Table of Contents

 

Perfect Together

Perfect Switch

 

PERFECT TOGETHER

by

Lisa Plumley

 

Chapter One

 

Sometime between going to sleep on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday night and waking up on Wednesday morning, Jake Jarvis became a bona fide sex symbol.

The news of his official studliness didn’t faze him much at first. Possibly because he hadn’t had his coffee yet. Or maybe because sex-symbol-dom was a state of mind, and it was hard to slide into it while sprawled in your underwear with Don King hair. Either way, Jake was content to chalk up the revelation to a crazy dream and go back to Snoresville.

That tactic became impossible when someone jumped on his bed, joggling his sleep-deprived brain in the process.

“Didja hear it?” his four-year-old son Noah asked as he jumped. His SpongeBob SquarePants pajamas were a blur of motion. “Didja hear it? Didja hear it?”

“I mmmph.” Jake’s lips were still asleep. He smacked them together. “I heard it.”

“You were on TV again!” Noah said. “It’s not even your reg’lar time.”

“I know. Weird, huh?” For the first time since awakening, Jake realized he hadn’t imagined the six A.M. spot he’d groggily blinked at a few minutes ago. Noah had seen it, too. It had been real.

Tune in to KKZP “Sports at Six” with anchor Jake Jarvis, L.A.‘s studliest sportscaster. He’ll make you want to get into the game…and play!

Groping for the horn-rims beside his alarm clock, Jake slipped on his eyeglasses and peered through them at his bedroom’s TV screen. The logo bobbing in the lower right-hand corner was for Noah’s favorite channel, Nickelodeon.

That wasn’t unusual. Noah’s typical wake-up routine was to drag his pillow and blanket into Jake’s room, then curl up on the floor until cartoon overload jolted Jake awake. Today, since Noah was training for the Flying Walldenas on Jake’s bed, he must have decided the usual process was taking too long.

“Did you just change the channel, Noah?”

“Nope.”

“I was on Nick?”

“Yup.” Jump, jump. “Cool, huh?”

“Yeah. Really cool.” Especially with the double-entendre-style delivery of that “get into the game…and play” line. Sure. That was going to be a million laughs over goldfish crackers and juice boxes at the daycare center today. When the other parents of Toddler Time kids caught that commercial, Jake was going to have some major explaining to do.

He blinked again at the TV, nearsightedly trying to focus. Nickelodeon was for kids. Why would anyone buy local advertising space for sports coverage on a kids’ channel, especially during the preschool-oriented “Nick Jr.” time slot?

Then it hit him. Women. Mothers, in particular. Women watched “Nick Jr.” right along with their rugrats, while getting ready for Gymboree and cell-phoning their Mommy & Me group members. Somehow, someone at KKZP had decided women between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five were a target demographic for Jake’s sportscast. But why?

Before he could figure it out, Noah jumped hard enough to dislodge the TV remote he’d been holding. It fell from his pudgy hand and landed with a thwack on Jake’s forehead.

“Bull’s-eye, Ace,” he said, laughing as he rubbed near his eyebrow. “For that, you win the booby prize.”

“Booby prize? What’s that?”

“A daddy hug! Rrrrrr!” Jake growled.

He tackled Noah by the ankles and flopped him onto the bed. The sheets and comforter fluffed beneath the impact. Noah giggled, already knowing what was coming. Jake tickled him, captured him in a bear hug, then tickled some more. Finally, when they were laughing too hard to remain coordinated, he rolled them both over and allowed his son to emerge the victor.

“I beat you again!” Noah crowed from his position straddling Jake’s middle. A wide smile beamed from his face. Eyes as blue as Jake’s own shone from beneath sandy little-boy bangs. He lunged forward, nearly knocking Jake’s chin with his head, and locked both chubby arms around his neck. “And I’m never letting you go!”

