Chapter Six

The in-studio hairstyling segment was one Greg had actually looked forward to. Unlike many of his fellow Harvard alums, he wasn’t born rich. Far from it, he’d attended the Ivy League university on a merit scholarship. Growing up, money had been tight and his mother had cut both his hair and his older sister’s. By the time she turned thirteen, Sarah had roundly rebelled but Greg had kept up the family practice. Sitting in the kitchen with a towel wrapped around his shoulders, Jeopardy! on in the background as his mother snipped away with her home barber set, he’d felt safe and cherished, cared for and loved. Sure, the other kids at school had made fun of him for his crooked bangs and Beatles-like bowl cut, but he hadn’t cared, at least not all that much. His mom was the best cook, chauffeur, laundress—and friend—a little kid could ask for. Who cared if she couldn’t cut a straight line?

After she’d died, he’d gone to his dad’s old barber, Joe, whose handle on trends was more or less frozen in the Korean War era, but loyalty had kept Greg coming back. Even with his first billion under his belt, he was reluctant to hurt the old guy’s feelings. Now he sat in the stylist’s chair on Project Cinderella, about to take the first step in his physical transformation. The black-and-gilt set was a replica of Franc’s TriBeCa salon. Glancing over at the two assistants, both with high ponytails, all-black ensembles, and sphinxlike silences, Greg wondered whether the call sheet listed them as cast—or props.

Standing behind him, Franc sifted a hand through Greg’s hair, presumably testing its weight and texture. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?” he said, looking out to the rolling cameras.

“I’m definitely ready,” Greg answered, watching Francesca from the corner of one eye.

She wasn’t in this scene but the next one, and yet the call sheet had directed her to be on standby. They’d exchanged a few back-and-forth gibes before he’d taken his seat, but Greg didn’t mind. Sparring with her helped him to relax and forget the filming as well as or better than singing ABBA songs.

Franc leaned down so that their faces met in the gilt-framed salon mirror. “So tell me, Gregory, what do you want us to accomplish today?”

Sensing the question was about more than hair, Greg hesitated. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught what he now knew as Camera A homing in closer. Rather than rush in and say something stupid, he stalled for time. “What do you mean?”

Franc straightened. “Hair is the clothing we can’t take off or put on at will, at least not our natural hair. More than anything else, a hairstyle is a statement, not only of who we are but of who we aspire to be.”

Okay, so he wasn’t getting out of answering. Greg gave the question his honest thought. The pretaped episodes would be heavily edited before broadcasting, so there was no real need to rush. “I’m not exactly sure. It’s a big question.”

Across the room, Sean mouthed, Say something!

“I’d like to be more confident in my personal life.”

A bob of the stylist’s blond head confirmed he’d answered at least tolerably well. “Good, excellent, now we’re making progress. You’d like to be more confident in what way?”

Greg sighed. He’d showed up expecting a haircut, but it seemed life coaching was being dispensed, too.

“In social situations, with women specifically. In my work, I hardly ever feel anxious or stressed. When it comes to product, I have a freaky, almost sixth sense about what’s going to trend before it does. But women are a mystery to me. At least the last hundred have been.”

“They have?” Franc asked.

It felt as if the other man might be baiting him. Greg searched Franc’s clean-shaven face, but the perfectly composed features gave no clue.

Stick to your guns, Knickerbocker.

Defiant, he forged on, “Look, I’m not claiming any kind of perfection here, but the fact is I genuinely care about other people’s feelings. I listen. I express empathy because most of the time I feel empathy. When Sally—she was date number fifty-three, I think—told me her cat died, I felt bad for her. To make her feel better, or at least not so alone, I told her about when my fish died in fifth grade. I must have really made her feel better because guess what she did?”

“Tell us!” Sean shouted from the sidelines.

Greg glanced over. His story producer was visibly salivating. Was this what he’d wanted from him all long—actual reality? Given all the wardrobe and makeup calls, all the blocking and choreographing of scenes, it was ironic, really. Francesca was still there, too, biting the red lipstick off her bottom lip, her game face gone for the moment. Along with the whole production squad, she seemed to hang on his next few words. If ever there was a time to go for the gold, to have his “Cinderella” moment, that time was now.

He angled his face to give the Camera B dude a good, clean shot before answering, “She said we should see other people.”

Franc’s face fell. “She did what?”

“She dumped me,” he repeated, looking the stylist straight in the eye.

