The Cinderella Makeover

by Hope Tarr

She was right. When opportunity knocked, you opened the door—and walked through. That basic philosophy had brought him success in business, wealth and influence beyond even his wildest fantasies. Who knew, maybe it would be the key to unlocking his personal life, too.

  Still, as she turned away, he didn’t miss the shadow crossing her face. His gut told him there was more to Francesca, and her offer, than met his lust-blind eye.

  At a more civilized hour, Venice Beach would have been glutted with street vendors and performers—break-dancers, broken glass walkers, mimes to musicians, jugglers to jesters, the beach itself dominated by flexing bodybuilders. But at just after 6:00 a.m., Ocean Pathway was deserted, the shops and restaurants still shuttered. Even the Muscle Beach Pit was empty of all but a few iron-pumping early risers, which probably had a lot to do with why Francesca had chosen it.

  Struggling through his second set of sit-ups in the sandbox, Greg stopped, whipped off his baseball cap, and swiped it across his sopping forehead. “Can I stop now?” he asked, hunching forward over his burning abdomen. He could guess her answer but hell, it was worth a shot.

  Standing outside the turquoise gate, her face obscured by large-framed sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low, Francesca shook her head. “No.”

  With her face makeup-free and her hair pulled back in a ponytail beneath the cap, she looked more like a college coed than the internationally famous fashion sophisticate. A soft pink V-necked cotton T-shirt and cropped black yoga pants complemented her figure, reed-slender and yet sexily curved. Covertly watching those curves on the light jog over from the beach parking lot had done more to keep his eyes open and his legs peddling than any cup of coffee could have.

  “Can I take a break at least?”

  “No! There isn’t time for lollygagging.”

  “Lollygagging?” Greg mimicked, stretching out his arms and touching his toes. Her Briticisms had annoyed him at first but lately he was finding them, and her, super cute.

  She glared—or at least he thought she did. Her sunglasses were too tinted for him to tell. “Haven’t you ever heard, ‘No pain, no gain’?”

  Greg groaned. “Don’t worry, I’m in pain all right.”

  The pull-ups he’d completed earlier had left his arms feeling as limp as cooked spaghetti. Ditto for the squats and leg presses meant to strengthen his calves and quads. Thanks to them, his legs were leaden.

  “And keep your cap on,” she warned.

  Greg folded his arms over his chest, wishing he could will it to widen. “It’s six o’clock in the morning. I’m pretty sure it’s basically us, the Hulk Hogan clone over there, and some seagulls.” Still, she was right. Reminded of all they were risking, he put the stupid hat back on.

  He did another twenty sit-ups before moving on to more squats. Halfway through, his stomach protested with a growl. Stopping, he sat up and cut Francesca a look. “Look, I get the ‘no pain, no gain’ part, but I’m hungry. More than hungry, this machine needs fuel, and Muscle Milk and PowerBars aren’t cutting it.”

  Her pretty mouth, devoid of lipstick, turned down. Her sigh reached him from outside the fencing. “Honestly, you’re worse than an infant. My daughter complained less when she was three.” She opened the gate and entered. “Oh, very well, finish this set and we’ll grab a bite.”

  “Can there be jelly doughnuts?” he asked, straightening stiffly.

  “For you, yes. For me, tea—or perhaps a cappuccino, assuming anything’s open.”

  “Wow, a cappuccino! Don’t go crazy on me now. So, what are you, one of those women who’s always counting calories?”

  She frowned. “Easy for you to say, Mr. ‘I Can’t Put on Any Weight No Matter How Many Jelly Doughnuts I Eat.’”

  He glanced down at his chest and abdomen, wishing he might instantly inflate like a Marvel Comics character. Soaked through with sweat, his clinging T-shirt accentuated his thinness. “It’s an actual problem—obviously.”

  “So is wearing every bite of dessert on one’s thighs,” she shot back, shooting a disparaging look downward.

  Following her gaze, Greg swallowed hard. For once, he got to give his extensive imagination a break. The form-fitting yoga pants showed a nipped-in waist, softly rounded hips—and long, slender legs that seemed to go on forever.

