If You Can't Take the Heat

by Melissa Brown

  “And what information is that?”

  “Jameson. He didn’t have a heart attack. He was coked out of his mind.”

  I knew it!

  “He OD’d? Is he alive?”

  “Barely. He’s still in the hospital and he’s agreed to seek treatment. Officially, he’ll be treated for exhaustion.”

  Of course. Exhaustion, the term for “I’m a celebrity and I screwed up so badly they’re sending me away for several months, but my publicist will kill me if I admit to what I actually did.”

  “Right.” Whitney nodded. “That’s to be expected, I guess.”

  “He’ll be gone for at least ninety days, Whit,” Chris added, raising his eyebrows.

  Do it, Chris. Drop the bomb. Tell me I was awful and put me out of my misery. Then I can go back to my regular job and everyone wins.

  “We reviewed the tapes from yesterday and we couldn’t be happier with you, Whitney. We want you to be the new host of the show.”

  Whitney couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Um . . . what now?”

  “I know it’s sudden, but we can do cuts to eliminate Jameson altogether. It’s better for him and us. No one has to know he ever filmed a take.”

  “But I’m a nobody. Wouldn’t you rather have another celebrity?”

  Chris and Saul shared an awkward look. Something was up.

  “C’mon, just tell me. Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

  “The budget won’t allow it, since we still have to pay Jameson in full.”

  “You do?” Whitney was shocked. He hadn’t even come close to finishing the job.

  “Ironclad contract,” Saul said. “Celebrities want at least a million for this kind of gig. We just can’t pay another person that much when we’re already paying the Captain.”

  Well, I’m not doing it for free.

  Whitney crossed her arms, tipping her head to the side. Saul chuckled, understanding the gesture.

  She felt bold, powerful, able to take a risk. “Okay, gentlemen. Let’s talk numbers.”

  “We’re willing to pay you a lump sum of two hundred thousand to get this locked down,” Saul began. “I’ll also give you the thirty thousand I promised you months ago, regardless of the ratings.”

  Whitney struggled not to allow her bottom lip to drop to the table. That was more than double her annual salary! That money would be life-changing. She could put a down payment on a small house, she could travel the world with Wes, she could do so many things.

  “And,” Saul added, “because you’d be helping us out of a jam, and loyalty means everything to me, you, Ms. Bartolina, will always have a place at the network.” He raised one eyebrow. “No matter what.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  She knew exactly what that meant—she’d never be fired. But I want to hear him say it.

  “I’m granting you tenure of sorts. As long as you wish to be employed by the network, you will be.”

  “Can I get that in writing?”

  “Absolutely. I’d have it no other way.”

  “There’s, uh . . . there’s one thing, though,” Chris added. “And I hate to be the one to say this, but as the host, there are different . . . expectations.”

  What the hell does that mean? Do I need more frequent waxing sessions? Do I need hair extensions?

  “Part of the language in your new contract states, ‘No personal relationships with contestants.’”

  “Oh.” In the blink of an eye, the cottage vanished, the trips disappeared, and her excitement faded away.

  Saul added, “I’ve been willing to look the other way since your job technically ended months ago, but now, it’s different. We could be sued if a contestant felt you influenced the judges. So we’ll need you to agree to no personal relationships with contestants until the finale has aired.”

  “The finale? But that’s months from now! I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  “Just”—Saul quickly interrupted, putting one hand up to stop her—“take the weekend to think about it. We’ll be focusing on more in-depth contestant bios today so you’re not even, technically, needed on set. Take the next few days to mull it over, consider your options and let me know first thing Monday.”

  “And if I say no?” Whitney was feeling bold. “Will my job be at stake?”

  “Absolutely not.” Saul shook his head, his brow furrowed. “You’re a valued member of this team. If you say no, I’ll be disappointed of course, but I won’t hold it against you. I’ll respect whatever you decide.”

  Wow.