Affection squeezed Jake’s heart. In that moment, he hoped Noah never would let him go. Wrapped in his son’s clumsy embrace, inhaling the mingled scents of Crayolas and soap on his skin, he felt uniquely happy. He hugged Noah back, doing his best to imprint the memory of this feeling on his mind.

Given the way the boy had come to him, Jake couldn’t shake the fear that somehow Noah might vanish just as unexpectedly as he’d arrived. Jake had never planned to become a single father. But now that he had…well, Noah was the most important person in his life. He would have done anything for him, and had—including changing diapers, watching “Teletubbies,” and saying “tinkle” on purpose to the Toddler Time mothers while discussing potty-training. As a father, he was in for the long haul.

As a sex symbol, though…well, this was Jake’s first official time at it. He had no clue how to proceed. Extra publicity was not what he wanted—not now that he had Noah. Their lives were crazy enough, with the occasional autograph seeker at In-N-Out Burger and the giggling, whispered conversations that followed them through the grocery checkout line at Ralph’s. He wanted normalcy for Noah. Normalcy, ordinariness, and “Leave it to Beaver”-style constancy.

He’d get it, Jake vowed. No matter what.

“So, how ‘bout we get some breakfast?” he asked Noah. “I think there’s still some leftover pizza from last night.”

“Yay!” Noah yelled.

He launched himself from the bed, exactly as Jake had known he would, and ran from the bedroom with a whoop. Following slightly less energetically and without the “Blue’s Clues” slippers, Jake pulled on a pair of drawstring-waist cotton pants and made his way to their apartment’s kitchen. There, springtime sunlight streamed through the window. Lego Duplo creations littered the countertop. A basketball occupied one of the four chairs in the breakfast nook, and a baseball and mitt served as an impromptu centerpiece at the table.

Dwarfed by the magnet-covered refrigerator door, Noah struggled to remove the cardboard pizza box.

“Let me help.” Jake slid it out. Balancing it on his fingertips, he swiveled in his best Harlem Globetrotters-style move to twirl it onto the countertop. While Noah retrieved two paper plates from a drawer, Jake opened the box.

“Mmmm,” he and Noah said in unison, gazing at the pizza semicircle.

Jake hefted a chilly slice. He nodded. “Go long.”

Noah did, holding up his plate in both hands with practiced expectation. He caught the slice of pepperoni pizza which Jake—after an exaggerated windup—carefully lobbed toward him.

“Six points!” they shouted.

Jake switched on the radio to hear “Sports Talk.” He and Noah settled down at the table, happily munching pizza for breakfast. Such was their life together, and Jake liked it that way.

Sure, this new studliest sportscaster ad campaign might put a temporary crimp in things, but he figured he could handle it. He’d explain his position to his managing editor—maybe even the news director—and they’d rethink the promos. Everything would return to normal. It was only a matter of time.

 

 

Time obviously moved differently in the official sex symbol zone. By the time Jake had showered, shaved, and dressed in a pair of khakis with a crewneck pullover, he’d heard the “Nick Jr.” studliest sportscaster spot twice more. It may have been his imagination, but he’d have sworn the level of suggestiveness in the female voice-over’s tone quadrupled each time the words “…and play” were repeated.

Shaking off the thought, Jake paused at his apartment’s front door with the usual armload of travel supplies—books, toys, water bottles, HandiWipes—in a canvas KKZP bag.

“Noah? You ready?”

His son emerged from the hallway with a G.I. Joe action figure in his hands and a frown of concentration on his face. “Uh-huh.”

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

Noah glanced downward. Shrugged.

“What about the stuff we picked out last night?” The parenting magazines recommended giving your child “easy choices” to build their self-esteem. Jake tried to do that whenever possible. “The little Levi’s and the Lakers T-shirt?”

Noah shrugged again. Jake swept his gaze over his son’s plaid shorts, cowboy boots, tuxedo-style ruffled shirt, and snorkel mask with hose. “Are you wearing clean underwear?”

Noah bit his lip as he wrenched G.I. Joe’s arm in a commando move. “Yeah.”