“Greg, I am so sorry,” Franc said, looking and sounding sincerely so. Then again, maybe unlike Greg, he was a really good actor.

Greg shrugged. “That’s just one of a hundred examples. And a lot of times the guys I’ve been left for haven’t been good guys at all. They’ve been assholes. Can I say ‘asshole’ on TV? I guess if I can’t, you guys will edit it out.” He looked up at Franc, who’d laid a hand on his shoulder. “So I guess I want a haircut that makes me feel more confident. Can you do that? Can you make that happen for me, man?”

Franc nodded. Maybe it was only Greg’s imagination, but he swore the stylist blinked back a tear. “I have just the thing.” Spinning away from Greg, he beckoned to the two Barbie clones hanging back by the sinks. “Chop chop, ladies, let’s get this Cinderella Man shampooed!”

…

“Unfold your table napkin and place it on your lap, but only after everyone is seated,” the etiquette columnist-cum-fairy god-mentor announced, addressing the table of contestants.

Kimberly, wearing the universal expression for “Oh, shit!” opened her fist and let the balled linen drop.

Clean-shaven and with his ponytail shorn into an attractive collar-length cut, Hadley swallowed hard. “Seems too nice to use,” he remarked, staring at the folded linen as if it might bite.

Seated at the adjacent coaches’ table, Francesca was sufficiently ravenous to gnaw the napkin off her lap. Knowing that the etiquette segment would be filmed at Spago Beverly Hills, she’d skipped the craft services lunch. She hadn’t expected the etiquette segment to go on so long—or so painfully.

Thirty years old, the flagship restaurant of master chef Wolfgang Puck was one of a handful of LA restaurants that managed to ride out the fickle palates of A-listers and maintain its cachet.

“And why do we lay the napkin on our laps with the fold facing toward us?” the New Miss Manners droned on.

Dear Lord, can we get on with it?

Needing a diversion, Francesca looked across the table to Franc. Taking advantage of his back being to the cameras, he pulled a clownish face. The sight nearly had her spitting her water.

“You are horrid,” she whispered, covering a hand over her clip-on mic.

The hushed exclamation earned her a scowl from the New Miss Manners. “We do so because that is the most efficient fashion for catching crumbs. Of course there won’t be any crumb-dropping, now will there, because we are all going to take our time and properly savor every morsel of this delicious meal.” The lesson at last ended, she slipped back into her seat, retrieved her napkin, and presumably laid it neatly on her lap.

Wine was poured—thank God—and the first course served: chirashi sushi bluefin tuna, bay scallops, salmon pearls, and sea urchin.

She glanced over at Greg, curious as to how he fared. She hadn’t spoken with him alone since the previous day’s poignant on-camera moment. Catching his eye, she smiled. He smiled back, and picked up his cutlery in either hand in a humorous pantomime of being beyond ready.

Smothering a laugh, Francesca turned back to her tablemates. The personal trainer cast a disapproving downward glance to his plate and reached for a roll instead. “Iodine, mercury, no good,” he said dourly, shaking his head.

Bored, Francesca took a sip of her wine, her gaze going back to the contestants’ table.

Obviously at the end of his patience, Greg forked up the appetizer and popped it whole into his mouth.

“Gregory!” New Miss Manners exclaimed, clutching at her collar of pearls. “Fine dining takes time. Please, show some restraint.”

Greg’s face was mutinous. “It was one bite,” he shot back, scraping his fork across his plate to capture the last crumb. “And that’s exactly what I took.”

Francesca bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Used to grazing from craft services whenever he wished, Gregory must be experiencing some sort of withdrawal. Whether an act or real, his Grumpy Pants shtick was working brilliantly. Judging from Sean’s rapt expression, the story producer was busy weaving the new narrative, likely a Project Cinderella turnabout on Man v. Food.

That thought led to another more somber one: the cameras were still rolling, and not only for Greg. She’d gotten comfortable with being on camera over the past week—perhaps too comfortable. Letting down one’s guard on reality TV was a dicey proposition. Greg and the other contestants had signed on to share their stories—and bare their souls—for the benefit of the voyeuristic viewing public. She, however, had made no such covenant. She was on Project Cinderella in a professional capacity only. Whatever her hopes, dreams, or future plans, they existed in the real “real” world beyond the show. Her fairy god-mentor gig was only that, a job.

