by J. Kenner
"Oh. Sure."
Brooke watched them go, hoping that was a good sign. Then she moved to the window and put her forehead against the glass as she looked down the four stories from this suite in Austin's historic Driskill Hotel to the hustle-and-bustle of afternoon traffic on Sixth Street.
She'd always heard that The Driskill was haunted, but right now she disagreed. It wasn't haunted; it was magical. A place with the power to completely change her life. Or, more accurately, to justify her choices. To finally prove to her surgeon father and oncologist mother that she knew her own mind and could run her own life.
She'd dropped out of med school mid-way through her first semester because her dream had always been to fix property, not people. Growing up, she'd gravitated more toward her grandfather and uncle's property development business than to her parents' medical practices. A reality that they'd written off to a child playing with toys. They'd expected her to get serious about medicine and had paid for a top-notch education.
It hadn't been pretty when she'd thrown it all back in their faces. Her father's words, not hers. But she couldn't be a doctor when the interest just wasn't there. It wouldn't be fair to her. And it certainly wouldn't be fair to whatever patient happened to wander into her office.
Now, four years after walking away before her second semester at Southwestern Medical School, she'd finally launched The Business Plan, a commercial renovation company specializing in small businesses that are open to the public. Bars, restaurants, B&Bs, and the like. It was a hell of a lot of work, but she was in the black, if just barely, and her current focus was on getting more clients. Which meant she needed to be out there, front and center so that she was in the line of sight of people who might want to hire her.
To that end, she'd finagled a regular segment on one of Austin's local morning shows. In each segment, she featured her recent clients and explained to viewers how to tackle various property renovation projects, using video footage she shot during construction.
It wasn't going to win her an Emmy, but the station kept inviting her back, so she knew the ratings must be decent.
But if she could land this television show, then she'd finally, truly be on the map. She'd garner local press, interviews, the works. And the exposure would surely give her the clout and the contacts to tackle even more challenging projects.
And maybe--maybe--her father would stop looking at her like she was a failure.
Foolishly, she crossed her fingers. She tried to cross her toes, too, but her spectacular shoes didn't allow for that, and she stumbled sideways as she tried to quickly put fingers and toes back in place when the door opened, and the two execs came back in, their bright smiles in place, but so generic that she couldn't tell if there was good news behind them.
"Have a seat, Brooke," Molly said, and this time when she smiled Brooke saw a dimple. A genuine smile. Her stomach flipped, and she hoped against hope that she wasn't reading the situation wrong.
Brooke did as she was told and perched on the edge of the sofa, her hands clasped on her knees so that she wouldn't fidget.
"As you know," the guy said, "we're on a tight schedule."
Brooke nodded. It had been less than a month ago that she'd seen the small announcement in the local paper. She'd learned that The Design and Destination Channel was accepting proposals for an Austin-based real estate show. She'd had less than a day to meet the deadline, and she'd thrown together a proposal, including video footage to prove she didn't look horrible on camera.
She'd been prepared to wait, but had heard back three days later. After an extensive phone interview, she'd received an invitation to this meeting. And the proposal she'd just presented wasn't much different from what had been on paper. Presumably, they just wanted to see if she was personable.
"We'll be honest," Molly added. "Andy and I both think that The Business Plan is the best proposal we have on the table."
Andy. That was his name.
Then Molly's words registered, and Brooke forced herself not to squeal. "That's great to hear." She managed not to keep her voice level, but from Molly's smile, Brooke knew that her excitement showed.
"We already have a crew in town and ready to go, and the plan is to get on the air soon with whichever show we end up choosing. As you know, we have a gap in our schedule that we're looking to fill with original content, and so this is going to be tight. But if all the pieces come together, it should work."
"Whatever you need me to do," Brooke said. "I'm ready to jump in."
Molly and Andy exchanged glances. "And the bar that you discussed in the proposal? The Fix on Sixth? They're ready to jump in, too?"
"The bar?" Brooke swallowed, thankful she hadn't taken off her light silk jacket, because she could feel her underarms getting sticky with nerves. "You're right that it would be perfect. But I thought I was clear that it was just one example of a possible location. I listed several in the proposal since we'd be focusing on a different location each episode."
Andy shook his head. "All property renovation programs do that. We want to go with a different spin. All episodes centered around the same location. In this case, we want to focus on the bar. The Fix on Sixth is perfect for what we have in mind."
"Oh. Oh, that's great." Brooke cleared her throat as she stood and returned to the window. She glanced down to Sixth Street, her gaze moving across the street and a few blocks to the east, so that she could see the bar in question.
Brooke's friend Amanda, a real estate broker, had told Brooke that The Fix needed a bit of a facelift to get it ready for a big marketing push, and that Brooke should apply for the job.
The way Amanda told it, The Fix had until the end of the year to increase revenue. If they couldn't turn the place around and get it fully in the black, then the bar would close its doors, and Austin would lose a beloved venue. A place with great drinks, live music, and lots of local color.