“Fair enough. Let’s go.”

Leaning forward, Jake wrapped his free arm around Noah’s middle. He swept the laughing boy upward and balanced him on his shoulder, then pivoted to leave the apartment. The way he saw it, a dad had to save his energy for the important things—fairness, bedtime, and teaching his kid how to take it like a man when Miss Suzy ran out of his favorite color of Play-Doh at arts-and-crafts time. In the overall scheme of things, wardrobe didn’t really matter.

In the car on the way to Toddler Time, Jake heard another studliest sportscaster spot on drive-time radio. And then…

“Look, Daddy!” Noah said, pointing from his buckled-in booster seat in the Accord’s backseat. “You’re on the bus!”

“I’m not on the bus. I’m in the car with you.”

“You’re on the bus! Look!”

Stuck in Santa Monica Freeway traffic, Jake looked. He groaned. There, pasted on the side of the nearest city bus, was his face. His head and torso, too, in a three-quarter shot obviously designed to make the most of his studly sportscaster image. The whole thing loomed at least five feet high, a horror he could barely stand to contemplate. Who wanted to see their own nose in Giganta-Vision? His left nostril was the size of Noah’s head.

Below a new tag line—Jake Jarvis, Sports at Six: Scoring has never been like this!—Jake’s picture grinned at him. In it, he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves and loosened his tie. His hair was suggestively tousled. His horn-rims were not on his face where they could do some good, but were held playfully in one hand while he gazed myopically into the camera. Between the glasses, the partially unbuttoned shirt, and the gaze—which could have passed for smoldering, given its optically challenged lack of focus—he looked like a come-on for the Smarty Pants Dating Service.

It was worse than he’d thought. These KKZP promos might have begun in official sex symbol territory, but now they were veering toward the official sex object zone. This must be what the Victoria’s Secret models felt like when their pictures wound up on billboards for men the world over to hoot at, slobber over, and talk about. It was almost enough to make him regret the catalog subscription that came to his apartment.

Almost.

Dragging his gaze from the ad, Jake glanced in the supplemental child-view mirror clipped to his rearview. Noah was staring out the window at his father’s Godzilla-sized schnozzle. His mouth was agape. He’d even abandoned G.I. Joe to the Dr. Seuss hardcover minefield beside him. This couldn’t be good.

“Noah, let’s do the Bananaphone song.” Jake dropped in a Raffi CD. Cheerful kids’ music filled the car. Usually Noah loved Raffi music, with its silly lyrics and upbeat melodies. Striving to make his deep voice hit the notes, Jake sang, “Bananaphone…boo boo be doo be do!”

It didn’t work. They inched forward in traffic, Jake singing and Noah staring. In the convertible in front of them, two women pointed at the Jake ad. One blew kisses toward it. The other—the driver—took advantage of the slow traffic to pivot toward the city bus and shimmy at the ad. Her breasts jiggled and the car rocked. Both women giggled.

That was it. Jake scanned the freeway signs, got his bearings, and changed lanes. An exit—and a faster path to Toddler Time via surface streets—loomed ahead, and he meant to take it. He had to get Noah to daycare and hurry to the station, where he’d settle this mess once and for all.

 

 

At Toddler Time, though, his reception wasn’t what he’d expected. Jake had no sooner gotten himself, Noah, and Noah’s stuff out of the car than he heard the first wolf whistle.

He wheeled around. No one else was in the parking lot, but the Toddler Time facility’s front door was swooshing closed behind a mom and her little girl. Frowning, Jake took Noah’s hand and led him inside.

“Mr. Jarvis! So nice to…see you,” the receptionist said. Her up-and-down perusal suggested she’d like to see much more of him. So did her eyebrow waggle. “You’re looking terrific today. New workout program?”

“Nah,” Jake said, reaching for the sign-in log. “Not unless I’m doing it in bed.”

“In bed? Mmmm. You don’t say?”

