Bachelorette for Sale

by Gail Chianese

  He held her upright with strong, warm hands wrapped around her upper arms making her feel safe, protected. A quizzical look was on his face as he asked, “What did you wish for?”

  “Nothing important.” Nothing I’d share with a stranger.

  “Then why wish for it?”

  Because to stop wishing means I’ve lost hope.

  His hands slipped down her arms, letting her go, and the cool air urged her to step closer, to seek the warmth that had just been there.

  “A silly habit left over from childhood.” Instead of stepping into the warmth, she stepped away, crossing her arm over her middle, clasping her other arm. “I’d given up on you and was on my way home.”

  “Busy day, followed by a flat. When I went to leave, Bambishka wasn’t too thrilled and wouldn’t move from in front of the door. It took some bribery to coax her to move. I was halfway here by the time I realized I forgot my phone.” He stepped to the side, hand swept out. “The restaurant is still holding our table, if you’re not too mad.”

  His tone of voice, the rueful expression on his face, and the fact that she was starving decided for her. She walked in the direction he indicated. “Who’s Bambishka?”

  The smile morphed into one of genuine pleasure, reaching his eyes. “She’s my best girl. A fifty-pound Staffordshire terrier.”

  “It’s an unusual name. What does it mean?”

  “It’s Russian for baby, which was her mom’s name. She came with it and wouldn’t answer to anything else. I’ve finally got her to answer—when she feels like it—to Bam.”

  A dog lover. Good, at least they’d have one thing to talk about, because she was here, which meant she’d make the most of the night. “Funny. I love Staffordshires. They’re a wonderful breed, and so smart and loyal. What are her markings like?”

  He looked at her, brows drawn together. “I didn’t take you for a dog person. I would have guessed maybe cats, or if you did like dogs, you’d go for those small ones women carry everywhere. Bam’s black and white, kind of like an Oreo cookie.”

  She stopped walking and looked at him, really looked at him. Still nibble-worthy, with serious eyes, but without the arrogant, impatient attitude he’d exhibited at their first meeting. Perhaps tonight wouldn’t be a date with the devil after all.

  “Actually, I like most animals. With dogs, it’s not necessarily the breed—almost all have good and bad qualities—it’s their personality. When I went to the Humane Society to get Tucker, my beagle, he was the only one not barking and jumping up and down. He sat there staring at me with those big brown eyes, and I was a goner.”

  His laughter came from deep inside, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Sounds like a smart pup. We’re here.” He pointed to a glass door with red writing: Jorge’s Cocina.

  Of all the tequila joints, he had to pick this one. Was it too late to claim a headache? Holding the sigh in, she smiled and stepped into the familiar festive lobby. Would it be asking too much of Lady Luck for Jorge to be off tonight, she wondered. Probably. The hostess sat them at a cozy table for two in the back corner, lit by flickering candles and dim sconces on the walls. A waitress appeared within seconds. The place was hopping. Not unusual. From the looks shooting their way from a few diners, she’d guess the quick service wasn’t universal. Great, she didn’t need the diva card played.

  The night’s specials were rattled off and the pert little thing took their drink orders: Corona for Jason and a strawberry margarita for her. Suddenly she felt the need for a little liquid courage.

  The waitress walked away and she and Jason looked at each other, waiting to see who would go first. Man, she hated blind dates. At least on the show she knew a little about each guy before their individual dates. Even with real blind dates your friend or whoever set you up gave you some kind of run down of the person. Tonight was all one-sided, Jason knew all about her. Well, what he might have seen on the show and then the lies told by the tabloids. Still it was more than she knew about him, which was his name and that he liked dogs.

  “You look beautiful tonight,” he said.

  “Thanks. Have you ever eaten here before?” She had no idea what to say, so she blurted out the first thing to come to her mind.

  Jason’s gaze was focused on the table. His hand slowly spun the coaster around and around, but the edges of his mouth turned up. Yeah, as far as opening conversation lines went, it was lame. At least she tried.

