Chapter Seven

Francesca spent the next week of filming doing her level best to dodge Deidre—and spending more and more time in the company of Greg. Their between-call meet-ups at craft services broke up the tedium of the long days of studio filming. His no-holds-barred honesty, which she’d at first taken for a lack of social skills, now struck her as refreshing, even oddly charming. For a man who’d had so very many romantic disasters, he seemed remarkably insightful about people.

But when he went missing from the set, sometimes for stretches as long as an hour, she began to wonder. Was it the strict regimen on which she’d placed him that was wearing thin, or was it her? When he was a no-show for a fifth consecutive day, she decided to find out if perhaps she was pushing him too hard. Project Cinderella was a marathon, not a sprint. If he was beginning to burn out, she needed to know.

“Have you seen Mr. Knickerbocker?” she asked a uniformed security guard.

He hesitated, pulling on his cap. “Oh, you mean Greg?”

“Quite.” Now that he’d settled in, Greg seemed to have made friends with nearly everyone.

“I saw him head outside a while ago, about a half hour. Check the back lot.”

“I shall, thanks.”

Francesca stepped outside to heavy breathing, male shouting, all interspersed with a ball’s bouncing. Crossing the lot, she followed the noise over to the hooped net where two men played basketball. One of them was Greg.

She waited for him to take his shot, which he sank, before walking up. “Nicely done,” she said.

Swiping the back of his arm across his sweating forehead, he retrieved the ball before turning to her. “Thanks, I got lucky.”

“Don’t believe it. Dude dunks like a motherfucker.” She shifted her gaze to Greg’s mate. Sweaty and dressed in loose-fitting gym clothes, like Greg, he looked awfully familiar though she was certain they’d never met, not in person. Was that…a hugely popular African-American actor known for his action-adventure roles?

She glanced back at Greg. Though she’d never admit it, not aloud at least, she wasn’t only impressed. She was awed.

Just a few weeks before, he’d barely been able to navigate his way around the set without falling on his face. Now he was hanging out in studio back lots playing basketball with A-list celebrities—and apparently playing it ruddy well. How had that happened?

He shrugged. “I have really good special relations,” he said, gesturing to the basket. “The trick is to line up the shot in your mind. You need a launch angle of fifty-two degrees, three revolutions per second of backspin, and then you aim for a spot not quite three inches from the center of the basket, toward the rim. Once the ball makes contact with the backboard, it deadens—and drops in. You just have to get the logistics down, and then it’s easy.”

Stupefied, Francesca could only stare. She felt as though she was Lois Lane suddenly discovering that geekish, glasses-wearing Clark Kent was indeed Superman.

Slapping Greg on the back, the actor said, “Whatever you’re doing, it works. Speaking of work, I gotta get back to the salt mine. Same time tomorrow, bro?”

Greg nodded. “Sounds good.”

“Stay cool, man.”

The two men exchanged a high five. Francesca waited for the actor to walk off, and then said, “You play basketball?” An absurd question, given he’d been doing exactly that.

“Sure.” Perspiration pearled on his forehead and he raised his arm to run a hand through his damp hair. She glimpsed the curve of bicep and bit her lip. Bugger! Their extra training sessions were beginning to bear fruit—forbidden fruit.

Tucking the ball beneath his arm, he asked, “What’s up? Do they need me inside?”

Based on the call sheet, he wasn’t needed on set for another two hours. Still, now that she was here, she had to come up with something. “I wanted to confirm our dance session for tonight.”

In a shameless knockoff of Dancing With the Stars, each Cinderella contestant would be partnered with the fairy god-mentor of the opposite sex. Practicing outside of the studio was strictly forbidden, of course. Francesca rather supposed that, in this case, she and Gregory weren’t the only ones to break the rule.

He smiled. “Eight o’clock. I rented out a private studio. It’s ours until six tomorrow morning. I’ll text you the address.”’

“Brilliant, thanks,” she said, reminded that for Greg, money was no obstacle. “I think my feet would be bleeding if we danced that long, but it’s good to know we shan’t be rushed.” She turned to go.

His light hand on her shoulder stalled her in her steps. “Wait up. I’ve got to grab a shower anyway, and then I have a conference call for Cloud Flyer,” he added, as though wanting to remind her that he was a great deal more than her Cinderella protégé.