But cameras weren’t all she had to worry about. Catching Deidre watching her from across the table, she quickly picked up her earlier conversation with Franc. “By the by, you made a brilliant job of the hair.”

“You like?” he asked, his grin proclaiming his confidence in her answer.

“Adore,” she said sincerely.

Gaze going around the contestants’ table, she allowed that their gaggle of ugly ducklings was coming along nicely, none better than Greg. For his thick, straight hair, Franc had opted for a classic cropped cut clipped close at the sides. Along with leaving off his glasses, the new style made a dramatic difference, a giant leap forward to being ready for the all-important photo shoot.

“Greg has a great head of hair,” Franc said, apparently noting the direction of her gaze. “I left the top fuller so he’d have options. He can sweep it smoothly back as he’s done today or wear it spiky to suit his mood or the occasion.”

“I like my men with long hair,” Deidre interrupted, jerking her chin toward Jonas, whose long mane had required only a trim.

Ignoring her, Francesca said, “He… It looks brilliant,” she repeated, settling for watching Greg from the corner of her eye. Was it her imagination or was Brittany leaning especially close? Watching her pass him a sesame onion roll, she suspected she was only imagining things.

“He’ll require regular trims every four to six weeks to keep the look,” Franc continued.

“Beauty exacts its price,” Dee put in, downing more wine and glancing between Francesca and Greg.

Three more courses, including dessert, followed. But whether it was the white truffle agnolotti or the pain perdu set before her, Francesca was too preoccupied to properly appreciate the food. Her attention kept drifting back to Greg. Had a haircut really made such a monumental difference, or was it his onset monologue while in the stylist chair that had her seeing him differently?

Walking out together afterward, Franc mused aloud, “I rather like him.”

“Who?” Francesca asked, pulling her keys from her purse.

He looked at her askance. “Gregory, of course. Don’t you?”

Coming up on her car, Francesca hit the button for unlock. “Don’t I what?”

“Like him.”

She hesitated, reluctant to mention the GQ debacle. She and Franc were on their way to becoming friends, but he was still a coach on the show. Saying something that might predispose him to dislike Greg wouldn’t only hurt Greg’s chances of winning, but hers as well. Beyond that, since they’d begun filming, the sting of that first meeting and its aftermath had lessened considerably. She’d even caught herself laughing aloud a time or two. A baby picture in GQ was, she now admitted, bloody funny. That he’d coerced the magazine into accepting it and not killing the article spoke to his impressive powers of persuasion.

“Let’s say he’s…growing on me.”

“He has brains and creativity, loyalty and spirit—and a splash of temper, too, all the makings of a complete package, and I’m not evening counting his money!” Franc prosed on with the verve of a car salesman—not a used-car salesman but one who dealt only in high-end brands. “Whomever he wins and woos will be a lucky woman indeed.”

A lucky woman, indeed, Francesca mused, thinking again of Brittany’s lunchtime attentiveness. She turned back to Franc. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were selling me on him.”

He pulled back, pretending surprise. “Am I? How odd. I was only sharing my observations with a fellow coach.”

“Hmm.” Francesca opened the door and dropped her bag on the seat. “Give you a lift back to the studio?” she asked, by now knowing that like many New Yorkers, Franc didn’t drive.

He smiled and crossed to the passenger side of the car. “That would be divine.”

…

Hanging out at craft services between set calls, Greg knocked back another mouthful of Muscle Milk. The lactose-free sports shake had been recommended to him by the trainer fairy god-mentor as the new nectar of weight lifters as well as those wanting to pack on some pounds. On his second bottle of the stuff, chocolate-flavored this time, Greg hoped his starved muscles would glob on to every protein-packed gram.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Francesca said, walking up.

As always when he first spotted her, his heart skidded to a stop. Her beauty, he should be used to it by now. In the past, his attractions had petered out pretty quickly. But with Francesca, the longer he knew her, the more beautiful she looked to him. Then again, maybe that’s how it went when you were just friends with a woman. At some point, and Greg couldn’t pinpoint exactly when, he’d stopped thinking of her as a snake-headed viper, Medusa, and started thinking of her simply as Francesca.

She looked down to his hand. “Muscle Milk, hmm. How’s that going?”

He gestured with the curved plastic bottle. “Okay, I guess. I figured I’d give it a shot. No matter how many extra calories I take in, I can’t seem to put on any weight.” He opened his other hand, revealing a crumpled candy bar wrapper.