  Those oh-too-serious eyes met hers. “No, actually this was Dave’s recommendation. I was fine with Taco Bell.” He held her look, steady fingers never missing a beat in their slow rotation of the coaster.

  Sensing more behind the statement than mild teasing, she maintained eye contact and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell the owner I said so, but while this place is excellent, I would have been happy with Taco Bell.” Looking around to make sure no one was in hearing range, she continued, “I’ll let you in on a secret, TB and I have been carrying on a secret affair for years.”

  “Why the secret?”

  “Because of my best friend, Tawny. Her mom would kill us if she knew we ate that ‘garbage.’ And it’s not like her mom’s an awful cook. She’s amazing. Her tortillas melt in your mouth and her salsa is addictive. There’s just something about TB that keeps calling me back, and I can’t walk away for long periods of time. So there, you know my darkest secret.”

  “Somehow I doubt it.”

  The waitress arrived with their drinks, salsa, and fresh-baked chips hot from the oven and still steaming. Jason ordered shrimp fajitas. Turning to Cherry, the young girl waited, pen poised.

  “I’d like the enchiladas banderas, please. Hold the beans and rice. Instead, I’d like it served with a mix of lettuce and tomatoes with a small side of sour cream and pico de gallo. Also, no onions, guacamole, or jalapeños. Shredded chicken only and please ask the cook to use flour tortillas, not corn.” The waitress mumbled she’d try and started to step away. “Oh, wait, on second thought, can you ask the chef to skip the white sauce and make two with green sauce and one with red?”

  She turned back to Jason, who sat with his beer halfway to his mouth, eyes wide, an eyebrow cocked, and a strange tilt to his lips. “Did you enjoy being on a reality show?” he asked.

  Le Sigh. Here we go.

  He took a long pull on his beer. The muscles contracted as the liquid slid past his lips and down his throat, taking her mind on a pleasant side trip imagining the feel of his cool mouth on her hot flesh.

  Whoa. Chill, girl. Giving herself a small shake to clear her mind, she focused on the question at hand. “Yes and no. Are you from Providence originally?” Pulling her margarita closer, she sipped the sweet drink while studying him over the rim of the glass.

  “From the west side. I bet being on a TV show was exciting, having all those people waiting on you, taking care of your every need, traveling to exotic locations. Tell me the truth, do they stage some of it, you know, tell you what to say or do?”

  She threw back the rest of her margarita in one swallow before signaling the waitress for a refill.

  “I’m curious”—she accepted the new drink with a polite thank-you before continuing—“if Mr. Farber did the bidding, why are you here tonight instead of him?”

  Another long pull on his beer had her fascinated with his throat muscles as they worked, not so much that she didn’t notice the deliberate stall tactic or the sudden shift of eye contact away from her. Puh-lease, she didn’t date twenty-five guys and not learn a thing or two about reading the opposite sex. Mr. Jason Valentine was about to tell tales. The question was, would it be a little white lie or a big fat fib?

  “I was answering Mother Nature’s call when your bid started and asked him to stand in for me if I didn’t return in time.” His mouth might have curved upward, but the muscles remained relaxed, and she sensed the man was a skilled poker player.

  Temptation urged her to call him on his bluff, to lay his cards on the table because from the fi
rst moment they met, he’d showed anything except interest in her. “Why? Why me?”

  She watched as he choked on his beer. Didn’t see that one coming, did you, big guy?

  He sat the bottle down and looked up to meet her gaze. “I was really rude to you at the registration desk and wanted a chance to make up for it. I have no excuse except there was someone I needed to speak with and we were running late.”

  “At the gala?”

  “Yes. It didn’t turn out how I expected.”

  “Hmm, that’s unfortunate. So what do you do for a living?” Yep, nice safe topic. All guys loved to talk about their work.

  He swirled his beer around before bringing his gaze up to meet hers. She caught her breath—the look he gave her felt like he could see straight to her soul. “I’m self-employed. Nothing exciting. Were you a model or actress before you went on the show?”

  “No, why would you think that?”