Management was doing everything it could do keep the bar thriving, and that included sponsoring a Man of the Month calendar contest. The bar would hold live contests every couple of weeks, and by the fall, they'd have their twelve hot men to put on a calendar to sell to the public. If it worked as intended, the contest would draw in crowds--and the bar's management wanted to do a quick-and-dirty renovation to update the bar's look.
Brooke had figured that a stage full of hot guys would catch the network's eye, and so she'd included The Fix and a description of the calendar contest in the proposal. Apparently she'd been right, so she had to applaud her instincts. But she hadn't expected things to move quite so fast.
Because while she thought the plan was brilliant and that The Fix would undoubtedly want to be featured on a show, she hadn't actually pitched the idea to the bar. Yet.
That was supposed to happen tonight at her first meeting with Jenna Montgomery, the partner who was in charge of marketing. But surely Jenna would--
"Brooke?"
She looked up, then realized that she'd missed an entire thread of conversation.
"I'm sorry. I was looking at The Fix. I'm so excited I got lost in my thoughts." She swallowed, then offered a big Texas smile. "What did you say?"
"We want to confirm that The Fix's management is amenable to having a film crew there for the entire duration of their calendar contest."
"Oh! Yes, absolutely," she lied as she dried her palms on her skirt. "The bar is one hundred percent all in." She cleared her throat, hoping that her nose wasn't growing. "In fact, I have a meeting there tonight. I'll tell them the good news."
"Wonderful." Molly's smile widened.
"So, um, what now? Do you have a contract I can forward my attorney?" Surely the folks at the bar would agree. Worst case, Brooke would bow out gracefully.
"Actually, there's one other thing we need to discuss first."
"Oh." Her smile was beginning to feel a little forced. She wanted to get out of that room so she could kick off her shoes and celebrate. Followed closely by an intense freak-out session an
d a few fervent prayers to the god of desperate women.
"We want you to partner with Spencer Dean."
Her throat tightened and her pulse skittered at the mention of the only man she'd ever loved. The man she'd planned to marry. To spend her life with.
The man who now despised her.
"Spencer?" She licked her lips. "I--I don't think he's working in television anymore."
For four of the last five years, Spencer and his partner Brian had starred in a house-flipping program. She'd watched only one episode. It hurt too much to see Spencer on screen. Those dark eyes that she'd once believed knew her so well. Those strong, calloused hands that had stroked her skin. His mustache and beard that had tickled her ear as he'd whispered sweet, sexy, decadent things.
He'd held her close and they'd made so many plans, so many promises. And then everything had shattered.
Brian. She fought a shudder of revulsion.
He was the other reason she hadn't watched Spencer's show. It hurt to see Spence. But seeing Brian made her curl up into a useless ball of pain and self-loathing.
Their show had been called Spencer's Place, because it was as much about his personality as about the house-flipping. The show had been about to launch when the wedding plans had imploded, and it had run for four years before ending with a sudden and surprising finality. The tabloids speculated as to the reasons, but no one seemed to know for sure.
Neither did Brooke. But she knew Spencer well enough to know that if he'd decided it was time to back away from television, nothing would draw him back. Least of all her.
"It's true that he left Spencer's Place," Andy acknowledged, an edge to his voice. "But in doing so, he breached his contract. Spencer Dean still owes us one season of a television show. And we think this is the perfect vehicle."
"Oh, I don't know. I was envisioning this as a solo show." She realized she was holding the collar of her jacket closed and forced herself to relax.
"Brooke, darling." Molly's voice dripped with syrup. "You're beautiful, you're charming. You've got the poise and the good looks. What you aren't is a proven commodity. Spencer Dean is. Do you have any idea how popular he was during the course of the show?"
She did, of course. But she still couldn't imagine them wanting to put her on a show with Spencer. They might not know the details of their break-up, but they must know it wasn't pretty.
But then the real truth hit her. It wasn't her proposal that intrigued them. It wasn't even the renovations or the sexy men at The Fix. Not entirely, anyway.
What the producers wanted was drama. And as soon as they saw her name on a proposal, they saw a way to manufacture chaos. This was reality TV, after all. And even for a property renovation program, the network was going to want fireworks.
She shot a hard look at both Molly and Andy. "Really," she said firmly. "That's not at all what I had in mind."
"Let me be more clear." The syrup in Molly's voice had turned to steel. "The network wants you and Spencer. Without Spencer Dean, there is no show."
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Who's Your Man of the Month?
When a group of fiercely determined friends realize their beloved hang-out is in danger of closing, they take matters into their own hands to bring back customers lost to a competing bar. Fighting fire with a heat of their own, they double down with the broad shoulders, six-pack abs, and bare chests of dozens of hot, local guys who they cajole, prod, and coerce into auditioning for a Man of the Month calendar.