  Beneath the baseball cap, he felt his ears heating. “What’s wrong with your uh…thighs?” He wasn’t teasing this time. He was genuinely puzzled. From where he stood—okay, squatted—everything he saw about her was right.

  No, not just right. Perfect.

  She made a face. “They’re…squidgy.”

  “Squidgy?” he repeated.

  Below her ridiculously huge and no doubt designer sunglasses, her cheeks flushed. “They’re not as firm as I’d… Mind, we’re here for you. You’re the protégé in this relationship, and I’m the coach.”

  “So you’re saying we’re in a relationship?” he asked, deliberately jerking her chain, rewarded when it worked and her color climbed.

  “You know full well what I meant. Need I remind you yet again, we’re on a very tight schedule?”

  The very British way she said “schedule,” as though the word began with “sh,” never failed to bring out his smile. “Right, schedule, got it.” He repeated the word, pronouncing it as she did.

  In reward, she swatted his arm, which was sore like the rest of him. “Just get to it, will you?”

  Rubbing his arm, he smiled up at her. “Sure thing, Coach.”

  Falling back on the mat, he caught himself grinning through the remaining reps. Relationship—he and Francesca were in a relationship. Sure, it was totally platonic and more of a frenemies thing, but it still counted.

  He liked the way the word, and being with Francesca, made him feel.

  Chapter Seven

  Francesca spent the next week of filming doing her level best to dodge Deidre—and spending more and more time in the company of Greg. Their between-call meet-ups at craft services broke up the tedium of the long days of studio filming. His no-holds-barred honesty, which she’d at first taken for a lack of social skills, now struck her as refreshing, even oddly charming. For a man who’d had so very many romantic disasters, he seemed remarkably insightful about people.

  But when he went missing from the set, sometimes for stretches as long as an hour, she began to wonder. Was it the strict regimen on which she’d placed him that was wearing thin, or was it her? When he was a no-show for a fifth consecutive day, she decided to find out if perhaps she was pushing him too hard. Project Cinderella was a marathon, not a sprint. If he was beginning to burn out, she needed to know.

  “Have you seen Mr. Knickerbocker?” she asked a uniformed security guard.

  He hesitated, pulling on his cap. “Oh, you mean Greg?”

  “Quite.” Now that he’d settled in, Greg seemed to have made friends with nearly everyone.

  “I saw him head outside a while ago, about a half hour. Check the back lot.”

  “I shall, thanks.”

  Francesca stepped outside to heavy breathing, male shouting, all interspersed with a ball’s bouncing. Crossing the lot, she followed the noise over to the hooped net where two men played basketball. One of them was Greg.

  She waited for him to take his shot, which he sank, before walking up. “Nicely done,” she said.

  Swiping the back of his arm across his sweating forehead, he retrieved the ball before turning to her. “Thanks, I got lucky.”

  “Don’t believe it. Dude dunks like a motherfucker.” She shifted her gaze to Greg’s mate. Sweaty and dressed in loose-fitting gym clothes, like Greg, he looked awfully familiar though she was certain they’d never met, not in person. Was that…a hugely popular African-American actor known for his action-adventure roles?

  She glanced back at Greg. Though she’d never admit it, not aloud at least, she wasn’t only impressed. She was awed.

  Just a few weeks before, he’d barely been able to navigate his way around the set without fa
lling on his face. Now he was hanging out in studio back lots playing basketball with A-list celebrities—and apparently playing it ruddy well. How had that happened?

  He shrugged. “I have really good special relations,” he said, gesturing to the basket. “The trick is to line up the shot in your mind. You need a launch angle of fifty-two degrees, three revolutions per second of backspin, and then you aim for a spot not quite three inches from the center of the basket, toward the rim. Once the ball makes contact with the backboard, it deadens—and drops in. You just have to get the logistics down, and then it’s easy.”

  Stupefied, Francesca could only stare. She felt as though she was Lois Lane suddenly discovering that geekish, glasses-wearing Clark Kent was indeed Superman.

  Slapping Greg on the back, the actor said, “Whatever you’re doing, it works. Speaking of work, I gotta get back to the salt mine. Same time tomorrow, bro?”

