Text Wars: May the Text be With You ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 3)

by Whitney Dineen

  “And call me as soon as you’re done so we can celebrate over the phone!”

  “Okay, Mom. Love you.”

  “Love you too, my big TV star son!”

  I get to the studio precisely twelve minutes early, which I’ve determined to be the right arrival time for any occasion. Fifteen minutes is too long because I get panicky and want to leave right around the fourteen-minute mark, whereas ten isn’t quite enough for me to acclimate myself to my new surroundings.

  The tired-looking security guard gives me a visitor’s badge and points down the hall. “Take the elevator to the fifteenth floor and someone will meet you.”

  By the time I get there, my tongue feels like it’s transformed from a human-sized into a giant cow’s tongue. I’m about to choke on it. Well, that’s going to help me speak coherently, isn’t it?

  When the elevator doors open, I follow the signs that lead to Wake Up America!’s dressing rooms. As soon as I arrive at my destination, I’m stunned speechless by the brightly lit room filled with gorgeous women. They are way too beautiful to be average, everyday people. I check the floor number again to make sure I’m at the Wake Up America! studio and unfortunately, I am. Great. Beautiful women. This is the last thing I need.

  “You! You there!” a woman with a clipboard and headset yells. “Are you our Gemini?”

  I glance around and realize she’s talking to me. “Pardon?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Did the agency send you?”

  I’ve never heard NASA referred to as “the agency,” but I suppose it fits. “Yes.”

  “Okay, we don’t have a spot for you yet because we can’t put you in the dressing room with the other models … unless you’re gay. Are you gay?”

  All the other women stop what they’re doing to listen to our conversation, which causes my anxiety to shoot up to the mesosphere. Okay, I’m exaggerating — more like the troposphere. My mouth suddenly becomes so dry, I can’t speak. I shake my head to indicate that I’m not, in fact, gay. Although I’m still not sure why that matters.

  Apparently, my sexuality is a real irritation for her because she rolls her eyes. “Wait over by the wall and I’ll get someone to find a room for you.”

  I nod, then do as she says, glad to be standing in a corner away from all the action. Grabbing my cell out of my suit jacket pocket, I pretend to be reading something riveting to avoid the possibility of anyone striking up a conversation with me. Also, to avoid actually looking at these women because there’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate around any of them.

  A few minutes later, the gorgeous crowd is ushered through a door that says Green Room. That’s when a young man with a headset comes out to greet me.

  “I’m Justin, the unpaid, under-appreciated intern.” He looks me up and down, and says, “Man, I know you guys end up wearing some pretty odd outfits, but the pants they picked for you…” He pauses and makes a clicking sound with his teeth. “It’s really out there.”

  What uncomfortable outfits is he referring to? Spacesuits? I’m about to tell him I’m not an actual astronaut, but really, what’s the point? It would only lead to questions I don’t want to answer.

  He turns and leads me through a set of double doors and down a long hall as my mind races to figure out what exactly is going on. “What’s wrong with what I have on?” I ask. Navy sports jacket, light blue button-up shirt, and tan slacks. The man at the store told me it’s a classic look for any occasion.

  “Personally, I think you look great, but apparently they want everyone wearing clothes for their star sign. Are you really a Gemini, or is that just the outfit they’re giving you?”

  I pause for a moment, aggravation scraping my insides at the very mention of anything to do with astrology. My mom religiously tracks her horoscope and has been known to cancel vacations if Mercury is in retrograde. If Mars or Venus go into retrograde, she refuses to leave the house. I tell the intern, “I was born on June twentieth, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “They really are going for authenticity, then.” He stops in front of an open door and points to the clothes rack. “You might want to try it on and make sure it fits. Those pants look, well, like they were bought in the boys department.”