“I mean, in my sleep. Working out while I’m sleeping. Sleepacizing. So I’m not aware of it.” Geez, this sex symbol stuff was hard on a guy’s equilibrium. Jake finished signing Noah in, then helped him put his things in his assigned cubby. “Between Noah and the usual eleven-to-seven, I don’t have time for much more than a daily run and some weight lifting. The gym has a baby-sitting service, though. I think Noah’s really found a buddy there who—”

“Short or not, those workouts are working,” she purred, eyeballing his biceps and chest. “Keep it up.”

Jake blinked, feeling puzzled. He’d been bringing Noah to Toddler Time for over two years now. No one had ever flirted with him before. He’d always figured it was because he and the staff and the mothers had bonded on another level—a Noah level—which precluded anything else. Really, once you’d discussed your child’s stranger anxiety, biting issues, and penchant for running through the house naked, flirtation was beside the point.

But as he entered the four-year-olds’ room and greeted Miss Suzy, he realized it—apparently—wasn’t. Miss Suzy and her assistant both gave him giggly hellos and surreptitiously sneaked glances at Jake while he double-tied Noah’s shoes. They exclaimed over his haircut and examined the fit of his khakis. They treated him like…like a piece of meat!

As he was about to leave, Miss Suzy sidled up. “So I was wondering…do you really need those glasses?”

“Only if I want to see.”

Giggle. “I thought maybe they were just props.”

“Nope. With me, what you see is what you get.”

“Oooh!” Both women squealed, blushing. “We wish!”

Jake gave them a stern look. So far, he’d avoided the groupie effect at Toddler Time. But if it started now…

“So you’ve both seen the ad, then?” he asked.

Suzy nodded. “‘If you want more action—’”

“‘Jake Jarvis is your man!’” her assistant added.

“‘KKZP Sports at Six,’” they concluded gleefully.

He groaned. Evidently, there was another one out there. Who knew what part of him—now that his nose had been bussed all over town—had been glossified and expanded to skyscraper size?

“Okay, okay.” He put out his hands, palms down, in an attempt to calm their giggles. “Is this going to be a problem? I’m putting a stop to the promos this morning, but until then—”

“No, sir. Not a problem,” Suzy said, sobering immediately. “I’m very sorry. There won’t be another word about it.”

Somewhat reluctantly—and with a final salacious visual sweep of his torso—her assistant agreed. Jake nodded.

See? he told himself, reassured by their cooperative air. This whole mess could be handled capably and quickly. By the end of the day, everything would be back to normal.

He crouched down to hug Noah good-bye. “See you later, buddy.”

His son flung his arms wholeheartedly around Jake’s neck. He squeezed with all the force a two-foot person could muster, making the enormous sacrifice of ignoring all the Toddler-Time-only toys in the corner.

“Here’s a kiss to keep for later.” Jake opened Noah’s little palm and pressed a kiss in its center. Performing his part in their morning ritual, Noah fisted the kiss as he lowered his hand. Then he shoved his hand into his shorts pocket and opened his fingers, releasing the kiss there for safekeeping.

“Love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too. See you soon.”

Jake winked, pushing away the sense of melancholy that always struck him when saying good-bye to Noah. With his back still facing the room’s doorway, he started to rise.

Another wolf whistle hit the air.

He straightened to confront the culprit—a five-foot-nothing mother of three with a baby on her hip and a defiant expression on her face.

“Hey, my figure might be going downhill,” she said, “but my imagination is as limber as ever. Nice tushie.”

“Nice tushie! Nice tushie!” the Toddler Time preschoolers echoed, exhibiting their usual fascination with potty humor. “Nice tushie!”

Jake covered his eyes and bolted. This was a nightmare. He had to get to work, and fast.

 

 

Los Angeles’s KKZP-TV was located in a nondescript two-story building with a security guard in the lobby and no signs whatsoever on the outside of its gated compound. Finding it was easy enough if you knew where to look—but most people didn’t. The on-air talent liked it that way. So did the management, producers, and staff. Picketers, crazies, tourists, and desperate aspiring actors looking for any chance to get on TV could make getting to work a real challenge. The station’s incognito policy made avoiding those inconveniences possible for everyone.