She looked at him askance. “You do realize that voicing such a lament might see you stoned in some quarters?”

He laughed. “Yeah, I know, but being too thin is as bad as being too fat—and it’s different for guys.”

“I suppose it is.” Seemingly preoccupied, she sent her gaze on a circuit of the room. Aside from a few stragglers, it was mostly empty. Turning back to him, she said, “Perhaps I could help.”

Wondering why she was speaking so softly, he tossed the empty bottle in the recycling bin. “In what way?”

She bit her lip and a crazy fantasy kicked in of how it might be to sip on that beguiling bruised curve, to tease his tongue along the seam of her mouth until she opened and let him in. So much for seeing her as simply anything…

Moving closer, she said, very quietly, “Actually I was thinking more along the lines of extra help.”

Greg hesitated, wondering if he’d heard her right. “I haven’t looked at my contract since I signed, but I remember a really long list of rules, and I’m pretty sure that colluding with coaches off-set was one of them.”

Gaze dimming, she admitted, “You’re right, it’s forbidden. Were we found out, I’d likely be fired and you disqualified.”

He scraped a hand through his hair, still not used to its shortness. “You’re not exactly selling it.”

“No, I suppose I’m not.” She blinked as though wondering where she was. “On second thought, forget I ever mentioned it.” She turned to go as if she suddenly couldn’t clear away from him fast enough.

“Wait!”

She spun around, an about-face that for whatever reason sent his pulse pounding. “Greg, really, I was wrong. I never should have—”

He moved closer. “Bottom line, do you think I’ll win without your outside help?”

Meeting his gaze, she admitted, “Likely not.”

That decided it. Her offer, while disallowed by their Project Cinderella contracts, wasn’t illegal. It wasn’t like he would be doping with steroids or using his money to buy votes. Ultimately the viewing public would decide who won. Besides, if the past weeks had taught him anything, it was that very little that occurred on reality TV was anything close to real.

“Okay, let’s do it.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. How soon can we start?”

Emboldened, he stepped even closer until they were eye to eye and toe to toe. He told himself he did so to minimize any chance of them being overheard, but that was an excuse, a bullshit lie even if it was only to himself. Other than a few equipment crew members grabbing a quick break, they were alone. The truth was, he wanted to be close to her. The last time they’d stood this near, he’d just destroyed her designer dress with his lunch. He hadn’t liked her at that point, but then he hadn’t known her, either. He might not know her still, but the glimpses he’d gotten suggested a pretty decent person beneath her Pretty Woman exterior. A part of him wished for the time and access to dig deeper, to move past pretense and formality and…clothes.

Her brisk nod nearly brought the tips of their noses brushing. “Tomorrow morning, meet me outside the Pit at Muscle Beach, six sharp, and mind you’re not late.”

Hot for teacher, Greg could get on board with that game. Besides that, he honestly could benefit from her help. “Great, just let me know your fee and I’ll bring a check.”

She drew back as though he’d shocked her. “I’m not interested in your money.”

He hesitated, trying to read her suddenly unreadable green eyes. “Then what are you interested in?”

She shrugged, and the play of light on the delicately boned porcelain skin above her modest scoop-neck sweater suddenly had him wishing for water. “Do my motives really matter?”

Imagining tracing her clavicle with a single finger, Greg took a moment to answer. “No, I guess they don’t, but that doesn’t keep me from being curious.”

She took a step away. “Mind what they say about not looking gift horses in the mouth.”

She was right. When opportunity knocked, you opened the door—and walked through. That basic philosophy had brought him success in business, wealth and influence beyond even his wildest fantasies. Who knew, maybe it would be the key to unlocking his personal life, too.

Still, as she turned away, he didn’t miss the shadow crossing her face. His gut told him there was more to Francesca, and her offer, than met his lust-blind eye.

At a more civilized hour, Venice Beach would have been glutted with street vendors and performers—break-dancers, broken glass walkers, mimes to musicians, jugglers to jesters, the beach itself dominated by flexing bodybuilders. But at just after 6:00 a.m., Ocean Pathway was deserted, the shops and restaurants still shuttered. Even the Muscle Beach Pit was empty of all but a few iron-pumping early risers, which probably had a lot to do with why Francesca had chosen it.