  “You’re very beautiful. With your creamy skin and red hair, I’d think the camera would love you.”

  Heat stole across her cheeks. It’d been a while since she’d been on the receiving end of compliments. “Thank you. So what type of business are you in?”

  “You should think about it,” he said.

  Warning bells went off. She’d been down this road before. Which bachelor had that been? Twelve, thirteen, whatever. He didn’t want to answer any personal questions either, kept steering all conversation back to her, claimed to own his own business. Turned out he made low-quality, home-made porn movies and saw the show and Cherry as his ticket to stardom.

  “I’m not a fan of cameras.” Cherry looked around for the waitress. Hopefully dinner would arrive soon and she could get this night over.

  “I’m surprised. I mean with your looks, I’d think it’d be easy for you to break into the movies or modeling. You wouldn’t even have to move to LA, there’s lots of small, independent production companies located on the East Coast now.” His gaze dropped to her chest as he talked.

  A code red alarm slammed into her head. Wasn’t that what Bachelor Whatever said too? He had a small, independent production company. Dear Lord, weren’t there any nice guys left? Did she have to attract all the psychos? All the good ones were married, taken, or batting for the other team. She downed the rest of her second margarita, realizing for a split second she was a little tipsy, which was okay, because before this night ended she planned to be a lot drunk. Goodness knows she’d earned it.

  “Mr. Valentine—” She slammed her glass on the table, her voice rising.

  His head shot up, brows drawn together. Good, she had his full attention finally. “Are you interested in appearing on Finding Mrs. Right?”

  “No.”

  “Are you involved in the film, video, or magazine industry?”

  “Nooo.”

  “Good and before this night goes any further, let’s get a few things on the table, shall we. One”—she held up her fingers, ticking off her points—“I do not have any Hollywood connections. If you’re interested in getting on the show, the application is on their website. Nor do I know any other producers or agents. Two, I am not interested in being in any type of film production, artistic or not, and no, I don’t care if you’ve been recognized by any industry or at the Sundance Film Festival. Three, I don’t allow anyone to take my picture, especially without clothes on—”

  “What? Wait, you think I’m some kind of . . . of . . .”

  She’d give him credit, the shocked look on his face seemed genuine. “Yeah.”

  Running his hand through his hair, he mumbled something under his breath before he let out a laugh, a good deep sound straight from his gut. “I’m going to kill David.”

  Intrigued by his response, she scooted to the edge of her chair, resting her chin on the back of her hands. “So, you’re a creep and a homicidal maniac?”

  Wiping the corner of his eyes with his thumbs, he glanced at her with a carefree, mischievous smile. Mama mia, the combination of those oh-too-serious blue-green eyes glinting with humor and a lopsided trouble-seeking grin just about melted her panties right off.

  “No on the first and not yet on the second. How about we try this again and forget all preconceived notions and any advice from friends?”

  There was something about Jason, the sincerity in his voice, along with the whole panty-melting ability, that intrigued Cherry. Also, she was starving and looking forward to Jorge’s enchiladas, ones almost as good as his mom’s—and she should know, as she’d been eating them her whole life. So he’d get a second chance. She studied him for a few moments and then stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Cherry Ryan, and thanks for saving me from having a date with a drunk.”

  “Coming to the aid of a beautiful lady? Definitely my pleasure. However, I get the feeling you’re more the kick-ass-I’ll-do-it-myself heroine than a damsel-in-distress. Am I wrong?” Jason cocked his brow almost as if he dared her to deny it.

  “If I had a choice, I’d much rather be Black Widow than Sleeping Beauty. What would that make you? Not Prince Phillip, although he did slay Maleficent for Aurora. Would you slay the beast to save your true love?”

  “Luckily, I believe all of the dragons are now extinct and we’ll never have to find out.”

  She studied him over the rim of her glass. No, the prince was too Goody Two-Shoes for this guy. Jason wouldn’t play by the rules. He might have looked like the boy next door, but those laughing eyes and that scruff along his jawline firmly planted him as a rebel. “Ah, I don’t know why I didn’t see it right away. Iron Man.”

