Chapter Eleven

Francesca lifted her head from the pillow. “Congratulations, darling, it’s a wrap. We did it!”

Despite their single practice session, they’d given a respectable rendering of the bolero. After nearly two months of dawn wake-up calls and grueling filming schedules, they could finally relax. Until the final live episode when the public would choose its two Cinderella winners, there was nothing Greg could do—nothing except make long, lingering love to Francesca.

He liked her calling him darling. He liked it a lot. Even knowing that the endearment was one she widely used—Cindy, the security guard, and even Bosco were all sometimes addressed as such—still he liked to think that when she said it to him, the word held a special significance.

“You did it,” Greg answered.

Entangled with her in her high-quality cotton sheets, he reached over to the room service tray set on the night table and dunked a strawberry in the salver of whipped cream. He slid it along the seam of her parted—and very talented—lips until she opened.

She was a little tipsy, he thought. Greg was drunk too, not on the fizzy wine but on his sexy fairy god-mentor. Ever since the night of their intimate dance date, he couldn’t seem to think about much else, including Project Cinderella. Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to. The show was in the postproduction phase. Exactly what that freedom might mean for the both of them, he hadn’t yet figured out. Cracking the “code” for a woman like Francesca was a heck of a lot more complicated than hacking in even Python or Ruby.

She held out her empty champagne flute. “More champers, please! Oh, and another of those gorgeous strawberries.” They’d only just finished making love, and yet the way she said “strawberries” had him hardening.

He reached over for the bottle and refilled her glass, then his. “I love the way you say strawberries.”

Her dark half-moon-shaped brows lifted. “What do you mean? I only say it the ordinary way.”

He let out a laugh. “Believe me, Francesca, nothing about you comes close to ordinary—and that’s a compliment.”

She made a face, and then spoiled it by laughing. “Thanks a lot.”

He dunked another strawberry in cream, popped it in his mouth—and missed. “Shit!” He grabbed for napkins.

“Strawberries and clotted cream are my very favorites—among other things.” She caught his chin in her hand. Holding his gaze, she slowly slid her finger along the cleft in his chin and then just as slowly sucked it between her lips.

Thinking of where that luscious mouth had been earlier, Greg groaned. “Whipped cream, you mean?”

“I suppose you can take the girl out of London—”

“But not London out of the girl,” he finished for her. Entwining a lock of her dark hair about her nipple, it occurred to him to ask, “What made you decide to leave London for New York?”

Her smile slipped and her gaze shuttered. “Answer entails going into more of my messy, complicated life. Are you quite certain you’re up for it?”

Turning on his side toward her, he propped himself up on one elbow. “Try me.”

She surrendered with a sigh. “Very well, then, I didn’t leave London for New York. I left it for Texas.”

“Texas?” Was she joking? “I came over as an exchange student.”

“College?” Greg certainly didn’t know much about fashion, that was for sure, but he’d bet his new app launch that the Lone Star State wasn’t any kind of mecca for it.

She shook her head. “Secondary school, high school if you rather. I tried for New York and then Chicago, but by the time I got in my application, Texas was what was left, so I took it. It wasn’t what I’d intended for my first trip to the States, but then again, mostly I was minded to have a grand adventure and well…I certainly had that.”

“What happened?” he asked, playing with her hair. Teasing the curl across her nipple and seeing her sharp intake of breath, he relished how easily he could draw out her desire.

She shivered. “I can’t very well answer or even think with you doing…that.”

Feigning innocence, he said, “This? Oh, sorry. Continue—please.”

“What happened was a tall, blond, blue-eyed Texan.”

“Your ex,” Greg said, his gut providing the guess.

Freddie the sous chef didn’t much threaten him. The guy was obviously too much of a jerk to realize the treasure he’d let slip away. But Greg had looked up Ross Mannon online and from what he’d read, Francesca’s sociologist-turned-national-media-celebrity ex-husband was a force of nature. His publicity photo, reminiscent of a young Robert Redford, was all the motivation Greg needed to keep hitting the gym.