He took his hand away, and suddenly she could breathe again. “You’ve a company to run, of course.”

“Actually I’ve hired people to do the admin, and the board is really stellar. But I stay pretty hands-on when it comes to product, and we’re about to launch our next one at an upcoming conference in Austin.”

She smiled. Compared to Greg, her tech skills were on par with someone employing a mallet and chisel. “All very top secret, I suspect.”

He smiled. “For now.”

“Well, congratulations.” She started toward the building.

Falling into step beside her, he said, “Actually I’m glad you’re here. To be honest, I first started coming out here to give you a break.”

Startled, she asked, “A break?”

“Yeah, between the days filming here or on location and our…extracurricular coaching sessions, I thought you might be getting sick of having me always in your face.”

She glanced away. “Don’t be silly.”

She hadn’t expected their training sessions to be fun, but they were indeed that. Practically, being kept busy from dawn to dusk prevented her from spending such a great lot of time pining over the situation with Sam. There was something to be said for falling into bed at night exhausted. She might not sleep for very long, but at least she slept well.

Greg flashed a smile. “Great, I’m glad we cleared that up.” Reaching the stage door, he opened it and then held back for her to go in first.

She started inside—and nearly barreled into Cindy. One look at her assistant’s blotchy, stricken face sufficed to say that something was seriously wrong.

“Cindy, whatever is the matter?’ she asked.

“It’s Bosco. He’s run away,” the assistant answered, swiping a hand across damp eyes.

“Bosco?” Francesca echoed.

“Her dog,” Greg supplied. “She brings him to work sometimes.”

“Right, Bosco.” A fawn-colored terrier mix with scruffy fur and soulful eyes, a dead ringer for the famous canine film star Benji—Francesca remembered seeing him on set, though always leashed.

Shifting his gaze to Cindy, Greg asked, “Did anyone see him run off, and in which direction?”

Expression desperate, Cindy shook her head. “I asked around but no one seemed to notice. He’s really quiet. He almost never barks. He’s just…the best little guy.” Her face crumpled.

Francesca came around to comfort her. “He seems a canny little fellow. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

Eyes wet, Cindy shook her head. “I tied his leash to the bike rack outside the commissary. I left him alone for five minutes tops, just long enough to grab a soy latte from crafty, and when I came back the collar and leash was there but…he wasn’t! He must have slipped his collar and run off.” She held out the leash, setting off a soft jingling of ID tags.

“Is he microchipped?” Greg asked.

Looking utterly miserable, Cindy shook her head again. “I was going to have it done when I took him to the vet for his annual next month but…no, he’s not.” She broke off on a sob.

Though sympathetic to Cindy’s plight, Francesca’s thoughts had already circled back to the upcoming call. The choreographed “catfight” between Kimberly and Brittany wasn’t only an affront to womankind, it took the focus from Greg…unless the script could be tweaked so that he was the hero who broke it up. She would search out Sean, the story producer in charge of Greg’s track, at once. Surely he might manage…something.

“Francesca?” Greg’s voice brought her back to the present.

“I’m so sorry, Cindy. He may yet turn up. Take the rest of the morning off and search for him, the entire day if need be—and do keep us posted.”

Sniffling, Cindy nodded. “Thanks, I will.”

“We’ll help you hunt for Bosco,” Greg said.

Startled, Francesca added, “Greg, we have to be—”

“Helpful,” he finished for her. “The more people out looking, the better our chances are of getting Bosco back.” He shot her a look and continued. “He probably hasn’t gotten very far, but whenever a pet is lost, time is precious.” Turning to Cindy he asked, “Do you have a recent photo?”

She nodded. “His picture with Santa Paws from this Christmas is the screen saver on my phone.”

“Great, e-mail me the JPEG so I have it, too. If we need to, we can make a poster.”

“Thanks,” Cindy said, brightening. “I’m going to have another look around the lot.”

“You might also ring up the local animal shelter and animal control center and give the staff Bosco’s description and your phone number,” Francesca suggested. “That way if he’s brought in later, they’ll know who to call.”

“That’s a good idea, Ms. St. James. I will.”