  “But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want you hosting this show. You’ve got something, kid. Something others would kill for.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Charisma.” He opened up his hands, his palms facing the ceiling. “You have a presence, a larger-than-life personality. You need to entertain the possibility that you’ve been on the wrong side of the camera for years, and you owe it to yourself to explore this opportunity that thousands would kill for.”

  “It could open up a whole new world for you, Whit.” Chris nodded. “Really.”

  What if I don’t want a whole new world? What if I love my world just as it is?

  “I truly appreciate your words. Seriously. So many compliments that will probably take me days to process. But I’m not sure. My personal relationships are . . . well, they’re mine. And I’m not sure I can sacrifice them for any opportunity.”

  “Just take the weekend, Whitney.” Saul stood, offering his hand. “You have my home number. Use it.”

  “Yes, sir.” She stood and shook his hand. “I will.”

  Whitney wanted to climb the walls as she waited for Wes to arrive on set. After several caffeinated beverages and no food to offset the jolts of energy and anxiety intermingling in her abdomen, she felt like a lunatic. She paced the entrance of the studio waiting for her cowboy to arrive for the day.

  Six fifty-five.

  Five more minutes. C’mon, Wes. Show up.

  “Morning.” Joe looked awfully chipper as he closed the studio door behind him and removed his Ray-Bans. “You’re here early.”

  “Yeah, well”—she spoke quickly, her fingers tapping against her crossed arm—“I had a meeting.”

  “All right then.” He looked puzzled as he made his way to his dressing room. Whitney was relieved that he didn’t linger to speak to her, although she felt bad being dismissive of Joe. He was always a friendly guy, but he would only distract her from the conflicting thoughts buzzing around her brain.

  Wes finally arrived, looking impossibly handsome behind his aviator glasses, oxford shirt with cuffs rolled up halfway to his elbows, dark jeans, and signature heavy leather boots.

  “I got your text.” He placed both hands on her waist, looking down at her with concern. “Everything all right?”

  She shook her head quickly, stepping out of his grasp. “No. Come with me. We need to talk.” She led him to his dressing room, where he removed his sunglasses and placed both hands on his hips in expectation.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Um, okay, where do I start?”

  Her phone buzzed. She ignored it.

  “How much coffee have you had? You’re tweaking like crazy.”

  “It’s fine. I had to wake up. You look way too good, by the way.”

  “I only need about four hours.” He shrugged, making Whitney jealous. She was lost without seven hours of quality sleep. “Let me get you something to eat, so you can calm down. You’re making me nervous.”

  “I’m fine. Listen, something’s come up.”

  Wes’s brow furrowed, and he crossed his arms in front of his chest. His eyes were cautious, as if he was prepared for the worst. “Okay.”

  “They want me to host. Permanently.”

  Wes’s eyes lit up and he clapped his large hands together. “That’s fantastic, baby. Congratulations. I knew they’d want you, you were a natural yesterday.”

  She waved him off.
“You always say that.”

  “Only because it’s true. You’re much more talented than you realize.”

  Unable to resist turning the conversation sexual, she raised one eyebrow. “Oh, I know I’m talented, and I think you do too.”

  He closed the space between them, stroking her hair and kissing her forehead. “Want to lock the door?”

  “No!” she yelled. Wes took a step back with arms up in surrender.

  “Whoa, sorry.”

  “Shit. No, that’s not how I meant to say that. It’s the caffeine, sorry.” She crossed the gap between them, and ran a hand down Wes’s cheek. No stubble. She couldn’t wait for later when it would rise to touch her fingers.

  “What’s going on?” he deadpanned with a tick in his jaw. The look on his face said it all. He thought she was ending things.

  “If I do it, I have to sign a nonfraternization clause. No one can know we’re together and I’d have to keep my distance until the show ends. Other contestants could sue if they thought I influenced the judges.”

  Her phone buzzed again. Dammit, give me a minute!

  He stared at her, his eyes solemn. “Did you take the job?”

  “Not yet. I have the weekend to think about it.”

