vat of tomato sauce, she smelled like the inside of a pizzeria. The reek of garlic had entirely defeated the Ralph Lauren Notorious she’d dabbed on earlier.
Gregory Knickerbocker had doused himself in another strongly recognizable scent—not exactly skunk but near enough, more along the lines of insect repellent. She’d wager her contribution to Sam’s college fund it was Old Spice. Francesca hadn’t realized they manufactured it anymore.
She dampened a paper towel and set to work, blotting at the stains. Being slimed with his pasta lunch had been bad enough, but having Mr. Knickerbocker go down on his knees at her feet, his blue eyes boring into her and his hot breath striking low on her belly, had been altogether mortifying.
A knock on the door sent her starting. “Come in,” she called out, though it felt odd to give permission to enter a public lavatory.
“Miss St. James, it’s Cindy. I saw what happened out there, and I am sooo sorry.”
“Thanks, but it’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault, really, only an accident.”
“If you’d like, I can send someone back to your hotel to pick up a change of clothes. Or better yet, I have a car here. I can go myself.”
Francesca paused, thinking. “I just got in a few hours ago and there wasn’t time to properly unpack. Likely I can find what I need faster than anyone.”
“Gotcha.” Cindy already had her car keys in hand. “I know a shortcut. How about I drive you?”
Resolved to leave off further thoughts of Mr. Knickerbocker until later, much later, Francesca released a relieved breath. “Fantastic, you’re a lifesaver. Let’s go, shall we?”
Chapter Four
“Okay, so remember, high energy, lots of enthusiasm, big smiles. This is your chance to strut your stuff, to pimp your product, to sell both yourself and the show.”
Lined up at the back of the set by number and gender, Greg was pretty sure he and his fellow contestants had the drill down, but he supposed it didn’t hurt for Amber to reinforce it. If nothing else, listening to her cheerlead helped him take the occasional break from kicking himself.
Had he really signed himself up to spend the next eight weeks filming Project Cinderella with Medusa St. James? She had to have been a last-minute addition to the program. It was the only explanation. If he’d so much as suspected she was in any way involved with the show, he would have withdrawn his submission. Immediately.
He forced his focus back to his immediate task: getting himself down the red carpet and up on stage. Just three short Pepto-Bismol-pink-carpeted steps above audience level, it loomed as daunting as Mount Everest.
Amber had said the event was more or less open to anyone with a press pass and, looking around to the reporter-packed pit, Greg saw she hadn’t exaggerated. Members of the media sported press badges and carried shoulder-mounted cameras showing logos from all the major entertainment media outlets—the Los Angeles Times, the New York Times, People and Us magazines, GQ, MTV News, TMZ, and even hard news outlets like The Associated Press and CNN.
As the sixth and final contestant, Greg would be the last to be interviewed, which gave him plenty of time to be nervous, really nervous. The present press junket would be broadcast by media outlets across the country and quite possibly internationally, too.
A hush rolled over the room. Onstage the show’s executive producer stepped out, flanked by the celebrity coaches including…Medusa. She’d changed clothes. Her current outfit was a soft pastel green two-piece pantsuit that clung to her slender figure in all the right places.
Breaking the line, Brittany maneuvered her way to his side. “Nervous, huh?” she whispered.
He really wished she’d stop reinforcing such negative thoughts. “I’m doing…okay. What about you?” Maybe it was his imagination, but he didn’t recall her looking quite that mussed.
“Hanging in there, I guess. I mean we’ve got to, right?” She smiled, showing her crooked front teeth coated in what must be the salad she’d had for lunch.
He hesitated and then pointed to his own teeth. “Brittany, you have some—”
“Thanks, I know,” she said, cutting him off. “The people in makeup told me to leave it alone.”
She nodded, her hair teased into tangles. “They’re going for a contrast effect. The worse we look now for the before shots, the better we’ll look in the after ones.”
Incredulous, Greg asked, “And you’re okay with that?”
She shrugged. “I guess. I mean, I want to win. Don’t you?”
He ran a hand through his hair, belatedly remembering the gel, wishing he’d kept a few of those napkins from lunch. “Yeah, sure.”