Francesca waited until the assistant was out of earshot before turning back to Greg. She exhaled slowly, measuring her words. “I’m truly sorry that Bosco has gone missing, but the fact is he’s Cindy’s responsibility, not ours. She oughtn’t to have brought him to work in the first place. A television shoot is no place for a pet. Besides, we have an episode to film. And what of your conference call?”

He sent her a quizzical look. “Would you say staying on schedule with our reality TV show, and my photo-sharing app, are more important than saving a life?”

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Is it?” His blue eyes found hers. As much as she wanted to look away, she couldn’t. “Bosco isn’t a pet to Cindy. He’s her baby. How would you feel if it was your child who’d run away?”

The comment caught Francesca off guard, catapulting her back to that horrific night the previous September when Sam had indeed run away. Thank God she’d taken a train from New York directly to Ross’s in DC. Still, the memory with all its terrifying “what ifs” brought the blood pooling to her cheeks.

“How dare you! That’s a patently unfair comparison and well you know it.”

“Maybe it is,” Greg admitted, “but the fact is, Cindy is our friend, her dog-child is missing, and the longer we stand around arguing about whose responsibility it is to go looking, the less likely we are to recover Bosco.”

Cindy was as nice as ninepence, but she was Francesca’s assistant, not a peer. Then again, she’d shown herself to be a lifesaver from that first day when she’d gone above and beyond and driven Francesca back to her hotel so that she could change before the press conference.

Greg reached out and cupped the tops of her shoulders, the heat of his palms searing her clothing, his strong fingers molding to her very bones, his firm gaze taking possession of hers. “Look, I understand you’re frustrated, Francesca. You’re a very goal-oriented person. It’s one of the things I…respect about you. But this single-mindedness isn’t about honoring your contract with the show or your promise to help me train, either. It’s about winning—and that’s all it’s about.”

Francesca hesitated. He was right, more so than he could begin to know. The wager with Deidre hadn’t been about helping Greg, certainly not at first. It had been about wanting to prevail, to win. Above all, it had been about seeking revenge. She’d wanted it so much that she’d allowed herself to be goaded into jeopardizing her position on the show—and with it, her mother-daughter summer with Sam. Holding on to her Fashion Week seats—and her pride—no longer seemed so vitally important.

“You’re right.”

His hands fell away, which struck her as too bad really. She’d rather liked their warmth and feel. He sent her a surprised look. “I am?” Obviously he hadn’t expected her to surrender so easily. Francesca was more than a bit surprised about that herself.

She swallowed against the lump lodging in her throat. “Yes.”

Expression easing, he stretched out a hand toward her, his softened gaze meeting hers once more. “In that case, let’s go rescue a lost dog.”

Coming on twilight, they’d yet to find Bosco. After hours of fruitlessly driving the studio lot and its surrounds, they were about to give up for the night and go back to the hotel to put together a “lost dog” poster when a glance at the gas gauge confirmed they were almost out of petrol.

They pulled into a station off Wilshire Boulevard, and Greg got out. She peered out the passenger-side window, watching him at the fuel pump. Once again, her gaze went to his hands. They were nice, large and yet graceful with tapered fingers and squared palms and just the right amount of dark hair dusting the tops. Recalling the press of them anchoring to her shoulders, she wondered what it might be like to have them touch other places as well.

Bad Francesca, bad!

In the background, a dog barked, not a proper bark but rather the sort of high-pitched yap that invariably came from scrappy little slips of dogs seeking to sound large. She leaned her head against the seatback, feeling weary and more than a bit blue. People ought not to allow their pets to run about loose. Even at this off hour, there was considerable traffic.

She rolled her window the rest of the way down. “Our odds of our finding Bosco don’t look terribly good, do they?”

Greg acknowledged her with a tired nod. “They sure don’t. I just checked in with Cindy by text. She hasn’t found him either.” If Greg’s ordinarily unflappable optimism was flagging, then poor Bosco must be a goner indeed.

He finished fueling and slid his credit card back in his pocket. “I’m thirsty. Want something from the mini-mart?”

“Water would be lovely, thanks.”

He sent her a tired smile. “One bottle of H2O coming up.”