Struggling through his second set of sit-ups in the sandbox, Greg stopped, whipped off his baseball cap, and swiped it across his sopping forehead. “Can I stop now?” he asked, hunching forward over his burning abdomen. He could guess her answer but hell, it was worth a shot.

Standing outside the turquoise gate, her face obscured by large-framed sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low, Francesca shook her head. “No.”

With her face makeup-free and her hair pulled back in a ponytail beneath the cap, she looked more like a college coed than the internationally famous fashion sophisticate. A soft pink V-necked cotton T-shirt and cropped black yoga pants complemented her figure, reed-slender and yet sexily curved. Covertly watching those curves on the light jog over from the beach parking lot had done more to keep his eyes open and his legs peddling than any cup of coffee could have.

“Can I take a break at least?”

“No! There isn’t time for lollygagging.”

“Lollygagging?” Greg mimicked, stretching out his arms and touching his toes. Her Briticisms had annoyed him at first but lately he was finding them, and her, super cute.

She glared—or at least he thought she did. Her sunglasses were too tinted for him to tell. “Haven’t you ever heard, ‘No pain, no gain’?”

Greg groaned. “Don’t worry, I’m in pain all right.”

The pull-ups he’d completed earlier had left his arms feeling as limp as cooked spaghetti. Ditto for the squats and leg presses meant to strengthen his calves and quads. Thanks to them, his legs were leaden.

“And keep your cap on,” she warned.

Greg folded his arms over his chest, wishing he could will it to widen. “It’s six o’clock in the morning. I’m pretty sure it’s basically us, the Hulk Hogan clone over there, and some seagulls.” Still, she was right. Reminded of all they were risking, he put the stupid hat back on.

He did another twenty sit-ups before moving on to more squats. Halfway through, his stomach protested with a growl. Stopping, he sat up and cut Francesca a look. “Look, I get the ‘no pain, no gain’ part, but I’m hungry. More than hungry, this machine needs fuel, and Muscle Milk and PowerBars aren’t cutting it.”

Her pretty mouth, devoid of lipstick, turned down. Her sigh reached him from outside the fencing. “Honestly, you’re worse than an infant. My daughter complained less when she was three.” She opened the gate and entered. “Oh, very well, finish this set and we’ll grab a bite.”

“Can there be jelly doughnuts?” he asked, straightening stiffly.

“For you, yes. For me, tea—or perhaps a cappuccino, assuming anything’s open.”

“Wow, a cappuccino! Don’t go crazy on me now. So, what are you, one of those women who’s always counting calories?”

She frowned. “Easy for you to say, Mr. ‘I Can’t Put on Any Weight No Matter How Many Jelly Doughnuts I Eat.’”

He glanced down at his chest and abdomen, wishing he might instantly inflate like a Marvel Comics character. Soaked through with sweat, his clinging T-shirt accentuated his thinness. “It’s an actual problem—obviously.”

“So is wearing every bite of dessert on one’s thighs,” she shot back, shooting a disparaging look downward.

Following her gaze, Greg swallowed hard. For once, he got to give his extensive imagination a break. The form-fitting yoga pants showed a nipped-in waist, softly rounded hips—and long, slender legs that seemed to go on forever.

Beneath the baseball cap, he felt his ears heating. “What’s wrong with your uh…thighs?” He wasn’t teasing this time. He was genuinely puzzled. From where he stood—okay, squatted—everything he saw about her was right.

No, not just right. Perfect.

She made a face. “They’re…squidgy.”

“Squidgy?” he repeated.

Below her ridiculously huge and no doubt designer sunglasses, her cheeks flushed. “They’re not as firm as I’d… Mind, we’re here for you. You’re the protégé in this relationship, and I’m the coach.”

“So you’re saying we’re in a relationship?” he asked, deliberately jerking her chain, rewarded when it worked and her color climbed.

“You know full well what I meant. Need I remind you yet again, we’re on a very tight schedule?”

The very British way she said “schedule,” as though the word began with “sh,” never failed to bring out his smile. “Right, schedule, got it.” He repeated the word, pronouncing it as she did.

In reward, she swatted his arm, which was sore like the rest of him. “Just get to it, will you?”

Rubbing his arm, he smiled up at her. “Sure thing, Coach.”

Falling back on the mat, he caught himself grinning through the remaining reps. Relationship—he and Francesca were in a relationship. Sure, it was totally platonic and more of a frenemies thing, but it still counted.

He liked the way the word, and being with Francesca, made him feel.