She bit her lip and nodded. “Quite. A moonlit drive to the lake, a few too many sips of boxed wine, a less-than-sturdy condom, and nine months later there I was, back in London and giving birth.”

She’d obviously had her daughter really young, but until now Greg had never quite put it all together. Beautiful, brainy, and sophisticated, it was hard to picture her as a teen mother.

Aware that she was waiting for him to say something, he remarked, “That must have been really hard.”

She shrugged her pretty shoulders, the right one bearing his earlier bite mark. “I was fortunate. For the most part, my parents were supportive. Once I brought Samantha home from the hospital, they were as besotted as I. It took me some months to screw up the courage to write Ross, but once I did, he came over directly and brought Sam and me back.”

“So, he married you after the fact.” Greg hadn’t meant to sound so critical, but the thought of a pregnant Francesca abandoned on the other side of the Atlantic raised his protective instincts—and his hackles.

“It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t even know he had a child until my letter.”

“Would you do it again—marry him, I mean?” Are you still hung up on your baby daddy ex-husband?

She considered for a moment. “I think we all knew from the start that our marriage wasn’t built to last, but it was a different place and time with a lot of well-intentioned people all trying to do the ��right thing.’ It was a morality I wasn’t entirely comfortable with and yet looking back I suppose I trod the path of least resistance and let it carry me along. And really, how can I regret what brought me my girl? Samantha is my greatest achievement, motherhood the best thing I’ve ever done—even if at times I’ve done it so bloody badly.” He started to protest that she was being too hard on herself once again, but she waved him off. “Fortunately Ross is a superb parent.”

“What about later, the divorce? Do you regret it?”

Her immediate headshake set that worry to rest. “It sounds strange, I know, but now that sufficient time has passed, I don’t think of the divorce as losing a husband so much as gaining a lifelong friend. We’re polar opposites in nearly every way, Ross and I, and yet with time and distance we’ve become really close, the best of mates.”

The best of mates. Greg heartily hoped she wouldn’t be saying something similar about him in the coming years. They still hadn’t addressed how they would work out seeing each other now that the show’s filming was finished. They couldn’t continue building castles in the air without foundations for the future. At some point very soon, they would need to start making plans. Would one of them relocate? Would they be bicoastal? Would they start out slow, seeing each other only on weekends or maybe every other month? Right now, Greg had no idea. One thing, though, he was totally clear on: Francesca was his soul mate, and he had absolutely no intention of going back to San Jose and forgetting her.

The following evening, Greg sat on the bungalow’s plaid-covered sofa watching the entertainment news. Jonas and Hadley had both left that morning. Next door, Brittany was hanging out through the weekend to do some sightseeing, but he was pretty sure Kim and Patti had headed home as well. A car pulled up outside. A minute or so later, the doorbell chimed. Thinking Francesca must be early, which would be absolutely unlike her, he crossed the sunken living room to answer it.

Opening the door, he was disappointed to see Deidre Dupree standing on his stoop. “Deidre, this is a…surprise.” He stepped back to allow her in.

She slipped past, her hip brushing against him as she entered. “Is it my imagination or is that a not-happy-to-see-me face?”

“I was expecting someone else,” he admitted, closing the door behind her. “What can I do for you?” he asked, hoping to steer her speedily toward the point.

Ever since they’d first met, she made him feel uneasy, although he couldn’t pinpoint why. He knew Francesca and Deidre disliked each other despite their public civility. He’d brought up the subject to Francesca once or twice, but she’d only pressed her lips firmly together and answered that the two were colleagues, the fashion industry was dog-eat-dog, and New York especially so. But in his gut, Greg had known there was more to it.

He followed her over to the sofa, where she was already making herself at home.

“It’s customary to offer a caller a cocktail,” Deidre said, helping herself to a cashew from the bowl of mixed nuts he’d set out.