He disappeared inside the convenience store. Watching him, it occurred to her that their Muscle Beach mornings were paying off. He was definitely putting on muscle—not that there’d ever been anything terribly wrong with his body in the first place.

If only feelings were as susceptible to sculpting as were bodies. The sting of their earlier interchange wasn’t something she’d been able to entirely shake. Greg’s charge that she cared only for winning had cut her to the quick, but only because it had rung so very true. Until now, she hadn’t credited how very much his good opinion mattered. He might be a frog so far as Project Cinderella was concerned, but in the world beyond “reality” television, she was the one whose warts had shown through.

The glass market door opened. Greg stuck out his head. “Francesca!”

A dog’s scrappy bark obliterated the rest of his call. No, it can’t be…

She opened the car door, alighting on weak legs. “Bosco?”

Grinning, Greg waved her over. “Come and see for yourself.”

She cut across the blacktop and hurried inside, where Greg motioned to the other side of the counter. Standing on her toes, she leaned over for a look.

Bosco lay at the attendant’s feet munching a bone-shaped biscuit. An open box of Milk Bones sat atop the counter.

“Bosco!” Francesca cried out, relief flooding her.

The dog leaped up, shot around the counter, and made a beeline for Greg, of course, not that Francesca blamed him. Greg dropped to the tiled floor. “Hey, buddy, we thought we’d lost you for good,” he said, scratching behind one scruffy ear.

The station attendant, whose uniform name badge proclaimed him to be Ken, came out from behind the counter and gave the terrier a pat. “Bosco—so that’s your name, huh boy?” He looked from Greg to Francesca. “You almost did lose him. He darted across a four-lane road and ran in front of a semi. A couple of inches and he wouldn’t be here, leastways not in one piece.”

Francesca shuddered, her photographer’s brain assembling a horrifying visual of Bosco’s near miss. If left up to her, the poor little blighter might well have ended the day as dead as mutton.

Guilty tears pricked her eyes. “Oh, Bosco, I’m so sorry.” Heedless of her clothes, she joined Greg on the floor, hugging Bosco to her and peppering his matted head with kisses.

“I feel better knowing he has such a nice couple to go home with,” the attendant remarked.

Over the dog’s head, Francesca and Greg exchanged embarrassed looks. “Actually Bosco isn’t ours,” Greg admitted.

“He belongs to my assistant,” Francesca added. “She brought him to work today, only he stripped his collar and ran off. She’s out searching for him now as well.”

She glanced at Greg, resisting the urge to reach for his hand. Fortunately he already had his phone out and was punching away with both thumbs, presumably messaging Cindy the good news.

“I hope he hasn’t been any trouble,” she continued, looking up at the attendant. “We’ll gladly cover any costs you’ve incurred.” She stared at the open box of dog treats, an idea forming. “And I believe there’s also a…modest reward.”

Greg’s head shot up. He sent her a questioning look, which she answered with a mute smile.

There was, in point, no reward, but Francesca intended to remedy that. A few hundred dollars was the very least she could contribute, a pittance compared to the potential heartbreak that had been averted by Ken stepping in as a Good Samaritan.

Catching on, Greg smiled back. “Yes, I believe you’re right.”

Ken shook his head. “Thanks, but that’s okay. He’s been a good boy and good company. It gets lonely here nights. If it’s not too much trouble, though, maybe you could let me know how he’s doing from time to time.”

Poor Ken. It seemed the world really was filled with lonely hearts—and a little shaggy slip of a dog could bring about a great deal of positive difference. Had she really been prepared to throw Bosco beneath the bus—or rather the semi—for the sake of a ruddy wager?

She girded herself to deliver the letdown. “I don’t know as Bosco’s…mum would—”

“Of course we can.” Greg stood, closed the distance between them, and handed over his card. “Bosco has his own community page on Facebook. His mom, Cindy, updates it pretty regularly. ‘Like’ it and you’ll be able to stay connected, see all his photos and status updates.”

Ken brightened. “I’ll do it, thanks.” He took the card and suddenly his gaze sharpened. “Hey, by any chance are you one of the guys on that new reality TV show, Cinderella something or other? I read an article about it in Us magazine.”

Greg flushed slightly. “Project Cinderella and yes, I am.” He crossed back to Francesca, offering her a hand up. “And this is Francesca St. James, one of the fairy… One of the coaches.”