He did want to win but not for the ordinary reasons, namely money and fame. Unlike the other contestants, he already possessed plenty of both. No, he’d come on Project Cinderella for one reason: he was done with losing at love. If changing his “luck” with women meant making himself over, he was willing to suck it up and endure whatever sacrifices the transformation would take.
Applause drew his attention back to the stage. Francesca St. James stepped up to the microphone stand, opening with a zinger—edible fashion as the next big thing? The shock value of her suggestion had the audience eating out of her hand, which was of course what she’d intended.
“But seriously,” she continued, her perfectly modulated voice hitting the mic receiver just so, “fashion is ever evolving. For those of us in the industry, the core challenge is to keep every season evergreen. Perhaps on this program we shall take a page from Lady Gaga’s book and experiment with combining fashion and food—only fresh foods, of course,” she added gamely, and Greg had the sudden urge to wipe away her smug smile—with his mouth.
“Are you saying we might see Project Cinderella contestants wearing meat dresses?” one reporter asked.
She flashed him a smile. “Why limit it to dresses, darling? You wouldn’t have our Cinderella men go naked, now would you?”
A tsunami of applause ripped through the room. Annoying though her perfection was, Greg couldn’t help but admire her, too. Witty and smart, charming and funny, Francesca was acing the press conference—and owning the stage. She could teach his PR people a thing or two. Under other circumstances, he might have tried to hire her away.
But these were not “other circumstances.” Within the four walls of Stage Eighteen, he wasn’t Gregory Knickerbocker, tech founder and CEO, but one of several ugly ducklings hoping to be turned into swans. On Amber’s cue, each of his fellow contestants took their solo walk down the red carpet. One by one they ascended the stage, posed before the backdrop banner, and then took their turn at the mic fielding questions. The latter ranged from thoughtful—“Jonas, do you think your active outdoor lifestyle will give you any kind of edge in the competition?”—to rude—“Brittany, whassup with the chompers?”
Then it was Greg’s turn. He started toward the stage, feeling as if the red runner was sucking at his soles. Surrounding him was the flash and pop of cameras, people pressing in on all sides. For the first time since stepping off the bus, his confidence flagged. National TV—what the hell had he been thinking? He was a master of the game, a behind-the-scenes kind of guy. He bolstered himself by thinking of all the people rooting for him: his dad, his sister and her family, Brian, and well, pretty much his whole product development team. And then there were the one hundred women who’d dumped him. That even one of his Ms. Wrongs might catch him on TV and take a moment to regret her callousness was too sweet a reward to pass on.
He reached the pink steps. Above him, most of the contestants wore frozen faces as though they’d just come from a Botox party. Brittany’s salad smile was cemented in place but her eyes looked watery. The remark about her teeth must have hit her hard. He focused instead on the producers and contest coaches, including Medusa. As it had a year ago in his office, her cool confidence struck him as pompous. But he had no room in his head for negativity now. This wasn’t her moment or anyone else’s.
It was his.
He stepped off the top step and onto the stage. Walking over to the banner and standing in front of it while they took pictures of him was the hard part, or so he told himself. Relieved when it was over, he took his place behind the mic stand, bracketed by the show runner, Jerry, to his right—and Medusa to his left.
Determined not to fail in front of her, he drew a deep breath and faced out onto the audience. “Good afternoon. I’m Gregory Knickerbocker, but I’m guessing you probably know that. Anyway, how’s, uh…everyone doing?”
In the pit below, the reporters queued up to the mic stand, the flow managed by a Ryan Seacrest look-alike whom Greg understood to be the show’s emcee. From the front of the line, a young guy called, “Greg, you’re a software developer turned CEO with a bunch of top-100 apps under your belt and now a hot new social networking site that went public at the end of last year. What effect will your tech background have on your performance on Project Cinderella?”
Squinting through the blinding brightness, Greg made out the guy’s badge. “Well, Bob, I’ve been self-employed since college, or middle school if you count the paper route, so taking orders from fairy…from the coaches probably isn’t going to come all that easily to me. But I’m going to give it my one-hundred-percent-plus personal best.” He shot Francesca a fast glance, wondering what she thought of that, but her composed features told him nothing.
