1
Bogus Interviews
“Hi. My name is Sarah Summers. I’m a thirty-one-year-old marketing director in Chicago.”
“Cut.” The director, if Paul could be called that, stood up from behind the camera and flashed a dazzling smile. He was short and in his forties, but in decent shape. His blond hair was spiked in a way a high school kid might call hip. “Perfect, Sarah. Now let’s move on to the next line.”
I read the teleprompter and shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
This was all bullshit anyway. Once Rachel found a loophole, I could put this nightmare behind me. She texted this morning to say “Nothing yet,” but I had faith. If anyone could find a way out of this insanity, it was my corporate-attorney best friend. Then I would be free to strangle my twin sister. Abby took our sibling rivalry to a whole new level with this prank. I could lose my job over it. As if Greg would ever let me take a several-month leave for a dating show.
“Three, two, one . . .”
“I’m perfect for Evan because I’m driven and loyal.” True traits, but I could care less about Evan. I didn’t know anything about him other than he was the heir to the Mershano empire’s fortune. That name I recognized because my company booked rooms at the Mershano Suites for business travel. It was a popular chain in major cities throughout the world.
“Cut. Beautiful, Sarah.” Paul waved the hairstylist over to make subtle changes to my updo. My dark brown hair went from being over my left shoulder to my right with one loose strand tickling my cheek. The makeup artist joined in to touch up my eyeliner.
“Trying to make those gorgeous brown eyes of yours pop,” she explained in her Brooklyn accent.
“Don’t add any more blush.” The hairstylist liked my natural tan. She said it brought out my Argentinian roots. The pink powder made me feel like a clown, so I was good with the suggestion.
“Are we ready, ladies?” Paul called, checking his watch. The next phrase popped up on the teleprompter.
“Uh, no.” There was no way in hell I was saying that.
Paul frowned at the screen. “What’s the problem?”
“My favorite thing about Evan is his ass. Seriously?” I wasn’t sure if the man had a nice face, let alone ass. “I can’t say something more educated? Like my favorite thing about Evan is his drive to succeed?” He was the CEO of a billion-dollar enterprise. That couldn’t be easy even though the position was handed to him on a silver platter.
“Come on, sweetie. This is television. No one cares about his work habits.”
“So we’re trying to marry him for his ass?” This show wasn’t about his backside, nice or not. It was about him being a billionaire bachelor in need of a wife. The fact that he needed to go on the Romance Network for Women (RNW) told me all I needed to know about him. “Okay, sure. Why not?” Let’s talk about the man’s ass.
It’s not going to matter, I reminded myself. Rachel was going to work her magic and get me off this show.
Paul’s frown was comical. Plastic surgery froze his lips into a forever smile that did not turn down well. “We good?”
“Sure.” I read the teleprompter like a good parrot and even threw in a smile. Paul called me perfect again. The man threw out compliments like crackers.
There were a few more lines after the one about Evan’s butt, most of them little snippets about the part I was to play on the show. I gathered my age was a factor, as was evidenced by my final line.
“As the oldest contestant, I have the experience and maturity Evan will want in his future wife.”
Paul engulfed me in a hug meant for good friends, not ten-minute acquaintances, and told me he was looking forward to next week. “Yeah, me too.” Because I have every intention of not being here.
I gathered my belongings and went to the dressing room to change into jeans and a sweater. Chicago was cold in March, yet the producers had me in an orange sundress on set. The show was set to film in Louisiana. It was warmer down there, but it was not dress weather.
My phone dinged as I was leaving the changing area. Meet me at La Rosas, 7pm, was all it said. If Rachel wanted to meet at my favorite Italian place, it was either to celebrate or to ply me with wine before giving me bad news. I started typing a note back to her when I hit a male wall.
“Oomph.” Christ, he’s hard. His chest was solid muscle beneath his black leather jacket. I shook my head twice to clear it and looked way up to apologize. Dark chocolate eyes grinned down at me. “Sorry, I shouldn’t text and walk.” The man was at least a foot taller than my five feet four inches.
“No worries.” He didn’t move. “You’re the one who had a problem with the word ‘ass,’ right?”
Oh, great. The guy was a producer or maybe a writer. If he was the latter, he needed a new job. I cleared my throat. “The word is fine.” I used it all the time. “It was the context.”
“You don’t like talking about a man’s ass?”
“Actually, I frequently call men an ass.” The cocky grin he was flashing made me want to call him one. “I just took issue with commenting on the appearance of a man I haven’t met yet.” Not to mention it was ridiculous.
“Surely you’ve googled him.”
“No. Why would I?”
“Because you’re a contestant on a game show to win a marriage proposal?”
I snorted. “Yeah, no. That’s not going to happen.” I wouldn’t be around long enough to make it to that point, and I had no intention of accepting or hearing a marriage proposal in the next five years. I liked my single life just fine, thank you. Damn you, Abby, for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.
“Really? Isn’t that the whole point of the game?” His hands were tucked into his jeans, leaving only an inch or so between us. Leather and peppermint tickled my nose, an alluring scent that had me wanting to get closer to him rather than back away. Too bad he works for RNW.
“Is it? I thought the point was to produce good television at the expense of a bunch of hopeful reality stars?” That was too harsh. “Sorry, still a little bitter about the teleprompter. You’re not one of the writers, are you?” Because that would be embarrassing.
His laugh was unexpected and made me shiver. Who knew a laugh could be so sexy? It was like a cup of hot chocolate on a cold Chicago night, warming me from head to toe. Yum. It might be worth going on this show to see him again. Except it would cost me my job, so maybe not. Stern and Associates wasn’t my dream career, but it paid the bills. My MBA from Northwestern wasn’t cheap.
“What’s your name again?” There were dimples in his smile. Very cute.
“Sarah Summers. My parents had a thing for alliteration.”
“So your middle name is something with an S?”
“Savannah.” I grimaced. “Yeah, it’s as bad as it sounds.”
“Sarah Savannah Summers.”
“That’s me.” My sister was the lucky one. Abigail Bridget Summers. A normal name for a quirky woman who didn’t know when to grow up. For years we impersonated each other, much to our parents’ chagrin. It’s what identical twins did. What they didn’t do was try out for reality television shows under their sister’s name and send the paperwork with the word “Enjoy!” written on a Post-it note.