  I stare, my mouth hanging down, at a pair of bright yellow pants, a white button-up shirt and a green sweater vest. Justin’s gone before I can tell him there’s no way I’m wearing that ensemble on national television. Then an image of me sitting front row at a shuttle launch pops into my mind. Maybe it won’t be so bad. If I end up behind a desk, no one will even see my legs. I hope, because if not, I’m about to renew my membership in the geeks and freaks club.

  Glancing at my watch, I see it’s only five, so I doubt Dev will be up yet. To prove what an exemplary NASA employee I am, I take a shot of the ridiculous clown outfit they want me in, then send it to him with the hashtag: #totallycommittedteamleader

  If I’m going to humiliate myself like this, I’m going to damn well be at that launch.

  Five

  Serafina

  This morning is super hectic, but even so, it’s gone much smoother than I expected. The only fly in the ointment so far is that the model wearing my Gemini outfit hasn’t shown up yet. I didn’t personally audition the models for that spot; I just called the agency and got access to look at online portfolios. The guy I picked was supposed to be here a half an hour ago and I’m starting to feel a bit panicky about the fact that he’s not here.

  Once all the other models, including Charley, are ready to go, I look for Waltraut to see if she’s seen my Gemini model. I can’t find her though, so I stop a youngish looking guy in a headset. “Hey, there. I’m Serafina Lopez from Live for Your Star Sign. Have you seen my male model?”

  He nods his head quickly. “Yup, he’s in dressing room three.” He points down the hall.

  I hurry to the correct door and knock lightly before walking in. The model is standing there in his boxer shorts staring at the yellow pants I picked out for him. He looks up at me with panic in his eyes. I see the problem immediately. I smile nicely even though I’m ready to kill him for being so late. “They’re skinny legs so you’ll have to go commando or the lines from your boxer shorts will show through.”

  “Commando?” A blush covers his gorgeous face. This guy looks so much better in person than he did in his photos. His hair is darker, and his eyes are green instead of blue. Huh, weird. But no problem because he is yummy!

  “You know, take your underwear off.” I gesture that he should get going.

  “I-I’m not getting naked in front of you.” He looks like he’s never been ordered to strip down before.

  I turn my back to him and say, “Of course, sorry.” I’m pretty sure I would have turned away had he actually started to take his underwear off in front of me. Maybe not though. We Libras do like our eye candy.

  Still facing the other direction, I ask, “Are you ready?”

  “Almost,” he says as I hear the rustling of fabric as he pulls his pants up. I turn around just as he gets his zipper up.

  “You look great!” I tell him. Actually, great is an understatement. His chest is bare and, while he’s not musclebound, he’s definitely ripped. My hands itch to reach out and touch him but I manage to resist the temptation.

  The sight of him is a painful reminder how much I miss dating. I’ve just been so busy with work this last year, I haven’t had time to go out and meet people. Seeing this hottie without a shirt on makes me excited about trying the new dating feature for my app. We’ll have to run a few months of trials before it goes live, but who knows, I might have met my match by then. Maybe I’ll even get matched with a guy who can rock the tight pants and no shirt look like this guy. Phew! Somebody get me a fan.

  My Gemini puts on his white shirt and asks, “Why can’t I wear my own clothes?”

  Seriously? Does he not know how modeling works? I’ll have to make sure I state that I have a preference for dating men who aren’t dumb as ro
cks when I enter my profile. There’s no way I’d ever have anything to talk about with someone as thick in the head as him. “You have to be astrologically correct for this segment. It’s a whole outer space thing, you know?”

  Looking down at his feet, he says, “I have to wear bright yellow pants that are three inches too short?”

  “They’re cropped pants.” Then I instruct, “Take your socks off. I picked up a pair of penny loafers for you to wear, but not with black socks. Barefoot is best. Also, don’t forget the green sweater vest and the plaid bowtie.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Who does this guy think he is? I’m tempted to tell him he’s a glorified mannequin and to just put the clothes on and zip it, but as a rule, I try not to start arguments before seven in the morning. “Of course I’m serious. It’s the Gemini look. Studious and smart with a playful edge.”