  Jason sat up straight, tilted his head and looked at her. “No way. Captain America is cooler.”

  Now, that was funny. So funny her laughter turned to wheezing as she tried to catch her breath. “Sorry, but no. I mean he’s cute and all righteous and heroic. But Tony Stark has it all: hot, I mean smoking hawt, rich, witty, intelligent, and he takes on gods. Hard to top that.”

  They argued for a few more minutes, neither conceding.

  “Baseball. Red Sox or Yankees?” Jason asked.

  “Duh, Sox. Please don’t say Yankees or they might refuse to serve us dinner.”

  “Are you kidding? The Sox are going to stomp all over those posers.”

  “Whew.” Cherry mock wiped sweat off her brow. “You had me worried for a moment.”

  They steered clear of topics like family and work and the show. They could save those for their second date. Whoa, now that got her attention. Most of the guys she’d met in the past year she hadn’t wanted to spend five minutes with. Thankfully he dropped the topic of her time in Hollywood. She’d prefer to forget she’d ever been on the show. If she had a super power it would be to turn back time. She would have never let Tawny talk her into the idea of finding her soul mate, the one guy who above all others could and would connect with her on a deeper level to accept her for who she truly was, warts and all, on a reality show.

  She pushed the maudlin thoughts away to focus on the man in front of her, because while she no longer believed her Prince Charming existed, Jason Valentine wasn’t the toad she’d initially believed him to be.

  “You and David have been friends since you were kids?”

  “Yeah, it’s always been the three of us.”

  “Three?” Crud, this was why she should stay focused.

  “Brody?” His brow arched as his voice lifted at the end of the name. “Anyway, it’s always been Dave, Brody, and me. What one didn’t think of the other did, and we thought of a lot of things that got us in trouble. We were always together. Made it easy for our parents to find us. We’ve been friends since the first day of school.”

  “The three amigos. Sounds like a fun way to grow up.”

  “It had its moments. What about you?”

  Her childhood had its moments—good, bad, and horrendous—and judging by the smirk on a certain chef’s face and the trembling lip of the waitress as she approached their table, it looked like she was about to experience ano
ther one. The waitress set the giant serving tray down on the stand and laid out Jason’s fajitas and the myriad of side dishes to go with it. Lastly, she reached for a plate and sat it in front of Cherry.

  Looking down, Cherry inspected the interesting dish. It was pretty. Smelled delicious. The presentation was colorful and artfully arranged. However, it was most definitely not enchiladas banderas or enchiladas. “Excuse me. I believe you brought me the wrong dish. This is not what I ordered.” She gave the young girl a polite smile.

  The waitress chewed on her lower trembling lip, twisting her fingers together. She would not meet Cherry’s gaze. “I have a message from the chef. You will eat what he makes for you and like it, or you can leave and never come back.” The poor thing’s voice squeaked several times like a scared mouse.

  Cherry sat back and contemplated this latest play in the game while watching the girl. Clearly Jorge did not let the new waitress in on who Cherry really was, and the girl expected to have an irate customer on her hands. She didn’t know what Jorge was up to, but she’d find out in due time.

  “What is this?”

  “El Huarachito.”

  “Tell Jorge I’ll eat his concoction out of respect for my dining companion. As to whether I’ll like it or not, that remains to be seen.”

  Cherry poked at her food to determine what experimental dish she’d been served this time. Taking a bite, she struggled to keep the pleasure from showing on her face.

  Jason filled his tortilla, watching her, waiting for her reaction. “Well, what’s the verdict?”

  “Between you and me, absolutely wonderful. My answer to the chef, Jorge, is it’s okay. Otherwise his ego will take up the whole room and the rest of us will have no air to breathe. No worries, you can eat. The chef and I go way back and this is a ritual of ours.”

  His laugh came out deep and rich and warm. The corners of his eyes crinkled and creases ran from his nose to his jaw, looking so natural she thought he must laugh often. “As long as you know what you’re doing, because I might have to kill someone if they try to take my food away right now.”