Ken shifted his gaze to Francesca. Standing and brushing the back of her dress, she considered what a fright she must look—and then decided that for once, this once, she didn’t bloody care.

“Oh yeah, sure, I recognize you both now. Saw the article a few weeks ago.” He jerked an elbow toward Greg. “Reckon he’s got any kind of shot at winning?”

Watching Greg stoop to fasten Bosco’s collar and leash, Francesca felt as if her heart were squeezing in upon itself. And that’s when it struck her. It wasn’t all about winning anymore, not even to give an old enemy and an inconstant lover their comeuppance. It was about winning for Greg. Summoning a wobbly smile, she nodded. “I don’t only think so; I know so. I’d wager my last pound on it.”

…

“Sorry I had to bail on the conference call,” Greg told Brian later that night from his room, face chatting on his iPhone with his gym-sore body propped against a bank of pillows.

“We got your text to go on without you,” Brian confirmed. “Everything okay?”

Greg nodded at the phone’s PDA. “Yeah, just, you know, sidelined with the show.”

In a weird way, it had been a really good day. He and Francesca had reunited Bosco with a much-relieved Cindy, who swore he would be getting a microchip and a new collar and leash the very next day. Afterward he’d dropped Francesca at her car parked on the studio lot, sticking around to make sure it started. The surprise hug she’d given him before they’d parted ways had confirmed that dragging her on a dog hunt had been the right thing to do.

Despite the stress of the search, including a few truly nail-biting moments, it had been nice to spend time alone with her, time that didn’t have anything to do with Project Cinderella. Ken hadn’t been the only stranger they’d encountered in their search who’d assumed they were a couple. They’d both laughed off the idea as crazy, even going so far as to crack a few mutually deprecatory jokes. A tech guy and a fashion diva—talk about an odd couple. They’d kill each other in the first week. Huge as his San Jose house was, he probably didn’t have a closet big enough to fit all her clothes.

And yet when he’d driven up to Cindy’s apartment, an exhausted Bosco passed out on the backseat and Francesca’s eyelids drifting closed, there’d been a flicker of a moment when Greg had imagined that they were more than frenemies or even friends. That maybe stepping outside of his fantasies and asking her out on a real date might not be such a crazy, out-of-the-box thing to do.

“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” Brian said, his hurt-sounding voice bringing Greg back to the present. It struck him that other than a smattering of work-related e-mails and text messages, this was the first communication they’d had since he’d come out to LA.

Shit. He let his head drop against the headboard. “I’m sorry I’ve been MIA, man. My contestant contract prohibits going on any social media sites while we’re filming—even my own.” Second to the “no fraternization between coaches and contestants” rule, the embargo against social media seriously sucked. “So, where are we with getting ready to launch at South By?”

For the next few minutes, Brian filled him in on the meeting he’d missed. Version 1.0 of their photo share app was good to go. There’d been some last-minute bugs to address—that was always the case—but so far they were on schedule to unveil the app at South by Southwest. Held every spring in Austin, the conference with its associated festivals and sponsored parties was a premier forum for indie film, original music, and emerging technologies. It was a geek-fest for developers, especially those with start-ups.

“You and the team are doing a great job,” Greg said after Brian had finished.

“Thanks. By the way, what’s up with the hair? And your glasses, where’d they go?”

Greg realized this was the first time Brian was seeing his emerging makeover. He reached up to flatten his slightly spiked hair, not wanting to seem too different. “They gave me a haircut and talked me into contacts, no big deal.”

“Dude, you look like Tom Cruise except with different colored eyes.”

“Thanks—I think. So what’s been going on with you?”

Instead of an update on Brian’s stats in World of Warcraft or Halo, the kid blew him away with, “I’m seeing somebody.”

Recovering, Greg said, “Wow, that’s…great.”

Brian grinned. “Yeah, it kinda is. Her name’s Katie. We met at a mobile app meet-up group a couple of days after you left and really hit it off. We’ve been hanging out pretty much every night since. She’s a coder, totally cool, just graduated from UCLA and got a job here with a start-up—not ours, by the way.”

“Sleeping with the enemy, huh?” Greg teased.