  Greg nodded. “Sounds good.”

  “Stay cool, man.”

  The two men exchanged a high five. Francesca waited for the actor to walk off, and then said, “You play basketball?” An absurd question, given he’d been doing exactly that.

  “Sure.” Perspiration pearled on his forehead and he raised his arm to run a hand through his damp hair. She glimpsed the curve of bicep and bit her lip. Bugger! Their extra training sessions were beginning to bear fruit—forbidden fruit.

  Tucking the ball beneath his arm, he asked, “What’s up? Do they need me inside?”

  Based on the call sheet, he wasn’t needed on set for another two hours. Still, now that she was here, she had to come up with something. “I wanted to confirm our dance session for tonight.”

  In a shameless knockoff of Dancing With the Stars, each Cinderella contestant would be partnered with the fairy god-mentor of the opposite sex. Practicing outside of the studio was strictly forbidden, of course. Francesca rather supposed that, in this case, she and Gregory weren’t the only ones to break the rule.

  He smiled. “Eight o’clock. I rented out a private studio. It’s ours until six tomorrow morning. I’ll text you the address.”’

  “Brilliant, thanks,” she said, reminded that for Greg, money was no obstacle. “I think my feet would be bleeding if we danced that long, but it’s good to know we shan’t be rushed.” She turned to go.

  His light hand on her shoulder stalled her in her steps. “Wait up. I’ve got to grab a shower anyway, and then I have a conference call for Cloud Flyer,” he added, as though wanting to remind her that he was a great deal more than her Cinderella protégé.

  He took his hand away, and suddenly she could breathe again. “You’ve a company to run, of course.”

  “Actually I’ve hired people to do the admin, and the board is really stellar. But I stay pretty hands-on when it comes to product, and we’re about to launch our next one at an upcoming conference in Austin.”

  She smiled. Compared to Greg, her tech skills were on par with someone employing a mallet and chisel. “All very top secret, I suspect.”

  He smiled. “For now.”

  “Well, congratulations.” She started toward the building.

  Falling into step beside her, he said, “Actually I’m glad you’re here. To be honest, I first started coming out here to give you a break.”

  Startled, she asked, “A break?”

  “Yeah, between the days filming here or on location and our…extracurricular coaching sessions, I thought you might be getting sick of having me always in your face.”

  She glanced away. “Don’t be silly.”

  She hadn’t expected their training sessions to be fun, but they were indeed that. Practically, being kept busy from dawn to dusk prevented her from spending such a great lot of time pining over the situation with Sam. There was something to be said for falling into bed at night exhausted. She might not sleep for very long, but at least she slept well.

  Greg flashed a smile. “Great, I’m glad we cleared that up.” Reaching the stage door, he opened it and then held back for her to go in first.

  She started inside—and nearly barreled into Cindy. One look at her assistant’s blotchy, stricken face sufficed to say that something was seriously wrong.

  “Cindy, whatever is the matter?’ she asked.

  “It’s Bosco. He’s run away,” the assistant answered, swiping a hand across damp eyes.

  “Bosco?” Francesca echoed.

  “Her dog,” Greg supplied. “She brings him to work sometimes.”

  “Right, Bosco.” A fawn-colored terrier mix with scruffy fur and soulful eyes, a dead ringer for the famous canine film star Benji—Francesca remembered seeing him on set, though always leashed.

  Shifting his gaze to Cindy, Greg asked, “Did anyone see him run off, and in which direction?”

  Expression desperate, Cindy shook her head. “I asked around but no one seemed to notice. He’s really quiet. He almost never barks. He’s just…the best little guy.” Her face crumpled.

  Francesca came around to comfort her. “He seems a canny little fellow. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  Eyes wet, Cindy shook her head. “I tied his leash to the bike rack outside the commissary. I left him alone for five minutes tops, just long enough to grab a soy latte from crafty, and when I came back the collar and leash was there but…he wasn’t! He must have slipped his collar and run off.” She held out the leash, setting off a soft jingling of ID tags.

  “Is he microchipped?” Greg asked.

  Looking utterly miserable, Cindy shook her head again. “I was going to have it done when I took him to the vet for his annual next month but…no, he’s not.” She broke off on a sob.