  “What’s your hesitation?” he asked and she knew he was testing her. For the first time since they’d met, their interaction was awkward. Normally they were fluid, relaxed, on the same page. Not now. He wasn’t understanding her genuine hesitation.

  “I won’t deny you.” She shook her head. “I won’t let anyone make me do that.”

  Wes’s shoulders relaxed and he pulled her in for a tight hug. “What are they offering you?”

  “A lot.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Two hundred K with a huge bonus.”

  Wes sighed. “You should do it.”

  Whitney pulled away. “What? No. I can’t pretend like we’re not together. I won’t do that, Wesson.” Anger was building within her. She’d spent so many years with selfish men who focused on their careers, their wants, their needs, never taking hers into account. She wouldn’t lose the first man to ever make her a priority. The one man she couldn’t see herself living without, no matter how many homes she could afford, how many trips she could take. None of it was worth it without Wes.

  “I’ll quit,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Whitney couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She shook her head, closing her eyes tight. “No! Don’t even say that. You want this!”

  He threaded his fingers through her belt loops, pulling her closer until her chest pressed to his. A genuine smile crossed his handsome face. “I want you more.”

  “No.” She shook her head. She couldn’t get her thoughts to slow down. Damn coffee! “I can’t let you do this. You’ve worked too hard, you left Montana—”

  “For you.”

  Her stomach fluttered and her eyes watered. She cleared her throat before speaking. “What?”

  “I left Montana for you. I’ve been honest with you from the beginning. You’re the reason I’m here. Always have been.”

  “But you also told me you want this now. You want to win. You deserve to win.”

  A cocky grin spread across his face. “I’m my father’s son. He wanted my mother more than that gun. So he sold it.”

  “I’m not a gun,” she said with narrowed eyes.

  “You know what I mean.” He kissed her gently, his lips lingering slightly before he pulled away. “I’ll tell Chris today, you’ll get the opportunity of a lifetime, and I’ll get you. Everybody wins.”

  “Chris would have my head. We can’t have a final four contestant drop out at the last minute! It’ll dismantle the entire show. We’ll have to start from the beginning. It’ll cost hundreds of thousands in production costs, I could lose my job for allowing my personal life to affect the show, and you’d have to deal with the raging unemployed bitch I’d become. Then we both lose.” She was only half-joking. It was quite possible that if Wes left the show, the domino effect to the competition would be catastrophic.

  Her phone buzzed again. Only this time, something in her gut told her to answer it.

  “I’m sorry, I have no idea—” She studied the screen. Three missed calls from Elle. “Oh my God. Shit, shit, shit.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Elle’s been calling me. Something must be wrong.” She dialed Elle’s number. Luke answered within seconds.

  “Whitney, thank God.”

  Anxiety filled her chest. “Talk to me, Luke. What’s going on? Where’s Elle?”

  “She’s here. We’re just pulling up to the hospital. Her water broke.”

  “But it’s too early!” she shrieked. “She still has another month to go!”

  “I know.” Luke’s voice was serious, stern. “She needs you.” She could hear him pull away from the phone. “We need a wheelchair here! My wife’s in early labor!”

  “I’ll be right there.” She threw her phone into her purse. “I gotta go. Elle’s in labor . . . and it’s early, too early. Not to mention she has high blood pressure!”

  Wes ran his hands down her shoulders, attempting to calm her. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, you have to stay. You have bios today and you can’t miss that. I promised Chris my personal life wouldn’t affect the show.” Her mind was racing a mile a minute. She had to get to Elle.

  “Call me,” Wes said, giving her one last kiss before she left. “We’ll figure everything else out later.”

  “Thank you,” she said, pulling him in for a hug. “You’re such a good man.”

  Whitney grabbed her purse and walked swiftly from the room, closing the door behind her and picking up her pace until she was jogging toward the studio door.

  “Whoa, where’s the fire, love?

  Charlie.

  “Elle’s in labor, baby’s a month early,” Whitney said, pushing against the door. She was flustered, disoriented. “Sorry, can’t talk. She needs me.”