Greg stood watching her with folded arms. “Thanks for the information, but we already covered dining and social etiquette at the Spago location shoot. And I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything alcoholic to offer you.” A worthwhile lie if it got her to go.

She rose with a sigh. “Never mind, I can’t stay long. I’m on my way to the airport.”

That was welcome news. “LA traffic can be bad,” he hinted, glancing at the door.

“So thoughtful,” she purred, eyeing him as a cat might a plump pigeon. He could almost imagine the feathers sticking to her mouth. “Before I leave, I need to warn you.”

Greg could see how some men might find her attractive, but she’d always raised his hackles—and made his skin crawl. “About?”

“Francesca. She’s a man-eater. She rips men to shreds and then spits out what’s left. You seem like a good guy. I’d hate to see that happen to you.”

Greg tensed. As much as he wanted to defend Francesca, doing so would only raise whatever suspicions Deidre must already have. He glanced back to the door, willing Deidre to walk through it—and preferably before Francesca got there. Even though filming had wrapped, if Dee outed them to the producers, Francesca might still be fired, which would mean forfeiting her fairy god-mentor fee.

“Look, you two don’t like each other. That’s pretty obvious. But whatever bad blood or feud you’ve got going, it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

She sent him a sly look. “Not a feud—a bet.”

Fending off a feeling of foreboding, he asked, “What kind of bet?”

Her expression darkened. “One Fran and I made the first day on the set after the press conference. I bet her you’d lose. She swore that so long as she was the one who got to style and photograph you, you’d win. She staked her front row seats to New York Fashion Week. I put up something of…similar value.”

Greg felt as though the floor was falling beneath his feet—at the same time the roof was caving. “I don’t believe you,” he said, but in his gut he knew that at least some of what she said was the truth.

He cast his thoughts back to that day at craft services when Francesca had first approached him about coaching him on the side. He’d known then there was more to her offer than simply wanting to help him out, and yet he hadn’t pressed for answers, not wanting to blow his shot at winning—and spending time alone getting to know her. At the time, it had seemed a win-win situation. Not so much now.

Deidre ran a sculpted fingernail along her lower lip. “Why do you think she’s been helping you out on the side?”

“Who says she has?” If she thought she could trick him into confessing, she was about to be disappointed—sorely.

She continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “Sleeping with you was the surest way to ensure your cooperation. We had ourselves a good ole laugh over how easy it was to bring you to heel once she pulled down her panties.”

The taunt hit home. Francesca was a popular girl, a grown-up version of the “cool kids” he’d spent his school years dodging, a more glamorous version of the one hundred women who’d given him the shaft. The bet itself was bad enough, but alone, it wasn’t a deal-buster. But if the rest of what Deidre said was true, if Francesca had used sex to manipulate him into winning it for her… He thought of all the working out he’d done for her—all the pull-ups and sit-ups, the leg lifts and squats and bench presses, and felt shame heat his face—and anger boil his blood.

She shrugged. “Don’t take my word for it, ask her when you see her tonight. You are seeing her, aren’t you?”

“You’re telling me this to get back at her, because you’re pissed that I’m probably going to win—and you’re right, I am going to win.”

Deidre clucked her tongue. “I do believe you are. And come to think of it, you are right about one thing.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Our little wager was all about proving which of us is the better photographer. It really didn’t have much of anything to do with you. You, sugar plum, were just a prop.”

That did it. He strode across the living room to the landing and tore open the door. Swinging back around to Deidre, frozen in place, he roared, “Get out of here—now!”

…

Driving back to Greg’s bungalow, Francesca was over the moon, and not because she was well on her way to besting her old enemy by winning their wager. She no longer gave a fig for the dinner for four. What—or rather whom—she cared about was Greg. He was on track to win. Barring a major upset, she couldn’t imagine him not winning. She felt so sublime that not even Dee’s glaring earlier could spoil her high spirits.