“What’s the deal with the shirt?” the next reporter asked.
Greg glanced down. “Red is supposed to be the color of attraction—at least that’s what all the feng shui books say. I thought I’d get an early start.”
The joke won him a few chuckles. Not exactly the adulation Francesca St. James had sourced, but it was a start.
“Not the color, the quote: ‘I’m on a horse’?”
“It’s a tagline for Old Spice,” he replied, wondering what the big deal was. “I bought it off their website.”
Giggles greeted the admission. The lights were becoming seriously warm. Perspiration prickled the back of his neck.
“You wear Old Spice? How’s that been working for you?”
He hesitated, thinking of the one hundred rejections he’d already logged in. “Not so great, I guess.”
Another rumble erupted. Next to him, Francesca cringed. A die-hard “popular girl,” she was probably worried his nerd vibe might rub off.
“So, do you think the scent is some kind of…aphrodisiac?” another reporter asked.
Greg steeled himself. People, the so-called cool kids, had been poking fun at him since elementary school. Having Knickerbocker as a last name had made that pretty inevitable. The computer lab had served as his sanctuary, especially at recess. His mother had consoled him by saying that what didn’t kill you made you stronger. She’d been right. If it hadn’t been for all those hours logged in at the lab feeding his passion for innovation, he wouldn’t have gone on to develop his first app—or to launch Cloud Flyer. The company’s name had come from his childhood wish to climb up to the sky and fly away on a silver-lined cloud.
Still, every drop of moisture seemed to drain from his mouth. “It’s not so much the scent but what it stands for.”
A sea of amused faces greeted that statement. A pretty Latina reporter with the Los Angeles Times lowered her glossy mouth to the mic and asked, “What does it mean to you?”
Greg shifted feet and admitted, “Well, the official product slogan is ‘Believe in your smellf.’”
The room roared, and this time the laughter was definitely at his expense. The LA Times reporter stepped away from the stand, clutching her sides. The cameraman with her laughed so hard he nearly dropped his shoulder-mounted Sony.
Blood rushed to his face, roared inside his ears. His dad and his sister and her husband and maybe even their boys, not to mention Brian and the other devs, would all be watching. If he couldn’t make those people proud, the least he could do was not embarrass them. The prospect of his twin nephews getting teased or
worse, over something he’d said for the sake of reality TV, poked at a raw spot deep inside him.
He cut a sideways glance to Francesca, trying to read her reaction. Cucumber-cool, she covered her hand over the mic and tilted her head to whisper, “Pretend they’re in their birthday suits.”
“Excuse me?”
“Visualize the reporters naked. It helps.”
“Thanks,” he whispered back, wondering why she would help him.
He forced his focus back out to the press pit. His imagination wouldn’t take him to full nudity, not on such short notice, but he could manage swimwear. The buxom blonde from TMZ now stood in an itsy-bitsy polka-dot bikini. Her thighs seemed to be made of cottage cheese and her belly button was an outie. The sneering CNN cameraman had on a pair of baggy laser-stripe swim trunks and a heart-shaped tattoo that read “Mom,” stuck smack in the center of his white fish belly. The mean Latina from the LA Times now had a snorkel muzzling her. She wore diving fins as well—and not much else.
“Greg, tell us what made you enter as a contestant on Project Cinderella? I mean you’re a rich, successful guy. It’s not like you’re hurting for money—or media exposure.”
Finally, a considered question. Still, Greg hesitated, weighing his words, wanting them to be as pristine and parsimonious as the code he still took pride in crafting. “I hope someday soon I’ll meet my perfect someone, and when I do I hope she’ll see me not as another entrepreneur or tech CEO but as her Prince Charming, a man who’s not afraid to take a chance, put himself out there and slay whatever dragons come, not for fortune or fame but for love.”
The room quieted. The TMZ blonde reached up to dash what might well be a tear from her eye. The Latina lost her sneer.
Gaining confidence, he added, “I’m a big ABBA fan and like their song says, I want to be someone’s Waterloo, the complete and final point of surrender for one very special woman.”