Having weathered both cross-town traffic and an appalling billboard sighting (Sports at Six with Jake Jarvis: He knows how the game is played!) on the way, Jake half-expected to find a clump of screaming, shimmying, kiss-blowing women gathered by the sign designating his reserved parking spot. As he pulled in though, his erstwhile fan club wasn’t there.

Okay, so maybe this problem wasn’t as big as he thought it was.

Then he saw the ten-foot banner decorating the lobby. Hanging directly above the security post, it depicted a photographed version of himself lounging poolside. Drops of tanning oil beaded on the bare skin of his tanned torso and legs, and a skimpy Speedo covered the bare…essentials of the rest of him. Sliding along his body were the words “Jake Jarvis: the man with the action. For full coverage, watch Sports at Six.”

Jake saw red. After the bizarre and difficult morning he’d had, this, this was the final straw.

It was the Speedo that did it. He’d never in his life worn a banana hammock like that in public. He’d be damned if he ever would. Furious, Jake checked in with security, stalked down the hallway through the newsroom, and approached managing editor at the end of a row of cubicles.

“Sid!”

Sid Spielman, Jake’s long-time boss at KKZP news, jerked at the sound of his name. He glanced sideways. His eyes widened—undoubtedly at the Incredible-Hulk-style fury on Jake’s face.

“Jake!” Sid bowed his gray-haired head to dismiss the administrative assistant he’d been talking with. She headed toward the wire service room carrying an armload of papers, leaving the two men alone. “If it isn’t the man of the hour. Was that a bellow of delight I heard thirty seconds ago? Or has Skip been editing his fluff piece on mating rhinos again?”

“It was a battle cry. Damn it, Sid! You ambushed me. Do you know what I had to go through just to get to work this morning?”

“Legions of adoring female fans between the ages of twenty-one and forty-five, I hope.”

“Wolf whistles! Shimmying! Innuendo.” Jake clenched his fists to keep from raking his hands through his hair with frustration. “Thanks to your new ad campaign, I’ve become a…a boy toy overnight.”

“So?”

“So? So when I was pumping gas this morning, a redheaded jogger swerved from her running path and pinched my ass.”

“And that’s a problem because…?”

“Arrgh!”

Sid moved in with a serious expression. “How old was she? Does she watch TV? Does she watch the news?”

As a managing editor, Sid definitely had a one-track mind. Shaking his head, Jake put both hands on his boss’s shoulders. “You’re not hearing me. My life is turning upside down, thanks to your ads. I want them stopped.”

“You’re contractually obligated to perform advertising services.”

“Fine. I’ll tape a nice series of ads for you. Without the Bain de Soleil and the banana hammock.”

“Banana hammock?” Sid looked confused, then amused. “Oh, right. The lobby banner. Yeah, it’s a miracle what the graphics guys can do with a computer these days. You take a simple picture of a guy at the office pool party last summer—”

“Strip him of his dignity—”

“—swap his trunks for a Speedo—”

“Erase all pretense of professionalism—”

“—add a cabana boy tan, and voilà!” Sid grinned. “Sex sells, you know. I’m positive you’re not naïve enough to believe that looks don’t matter in broadcast journalism.”

“I know that, Sid. I put up with putting mousse in my hair and wearing suits on the air, just like everyone else. But I’ll be damned if I’ll be made into a laughingstock.”

“Those whistling, pinching women weren’t laughing, Jake. They were responding.” Sid took Jake’s arm and led him toward his nearby cubicle, where he leaned against the desk with his arms folded. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook. L.A. Magazine wants to interview you. The New Times is pitching a piece. And that’s in addition to the coverage we’ve got planned on our own ‘Wake Up, L.A.’”