  Charlie said nothing and Whitney didn’t care. If anyone was not her focus at the moment it was Charlie Hutchins. She ran to her car and raced to UCLA Medical Center to meet Luke and Elle.

  When she arrived at labor and delivery, however, they were nowhere to be found. The nurse behind the desk attempted to calm her down. “Please, tell me what’s going on. I’m her emergency contact, please talk to me!”

  “What’s your name?” The woman with bright blue glasses typed into her computer.

  “Bartolina, Whitney. I’m on there, I know I am.”

  “Yes, you are.” She offered a comforting smile but Whitney was anything but comforted. “Mrs. Kingston is in surgery. She required an emergency caesarean. I’m afraid I can’t tell you more than that. Just have a seat in the waiting area and when Mr. Kingston leaves the OR I’ll send him to see you.”

  “Please, take care of my friend. I love her more than . . . than—”

  The nurse removed her glasses, stood and walked around the desk, and wrapped one arm around Whitney. “Oh, you poor thing, you’re shaking. Please try not to worry, all right? We have dozens of C-sections a week. She should be just fine, she’s in excellent hands.”

  Whitney spent the next hour pacing the waiting room, answering texts from Wes checking on Elle. She wished she had news. She approached the desk, hoping for an update, when she saw him. Luke, a broad smile on his face, and tears streaming down his cheeks, was dressed head to toe in blue scrubs, little blue booties on his feet.

  “Whit, she’s here! Our baby girl’s here!”

  “And Elle?” she asked, her voice cracking. “How is she?”

  “She’s fine,” he said, nodding. “She’s in recovery. We’ll be able to see her in a couple of hours.”

  “Hours?” Whitney screeched. “I need to see her, Luke.”

  Luke pulled Whitney in for a hug. “She’s okay, Whit. It was scary for a while, but she’s fine.”

  “What happened?”

  “Pre
eclampsia.”

  “You may as well be speaking another language. I have no idea what that is.”

  Luke released a soft chuckle at Whitney’s lack of pregnancy knowledge. “When we got here, they checked her blood pressure. It was through the roof so they prepped her for surgery. Preeclampsia can be fatal. It’s not something you mess with.”

  Fatal? Are you freaking kidding me? How did things get so out of hand?

  “But she’s all right? You promise me she’s okay?

  Luke nodded. “Yes, I swear. Once the baby’s delivered, things calm down in most cases. Elle’s returned to normal.”

  “And the baby? Is she okay?”

  He nodded. “She’s tiny, but her lungs look okay. They’re going to run some tests now in the NICU. Elle made it to thirty-six weeks, which is a good thing. A very good thing.”

  Whitney looped an arm through Luke’s. “Take me to your girl.”

  “I begged the nurses to wait for me. I want to be there for everything.”

  “And because you’re Luke Kingston, I’m sure they agreed,” Whitney chuckled. “What’s her name?”

  Luke grinned. “Elle wants to tell you herself. You just have to wait a few hours till she’s out of recovery.”

  Whitney watched behind thick glass as Luke aided the nurses in all sorts of postpartum rituals. First, the baby was weighed and measured. Luke held up his fingers indicating she was five pounds, six ounces. Next, they took his daughter’s footprints, dipping her little piggies onto a pad of ink before pressing them to thick paper. He held the birth certificate up for Whitney to see, a look of pure pride on his tear-soaked face. Then, they washed her as she screamed her little head off. Whitney giggled behind her hand before realizing that her cheeks were coated in tears as well. Her best friend had brought life into the world, and even though they weren’t related by blood, it was as if another piece of her now existed. She couldn’t wait to spoil this little girl!

  Whitney pressed her hand to the glass as she watched Luke take a seat, holding his tightly swaddled miracle to his chest, kissing her periodically on her tiny little forehead.

  And right there, standing in the hallway of UCLA Medical Center’s maternity ward, Whitney Bartolina knew, without a doubt, that despite everything she thought she knew about herself, she wanted to be a mother.