Based on the fan e-mails pouring in, Greg was the anticipated male winner. Once he won, product endorsements, modeling contracts, People and Us magazine covers, even a series spin-off were in his immediate future. The show had yet to air, and he was already inundated with fan offers ranging from sweet to seriously raunchy. At least once a week, some poor misguided woman sent in a marriage proposal—or her panties. So much for her former Media-Shy Mogul!

Thrilled as she was for his success, all the female attention he was receiving sometimes felt like considerable competition to field. She wasn’t entirely comfortable sharing Greg with the world, at least not in that way. She wanted this one part of him all to herself, and not only because she was jealous—which she was—but because…she was in love with him.

Madly, deeply, head-over-heels in love! Her gorgeous geek had cracked the code to her heart, and now that organ and the rest of her belonged to him entirely.

Marveling over the past weeks, she wondered why she’d fought so hard against her own happiness. Now that she’d surrendered to her feelings, she felt lighter, freer, than she had in years. She’d even begun thinking of how they might manage matters beyond the show. A long-distance relationship wasn’t ideal, but it could be done, especially if it was only temporary. Fortunately, photography was a portable profession. Once Sam went to college, just two years away, she could move anywhere she fancied. She meant to broach the topic with him that night.

Brimming with plans, she swung into the free space and hurried up to the house, carrying a marketing bag filled with his premade gourmet favorites—and her heart on her sleeve.

“Hullo, darling!” She held the bag aloft.

Rather than reach for it, he stood out on the stoop, staring. “What’s all this?” The grudging air with which he greeted her didn’t go unnoticed. He was brassed off about something—and that something, she strongly suspected, had to do with her.

Once the door closed, he took the bag from her and slammed it down. “Is it true you only slept with me to win a bet?”

Francesca froze. Looking into his blue eyes, so angry and so wounded, she stumbled over what to say. “I-It sounds as though you’ve had a visitor, one who’s given you some rather bad partial information.”

Hands fisted on his hips, he stared her down. “Yeah, Deidre stopped by earlier on her way out of town. Partial intel, huh? So fill me in.”

“Greg, I know how this must look, and I’m not proud of it, but you must believe me. Making love with you was never about winning any wager.”

“That night at your hotel, why were you so eager to rush me into bed, huh? At the time, I thought it was because you were upset over the call from your kid, but now I wonder if maybe that wasn’t staged for my benefit, too.”

The implication that she’d tried luring him to bed to win a wager was a slap in the face, but bringing Sam into the fray was tantamount to a punch—with brass-sheathed knuckles. “Leave my daughter out of this!”

“Fair enough, besides I can put together the rest. I’m a smart guy, remember, but apparently not as smart as you. You knew once my clothes came off with you behind the scenes, taking them off again—for your fucking photo shoot—would be a whole lot easier. Only you didn’t count on me turning you down that night, did you? And even though I didn’t fuck you, you still had me so hot that the next day I took off that robe like I’d been stripping all my life. I bet you and Deidre had a good laugh over my Magic Mike moment, too.”

“Laugh, Greg, I don’t know what she told you but—”

He cut her off with a fierce shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter what she said. Bottom line: I trusted you, and you lied to me. More than lied, you used me.”

She dragged a hand through her hair, sending pins flying. “Yes, I should have told you about the wager, yes I should never have accepted it in the first place, but believe me, I never lied to you, especially not about my feelings. They were—and are—nothing but genuine. Please, darling, you must believe me.”

“Must I?”

“Greg, please don’t let Dee, and my mistake, spoil everything we have.” She hesitated, silently beseeching him to take her in his arms, to hold her as he had that night at her hotel and every other since.

Only, his arms remained at his sides and his gaze boring into hers could have cut glass. He took a step toward her—and began moving her toward the door. “Look, it’s been fun, and I’m sure slumming it beneath your gene pool was a novelty, but the game’s over now. You’ve had your fling and you’ll probably win your bet, too.”