  I watch as he buttons up the shirt, then tugs the vest over his head. Glancing at my watch, I realize we’re going to run short on time, so I swipe the bowtie off the dressing table and start to put it on for him. He stares at me, those green eyes of his making my knees go a little weak. Maybe I could be the smart one in the relationship. Surely, I could talk to this guy about something … like bodybuilding or Archie comics.

  Swallowing hard, I force my gaze back to the bowtie and get to work, trying very hard not to notice how incredible his aftershave smells. Actually, now that I think about it, talking is highly overrated. There are much more creative ways to enjoy a relationship.

  Disappointment strikes when I realize I’m done with the bowtie. My brain tells me to step away from the male model, but my body doesn’t want to listen.

  My Gemini glances into the mirror. “These pants are practically painted onto me. You can see my…” He indicates the area around his fly.

  Yeah, you can. “You look very manly,” I tell him with my signature flirtatious Libra-ness. Very manly. “Now hurry up, I need to get you over to hair and makeup before we go on.”

  “Who are you?” he demands like I’ve been speaking a foreign language.

  “Serafina Lopez.”

  “I’m supposed to meet a woman named Waltraut.”

  “No, you’re not,” I tell him. “Waltraut is my contact. You were supposed to report to me. Now come on, I want to get some gel in your hair and maybe style you with a pair of glasses frames.”

  “Can I at least wear my own glasses?” he asks.

  “Let me see them.”

  He picks them up off the dressing table and slides them on. “Not bad, but they’re a little dull.”

  “That may be, but I’m pretty much blind without them.”

  “The agency didn’t tell you to wear contacts?” I ask.

  “Why would they do that?”

  Oh, wow. So, so dim. “For versatility.”

  He opens his mouth to argue, but in the interest of time, I say, “It’s fine. We’ll make them work.”

  I practically have to drag him along with me which is getting annoying. I thank my lucky stars the other models were nowhere near this high maintenance, because if they all had been, we wouldn’t even have managed to be ready in time for the evening news.

  As we walk toward hair and makeup, I tell him, “You’re my only guy today so I need you to ooze sex. Seriously, shake your moneymaker like you’ve got rent to pay and you’re a month late.”

  His eyes practically pop out of his head. I nuzzle up next to him and croon, “Pretend we’re going out dancing and you’re giving the audience a sneak peek at your moves.” Then I squeeze his arm muscles a little and immediately feel swoony.

  As soon as we reach the makeup chairs, I tell Tony, one of the hair and makeup people, “Give him a little highlighter to enhance his cheekbones and I want his hair gelled to give those waves some definition. Oh, and maybe a little color on those luscious lips.”

  “Will do,” Tony says while getting right to work.

  I hurry over to the mirror to touch up my own lipstick when I hear my Gemini say, “I’m putting my foot down at wearing lipstick. I won’t do it.”

  Tony says, “No sweat, just bite your lips a bit for me. That’ll bring the color up and make them a little bee-stung.”

  I’ve never worked with models before, but I know for a fact that Tyra would not let hers call the shots like this guy is trying to do. If the rest of my crew weren’t all ready to go, I might call him out for being so difficult. But as it is, I only have to work with him for a short time so there’s no point in creating drama that would mess with my balance.

  Waltraut rushes over and pulls me aside, “Dr. Williams hasn’t shown up yet and I’m not sure he’ll be here for the segment. Can you be prepared to talk more about each star sign should we need to fill time?”

  “Do Scorpios snap? Do Leos think they’re royal?” Her blank expression has me adding, “Of course. I can talk as long as you want me to.”

  “Good. Okay, meet me in the green room in two. We’ll mic you and have you come out on set during commercial break so Hal and Lacey can talk to you for a few before the fashion show starts.”

  As she rushes off, I grab my Gemini and pull him off to the green room. My energy level is positively humming with excitement. All I need to do is get through the next half hour with everything going smoothly and I’m on my way to mega success.