  Though sympathetic to Cindy’s plight, Francesca’s thoughts had already circled back to the upcoming call. The choreographed “catfight” between Kimberly and Brittany wasn’t only an affront to womankind, it took the focus from Greg…unless the script could be tweaked so that he was the hero who broke it up. She would search out Sean, the story producer in charge of Greg’s track, at once. Surely he might manage…something.

  “Francesca?” Greg’s voice brought her back to the present.

  “I’m so sorry, Cindy. He may yet turn up. Take the rest of the morning off and search for him, the entire day if need be—and do keep us posted.”

  Sniffling, Cindy nodded. “Thanks, I will.”

  “We’ll help you hunt for Bosco,” Greg said.

  Startled, Francesca added, “Greg, we have to be—”

  “Helpful,” he finished for her. “The more people out looking, the better our chances are of getting Bosco back.” He shot her a look and continued. “He probably hasn’t gotten very far, but whenever a pet is lost, time is precious.” Turning to Cindy he asked, “Do you have a recent photo?”

  She nodded. “His picture with Santa Paws from this Christmas is the screen saver on my phone.”

  “Great, e-mail me the JPEG so I have it, too. If we need to, we can make a poster.”

  “Thanks,” Cindy said, brightening. “I’m going to have another look around the lot.”

  “You might also ring up the local animal shelter and animal control center and give the staff Bosco’s description and your phone number,” Francesca suggested. “That way if he’s brought in later, they’ll know who to call.”

  “That’s a good idea, Ms. St. James. I will.”

  Francesca waited until the assistant was out of earshot before turning back to Greg. She exhaled slowly, measuring her words. “I’m truly sorry that Bosco has gone missing, but the fact is he’s Cindy’s responsibility, not ours. She oughtn’t to have brought him to work in the first place. A television shoot is no place for a pet. Besides, we have an episode to film. And what of your conference call?”

  He sent her a quizzical look. “Would you say staying on schedule with our reality TV show, and my photo-sharing app, are more important than saving a life?”

  “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

  “Is it?” His blue eyes
found hers. As much as she wanted to look away, she couldn’t. “Bosco isn’t a pet to Cindy. He’s her baby. How would you feel if it was your child who’d run away?”

  The comment caught Francesca off guard, catapulting her back to that horrific night the previous September when Sam had indeed run away. Thank God she’d taken a train from New York directly to Ross’s in DC. Still, the memory with all its terrifying “what ifs” brought the blood pooling to her cheeks.

  “How dare you! That’s a patently unfair comparison and well you know it.”

  “Maybe it is,” Greg admitted, “but the fact is, Cindy is our friend, her dog-child is missing, and the longer we stand around arguing about whose responsibility it is to go looking, the less likely we are to recover Bosco.”

  Cindy was as nice as ninepence, but she was Francesca’s assistant, not a peer. Then again, she’d shown herself to be a lifesaver from that first day when she’d gone above and beyond and driven Francesca back to her hotel so that she could change before the press conference.

  Greg reached out and cupped the tops of her shoulders, the heat of his palms searing her clothing, his strong fingers molding to her very bones, his firm gaze taking possession of hers. “Look, I understand you’re frustrated, Francesca. You’re a very goal-oriented person. It’s one of the things I…respect about you. But this single-mindedness isn’t about honoring your contract with the show or your promise to help me train, either. It’s about winning—and that’s all it’s about.”

  Francesca hesitated. He was right, more so than he could begin to know. The wager with Deidre hadn’t been about helping Greg, certainly not at first. It had been about wanting to prevail, to win. Above all, it had been about seeking revenge. She’d wanted it so much that she’d allowed herself to be goaded into jeopardizing her position on the show—and with it, her mother-daughter summer with Sam. Holding on to her Fashion Week seats—and her pride—no longer seemed so vitally important.

  “You’re right.”

  His hands fell away, which struck her as too bad really. She’d rather liked their warmth and feel. He sent her a surprised look. “I am?” Obviously he hadn’t expected her to surrender so easily. Francesca was more than a bit surprised about that herself.