Obliged to back up, she begged, “Greg, please—”

“Good-bye, Francesca.”

“Greg, no!”

His reaction was beyond anger, beyond fury even. He looked at her as though he loathed her. “You know, I was right about you from the first.”

She pressed the back of her hand to her trembling mouth. Though she knew she would regret it, she couldn’t hold back from asking, “W-what do you mean? Right about what?”

“You really are a Medusa.”

The week of the press junket was one of the bleakest of Francesca’s life. She hadn’t felt so fraught with self-loathing since her marriage ended. Apart from the necessary interactions during interviews, Greg refused to so much as look her way. The worst of it was, she didn’t bloody blame him.

Brooding back at her hotel, a knock startled her from her moping. Hoping it might be Greg coming to talk things through, she called out, “Come in.”

Franc poked his blond head inside. “May I have a moment?”

“Of course, I’m always pleased to see you.” She glanced to the hospitality bar. “Fancy something?”

“Honesty for a start.”

”How about something easier—a drink perhaps?”

Clearly impatient, he nodded. “Perrier, please.”

She waved him to the sofa, and got up to take out the sparkling water. She twisted the cap off the chilled bottle and poured two glasses. Handing him one, she sat back down.

“Thanks,” he said, taking a seat across from her. “What’s going on with you and Greg—or should I say not going on? I’d like to help if I can.”

The offer was clearly sincerely meant and utterly sweet, but Francesca heartily doubted that Franc or anyone else could help win Greg back to her. From that very first day in his Silicon Valley office, he’d shown himself as stubborn. If he’d truly made up his mind against her, and it seemed he had, no manner of intervention could change it. Beyond that, she’d earned his distrust—and his loathing.

“Suffice it to say that Greg and I are chalk and cheese.” His brows lifted in apparent puzzlement and she added, “We’re as different as night and day.”

He sipped his drink. “Differences aren’t always a bad thing, you know. My husband, Nathan, is my polar opposite in nearly every way. He’s a couch potato. I’m a sports club rat. He’s never met a processed food he could resist, and don’t even get me going on his button-down dressing. He’s an accountant, for chrissake! And yet we’ve been happily together for six years and counting.”

“I’ve been helping Greg on the side, coaching him, Franc. Though really, I didn’t do anything magical. It was mostly moral support.”

He nodded. “I suspected as much. Go on.”

“I offered him my help because I’d made a wager with Deidre, or so it began. But once we started spending time together off-set it quickly became…more. I still want Greg to win, of course, but for himself, not because of fearing I’ll have to forfeit Fashion Week tickets or wanting revenge on Dee and my sous chef ex.”

Franc passed her the box of tissues. “Since we’re making confessions…I’m not actually British.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m from Brooklyn.”

“You are not!” He was more plum in the mouth than she was, and she’d grown up in London. Then again, this might explain his taste for sugary coffee concoctions.

He nodded. “It’s true. I’ve wanted to be a stylist ever since I can remember. My sister’s Barbie, my aunt’s French poodle, nothing with hair was safe around my scissors and me. Only I wasn’t interested in being a barber like my uncle Stan. My dream was to be a stylist to the stars.”

“And presenting yourself as a British expat played a great deal better than being from Brooklyn ever would have?”

“Exactly! It’s worked great for me professionally. On the personal front, it’s presented…complications.”

“Such as?”

“I dated Nathan for six months, and all that time I led him to believe I was born and bred in West London. I knew I needed to come clean and confess the truth, but I kept putting it off by one more day.” Arching a brow, he asked, “Care to guess how well that worked?”

“I’ll wager…” She stopped herself. Going forward, she meant to eradicate that word from her vocabulary. “I suspect he found out the truth on his own.”