  Six

  Ben

  Once I’m dragged off into the green room with all the gorgeous women, I sneak a peek at myself in one of the full-length mirrors propped against the wall. Who am I? And where is astrophysicist Ben Williams under all that hair gel and bronzer? This is going to be the single most humiliating experience of my life. Not only am I dressed like a banana for his first day of school, my manhood is on display like it’s about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. How is anyone going to take me seriously?

  They won’t. That’s how.

  Not to mention, everyone I know, including my co-workers, will be watching. NOOOO!!! I have to stop this. Panic starts to build inside of me until my chest cavity feels like it’s about to explode.

  The bossy woman who made me take my underwear off loudly declares, “You all look great! This is going to be an amazing show!”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I don’t have time to ask because someone else comes in and says, “You’re on next. Follow me.”

  I tug at these ridiculous pants in hopes they’ll magically grow three sizes and turn black. Or a nice brown, even. That would be good too. Although I don’t know if brown would go with this awful green vest.

  Oh, for pity’s sake, Ben, it doesn’t matter! Your pants aren’t going to change color so forget it.

  Unless …what if I change into normal pants? Yes, that’s the answer. As we march down the hall, I decide I’m going to put on my own clothes no matter what anyone says. As I open the door to dressing room three, I hear Ms. Bossy Boots yelling at me. “Where are you going?”

  She doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she takes my hand and leads me to the third spot in line. “There. You’re right behind our Taurus.”

  Grinning broadly, she says, “Okay, everyone, you look fabulous. Just get out there and strut your fine selves.”

  Strut my fine self? What in the world is she talking about?

  “Listen, I-I think there’s been a mistake,” I call out to her.

  “I know, the pants aren’t exactly the right fit, but you can really get away with it, trust me.” She boldly winks which causes me even more distress.

  “No, not…”

  That Justin intern rushes over and says, “Ms. Lopez, you’re on!”

  I try to get his attention, but he disappears, leaving me with no one to ask for help. I wait for what feels like forever, but is likely only a couple of minutes before Justin comes back and starts to lead us backstage. “When I point to you, walk onto the stage, turn left at the X, strut down the catwalk toward the studio audience. Pause for a count of two, then spin back around and
go out the other way.”

  He points to the woman in front of me. As she goes, I watch her carefully, trying to memorize what she’s doing. Okay, that doesn’t look so hard. It’s just walking, right? I can walk. Do they introduce all of their guests like this? My confusion equals my horror. I should have watched an episode of this show, so I knew what I was getting into.

  When the woman turns back my way, she’s not smiling. Are we not supposed to smile? Do we pout? Yes, pouting seems right. How do you pout?

  Turning to the woman behind me, I say, “Does this look right?” then I push my lips out and try to look like I’m really angry about something. Which is actually true because I’m going to lose it on Dev when I see him.

  She wrinkles up her nose and answers, “You look like you’re trying to poop.”

  Well, that was rude. I’m trying to learn here, I could use constructive feedback. I give her a glare and she snaps her fingers. “Perfect! Now you’ve got some serious smolder going on.”

  “Gemini Guy! Gemini Guy!” Justin whisper-yells.

  I spin around, realizing he means me. He points to the stage wearing a completely disgusted look. As I walk by, I hear him say something about models with rocks for brains into his headset.

  Models? I’m not a model.

  My heart is thumping like a rabbit surrounded by a pack of bears as I walk, trying to keep time with the music which is some airy-fairy crap that doesn’t even have a beat. That bossy Lopez person is sitting on a chair next to the show’s hosts talking … about me … it turns out.

  “Geminis absolutely love to be the center of attention, almost to a fault. They’re known to be intelligent, passionate, fun, but also sometimes unreliable and are even called flighty on occasion.”

  While I walk toward center stage, I glare at her instead of watching where I’m going. This causes me to miss the big X on the floor.

  “As you can see, our model truly is a flighty Gemini. He just missed his mark,” she says.