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Hold On Tight
Need You Now
Start Me Up
Get It On
In Your Eyes
Turn Me On
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All Night Long
In Too Deep
Light My Fire
Walk The Line
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Chapter One
A cool ocean breeze caresses my bare shoulders, and I shiver, wishing I'd taken my roommate's advice and brought a shawl with me tonight. I arrived in Los Angeles only four days ago, and I haven't yet adjusted to the concept of summer temperatures changing with the setting of the sun. In Dallas, June is hot, July is hotter, and August is hell.
Not so in California, at least not by the beach. LA Lesson Number One: Always carry a sweater if you'll be out after dark.
Of course, I could leave the balcony and go back inside to the party. Mingle with the millionaires. Chat up the celebrities. Gaze dutifully at the paintings. It is a gala art opening, after all, and my boss brought me here to meet and greet and charm and chat. Not to lust over the panorama that is coming alive in front of me. Bloodred clouds bursting against the pale orange sky. Blue-gray waves shimmering with dappled gold.
I press my hands against the balcony rail and lean forward, drawn to the intense, unreachable beauty of the setting sun. I regret that I didn't bring the battered Nikon I've had since high school. Not that it would have fit in my itty-bitty beaded purse. And a bulky camera bag paired with a little black dress is a big, fat fashion no-no.
But this is my very first Pacific Ocean sunset, and I'm determined to document the moment. I pull out my iPhone and snap a picture.
"Almost makes the paintings inside seem redundant, doesn't it?" I recognize the throaty, feminine voice and turn to face Evelyn Dodge, retired actress turned agent turned patron of the arts--and my hostess for the evening.
"I'm so sorry. I know I must look like a giddy tourist, but we don't have sunsets like this in Dallas."
"Don't apologize," she says. "I pay for that view every month when I write the mortgage check. It damn well better be spectacular."
I laugh, immediately more at ease.
"Hiding out?"
"Excuse me?"
"You're Carl's new assistant, right?" she asks, referring to my boss of three days.
"Nikki Fairchild."
"I remember now. Nikki from Texas." She looks me up and down, and I wonder if she's disappointed that I don't have big hair and cowboy boots. "So who does he want you to charm?"
"Charm?" I repeat, as if I don't know exactly what she means.
She cocks a single brow. "Honey, the man would rather walk on burning coals than come to an art show. He's fishing for investors and you're the bait." She makes a rough noise in the back of her throat. "Don't worry. I won't press you to tell me who. And I don't blame you for hiding out. Carl's brilliant, but he's a bit of a prick."
"It's the brilliant part I signed on for," I say, and she barks out a laugh.
The truth is that she's right about me being the bait. "Wear a cocktail dress," Carl had said. "Something flirty."
Seriously? I mean, Seriously?
I should have told him to wear his own damn cocktail dress. But I didn't. Because I want this job. I fought to get this job. Carl's company, C-Squared Technologies, successfully launched three web-based products in the last eighteen mo
nths. That track record had caught the industry's eye, and Carl had been hailed as a man to watch.
More important from my perspective, that meant he was a man to learn from, and I'd prepared for the job interview with an intensity bordering on obsession. Landing the position had been a huge coup for me. So what if he wanted me to wear something flirty? It was a small price to pay.
Shit.
"I need to get back to being the bait," I say.
"Oh, hell. Now I've gone and made you feel either guilty or self-conscious. Don't be. Let them get liquored up in there first. You catch more flies with alcohol anyway. Trust me. I know."
She's holding a pack of cigarettes, and now she taps one out, then extends the pack to me. I shake my head. I love the smell of tobacco--it reminds me of my grandfather--but actually inhaling the smoke does nothing for me.
"I'm too old and set in my ways to quit," she says. "But God forbid I smoke in my own damn house. I swear, the mob would burn me in effigy. You're not going to start lecturing me on the dangers of secondhand smoke, are you?"
"No," I promise.
"Then how about a light?"
I hold up the itty-bitty purse. "One lipstick, a credit card, my driver's license, and my phone."
"No condom?"
"I didn't think it was that kind of party," I say dryly.
"I knew I liked you." She glances around the balcony. "What the hell kind of party am I throwing if I don't even have one goddamn candle on one goddamn table? Well, fuck it." She puts the unlit cigarette to her mouth and inhales, her eyes closed and her expression rapturous. I can't help but like her. She wears hardly any makeup, in stark contrast to all the other women here tonight, myself included, and her dress is more of a caftan, the batik pattern as interesting as the woman herself.
She's what my mother would call a brassy broad--loud, large, opinionated, and self-confident. My mother would hate her. I think she's awesome.
She drops the unlit cigarette onto the tile and grinds it with the toe of her shoe. Then she signals to one of the catering staff, a girl dressed all in black and carrying a tray of champagne glasses.