“Bingo! He came across a box of papers with my high school yearbook when we were packing up my place to move in together. He didn’t give a crap whether I was from West London, Brooklyn, or the moon—it was that I’d lied to him. If I could deceive him about something as basic as my birth, what else might I be hiding?”

“But you’re still together?”

“We are, and it’s good, really good, but we didn’t get there overnight. It took a lot of patience and a lot of love on both our parts to repair the damage.”

“I’m honored that you’ve taken me into your confidence but—”

“Don’t give up on Greg or on your dreams of sharing a happily ever after with him just yet. Sure, you’ve messed up—royally—but to quote one of my personal heroines, silent screen legend Mary Pickford: ‘Failure isn’t the falling down but the staying down.’ You’ve fallen. So now…get up.”

She shook her head, weary beyond the spotty sleep she’d gotten. “He thinks I only…slept with him to influence his winning.”

His gaze honed in on hers. “Did you?”

“No, of course not! I told him so, only he wasn’t keen on listening. He said…” Her voice broke off. “He said he’d been right about me all along.”

“Ouch.” Franc sent her a look of sympathy. “When you’re ready to try again, this time start by telling him you love him. You do, don’t you?”

She nodded, wishing she needn’t feel so miserable about it. “With all my heart.” How ironic that just when she’d meant to tell him so, he’d shown her the door for a second time.

Franc grinned. “Trust me, whatever you say to a man after ‘I love you’ goes down like buttah. In the end, ‘I love you’ beats ‘I’m sorry’ hands down.”

“Good God, you really are from Brooklyn, aren’t you?” Until now, she’d thought he might be having her on.

“Brooklyn Heights, baby, born and bred. The last name’s not Whiting. It’s Witkowski.”

“Polish?”

He nodded, a beatific grin breaking over his face. “If you think chicks dig the Brit speak, you should get an eyeful of all the swooning dudes.”

…

Hearing the doorbell, Greg called out from the bungalow’s kitchen, “Come in,” and returned his attention to the egg whites he was whisking. Beating up defenseless eggs was the next best thing to going at the punching bag at the gym—not that he wasn’t doing plenty of that, too.

Franc stepped inside the kitchen. “Making brunch, I see.”

Whisking, Greg shrugged. “Brunch, meal-of-the-day, whatever, want some?”

He wasn’t really hungry, but making breakfast gave him something to do other than mope. He’d planned to give the omelet to Brittany.

Franc reached out and touched his sweatshirt sleeve. “Those eggs are on their way to being meringue. You can stop now.”

Greg paused and looked down. He had indeed beaten his breakfast into submission. “I guess I went overboard.” He set the whisk and bowl aside. Reaching for the dish towel, he turned to Franc. “What’s up?”

“I stopped by to see Francesca last night.”

At the mention of her name, Greg felt like a fist had slammed him dead center of his newly excavated abs. He’d thought she was different from the other women who’d betrayed him, but she wasn’t. She was worse. Worse than Vicki, who’d set him up for humiliation on prom night, or Jacquie, who’d cashed in the plane ticket he’d sent her so they could meet for a second date, or even number one hundred, who’d ditched him on his birthday to hook up with the DJ hired to host his party. They were, he saw now, only infatuations. Sure, the hits to his pride were heavy, but as for his heart, none of them could come close to breaking it, because he didn’t really know them.

But Francesca hadn’t run off. Instead she’d stuck around day after day and week after week, just long enough for him to fall in love with her.

“Yeah, so?” He concentrated on sponging up the spillage.

“She’s terribly remorseful for everything as well as miserable with missing you.”

“Is she?” Greg drew back his shoulders. “Did she send you here to say that?”

“She did not.”

Greg let his shoulders drop. “So I guess you heard she only played up to me, slept with me, to win a bet.”

Franc shook his head. “That’s not true. That’s not who she is.”

Greg beat the eggs some more, sending yolk flying. “I beg to differ. I’ve been thinking, and I’d bet my start-up stock that she was the one who leaked that video of me. All these weeks I’ve been nothing more to her than the means to an end.” No matter how many times he’d tried, he’d yet to find a way to make peace with the hurt.