“Maybe.” Although the picture resolution wasn’t all that great for face chatting, Greg would swear Brian blushed. “So how’s the soul-mate search going? Met any hot babes in Reality TV Landia?”

Without warning, an image of Francesca’s face flashed into his head. The tired but radiant smile she’d sent him inside the mini-mart had made him feel like maybe happily ever after wasn’t as far away as it often felt.

“Dude?”

“Not really,” Greg finally said. “I’m just, you know, staying focused on the filming right now.”

Francesca was certifiably hot as well as smart and kind and even funny when she let her guard down, which was happening more and more frequently. But even if they hadn’t lived on opposite sides of the country, even if she wasn’t a coach on the show and he a contestant, they were just too…different.

“That’s too bad. But look, don’t give up. You’ll find your girl when you least expect it, probably when you’re not even looking, like I did with Katie. Oh, shit, I gotta go. She’s on her way over. I guess I’ll see you when you get back. Miss you, man.”

“Yeah, same here, and congratulations again. Katie sounds great. I can’t wait to meet her.”

Greg ended the call, his earlier euphoria fading. He was happy for Brian, he really was. It was just that he’d never imagined that the kid would be the first of them to find someone. Despite the cool haircut and the contacts and the emergence of discernible muscle groups, he was still sans soul mate, still alone.

Wired, he scrolled through his playlist, coming back to his comfort music—ABBA. Listening to “Take a Chance on Me,” it struck him that maybe his approach to dating and relationships had been wrong all along.

Instead of trying to get a woman to take a chance on him, maybe he was the one who needed to start taking chances—by showing America, and Francesca, exactly who he was.

…

Plucking at the coverlet covering her California king bed, Francesca shook her head. “No, I’m being a perfect ninny. Of course she’d have her phone turned off at the movie theater,” she said into her cell phone—her ex-husband, not Samantha, on the other end of the call. “I mean that’s what one’s supposed to do. When I called twice and she didn’t answer, I worried, it being a weeknight.”

“Macie took her and a friend to see Les Miserables,” Ross explained. “They’re reading the book in Lit class.”

“That’s nice,” Francesca said, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the mammoth mattress. She hadn’t known Sam was reading Victor Hugo, but then these days she didn’t know terribly much about what went on in her daughter’s life.

“I’ll make sure she calls you first thing when she gets in,” Ross assured her.

She hesitated. As much as she missed Sam, she refused to become that mother, the one who had her children dreading her calls and dodging them whenever possible. “No, don’t,” she finally said. “With the time difference, it’ll be late, and she has school in the morning. And I have an early set call.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite.” She summoned a brisk tone to cover for the catch in her voice. “I’ll…send her a text message in the morning, and we’ll work out a time to catch up later in the week.”

“How’s it going out there?” Ross asked.

She paused, thinking how best to frame her answer. Reality TV would be something of which her conservative ex would likely disapprove. Steering clear of specifics, she answered honestly, “Early mornings, late nights, lots of lag time between set calls. The money’s bloody good, though. In point, I was thinking I’d, uh…take this summer off.” She paused to gauge his reaction.

“That’d be different,” he said drily, a not-so-vague allusion to her workaholism—former workaholism.

“Yes, well, I was thinking perhaps I might have Sam for…well, for as long as she’ll have me.”

Ross hesitated. “You talked to her about this?”

She’d hoped to do so that night as well as on several previous occasions. Between having to put her phone on airplane mode while filming, the crazy on-call hours, and Sam’s school and social calendar, which since the DC move seemed to have become as packed as a A-list celebrity’s, they hadn’t connected beyond text messages and a few brief phone calls in passing. Meanwhile, Sam’s promises that they’d catch up soon continued mounting. Francesca had begun to wonder if perhaps she wasn’t that mother already.

“No, not yet,” she admitted. “We keep missing each other and well, I don’t want to push.”

“Sometimes kids need a push. And you’re not some stranger, you’re her mother. Talk to her and let me know what she says. Other than a beach week here and there, we don’t have any big family vacations planned. Whatever you two decide, we’ll work it out, okay?”

“All right, I shall.” Tears slipping down her cheeks, Francesca nodded although there was no one to see. “Ross?”

“Yes, Frannie?”

“Thank you.”