Franc blew out a breath. “You’d lose your controlling interest.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know for a fact that Francesca didn’t have anything to do with leaking that footage.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I did.”

Wondering if Franc was “having him on,” as Francesca would say, he asked, “Why would you do that?”

“It’s simple. I wanted you to win.”

Greg scraped a hand through his hair. “There’s a lot of that going around. Team Greg is feeling a little crowded. Well, you can all relax and back the hell off because it’s looking like I have a pretty solid shot.” Ironic, now that he was almost a shoo-in, he couldn’t seem to give a damn.

“That’s great, Greg, but I’m not speaking of the show.”

“Sorry, man, you’re losing me.” For a self-made billionaire, these last few days had him wondering if he wasn’t a little dim.

“I didn’t leak the video so you could win Project Cinderella, delightful as that would be. I leaked it because I wanted you to win something a lot more valuable, even priceless.”

“Yeah, and what would that be?”

“Francesca.”

Greg snorted. “Because she only dates rock stars?”

“I didn’t do it for her benefit, but for yours. You needed a confidence boost, and once I saw how good you were on stage, I suspected any video footage might attract an online following. I didn’t foresee the overwhelming response.”

Turning away, Greg tossed the soiled towel in the sink—a perfect shot. Thinking of the day Francesca had found him playing basketball in the studio lot, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now. She’s not who I thought she was.”

“Greg, the way I see it, all your life you’ve wished for someone who would come along and love you, warts and all, someone to kiss your outer frog and release the princely guy trapped inside. For that to happen, for you to get your fairy tale, maybe you’d better be willing to dish out some of that unconditional love and acceptance yourself.”

“What the hell are you talking about—and why do you suddenly have a New York accent?”

“Don’t worry about it; just listen up. Francesca is a knockout, and I get how that can be uncomfortable for you at times, given your history with women. But beneath that perfect-ten exterior, she’s the real deal, and she loves you warts and all. She saw something in you and she used her time and talent to bring it out so the rest of us could see it, too. Maybe she started helping you for the wrong reasons, but she did help you and well…look at you now. You, my man, are certifiably h-o-t. And bonus: you two fell in love. Francesca made a mistake and she’s sorry. You’ll be making a bigger mistake if you let her go.”

“Look, Franc, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me these last two months, I do. Getting Francesca to that coffee bar so she could see me with Brittany and Kimberly was asking a lot of you, and yet you came through for me. You’ve been a good friend. But from here on, you need to back off.”

Franc stood staring at him for a long moment. “As you wish,” he finally said, reverting to his British accent. “Just…think it over.” He left the kitchen and retraced his path to the door.

Greg didn’t go after him. Instead he tossed the eggshells into the disposal and turned it on. Maybe Franc had a point. Did he expect Francesca to be perfect? Was he so afraid of getting hurt that he’d seized on Francesca’s bet, and what she might have done to win it, as an excuse to push her away? Was he, in his geeky way, as rigid a perfectionist as he’d accused her of being?

Then again, he guessed it didn’t really matter. After the final ensemble press conference tomorrow, the cast would disperse and go their separate ways. For the next eight weeks, Project Cinderella would be in the hands of the film editors. When they reconvened in mid-August for the live in-studio portion of the finale, the previous episodes of taped footage would have aired. In another few days, Francesca would fly back to New York and Greg to San Jose. He would go back to working crazy hours and then zoning out in his media room with its lava lamps and karaoke set, vintage pinball machines, and state-of-the-art tech toys. From here on, he wouldn’t have to worry about setting his alarm for the butt-crack of dawn in order to meet his “coach” for their workouts. He wouldn’t have to think about what he wore, not unless he wanted to. He could forget the fairy tale and go back to normal…

Only “normal” wasn’t something he was interested in anymore.