Amber Nielson, the blond and freckled host of the lifestyles segment of KKZP’s morning show, popped up from a neighboring work area. She nodded. “Yeah. See me when you’re done, will you, Jake?”

He groaned. Amber’s typical lifestyle segments included features on go-go dancing fish, piercings for your pet, origami as a career choice, and “extreme” knitting. They were, to put it politely, fluffier than cotton candy. Jake didn’t want to be cotton candy. He might have fallen into sportscasting as a second career choice, but he took it damned seriously now.

“I. Want. Those. Ads. Stopped,” he said.

“Can’t. They’re critical. The most important demographic today is women aged twenty-one to forty-five. They’re the ones making eighty-five percent of the buying decisions. They’re the ones advertisers want to reach. They’re the ones we need to appeal to if we want to survive.”

“Fine. I’ll speak to a few garden clubs.”

“That’s not enough anymore. These women want more. Much more. And that’s what you’re going to give them.”

Uh-oh. “What’s what I’m going to give them?”

“More of you. That’s the number one request we get in viewer mail, especially from women. They want to see more of L.A.‘s studliest sportscaster. More, more, more.”

“I’m beginning to feel lucky the graphics guys left me my banana hammock.”

Sid grinned. “Ever heard of ‘Dream Date?’”

Jake nodded warily, willing to see where his managing editor was going with this apparent non sequitur. “I’m familiar with it.”

Everyone was familiar with it. It was one of their parent network’s hottest prime time game shows—a cross between “Blind Date” and “The Newlywed Game,” with a little reality TV thrown in.

“Good,” Sid said. “Because as part of our new publicity campaign, you’re going to be a contestant. Congratulations!”

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

Some days, it just didn’t pay to pull off your leopard-print sleep mask and get out of bed.

For Marley Madison, Wednesday was one of those days. First she awakened to discover that her Yorkie, Gaffer, had chewed up most of the pages of the audition script she’d been studying. Then she met with her personal trainer and slogged through her necessary treadmill-plus-Pilates routine…only to step on the scale afterward and discover a disheartening three-pound gain. But, determined not to let those little setbacks get her down, Marley got on with the rest of her day anyway.

She dressed in her finest “L.A. casual” style in a pink designer tee and matching miniskirt, slipped into her cutest pair of Jimmy Choos, and checked her makeup. Forty-five minutes later she swept into her first business meeting of the day, accompanied by her publicist, her manager, and her assistant.

“Go ahead and get some breakfast,” Marley told them, gesturing toward the restaurant’s famous buffet. “I’m running a little late, so I’d better get started.”

She focused all her considerable charisma on the casting director and producer waiting at a corner table, then headed toward them. There was a lot riding on this meeting. A new part, a fresh beginning, a reinvention of sorts. She had to make the most of it…starting with her approach.

Fixing a smile on her face, Marley exercised her famous hip shimmy all the way across the room. Tableside, she tossed back her shoulder-length blond hair. She knew what they wanted—the complete Marley Madison, in all her starlet glory. It was a role she’d been born to play—had played, for as long as she could remember.

“Hello, gentlemen. Been waiting long?”

The producer looked up. “Marley! Thanks for dropping by.”

The casting director offered her a chair. Marley slid gracefully into it, the way her movement coach had taught her, and arranged her cute, six-inch handbag on the table. She folded her hands in her lap while exchanging general chitchat.

“Have some breakfast.” The producer gestured toward the buffet as though he’d conjured it himself—and he might have, given his status in this town. “The almond croissants are terrific.”

“Thanks,” she demurred. “But I’m on the Zone. My assistant will pick out something wonderful for me, I’m sure.”

True to form, she did. A few minutes later, Marley’s loyal personal assistant Candace appeared with a veggie omelet, fruit, and a double cappuccino. Marley tucked in. As her entourage settled at a respectful distance at a nearby table, the talk turned to business. They discussed the latest network ratings stunts, ran through the usual “where are they now?” of people they’d worked with in the past, then meandered through an impromptu poll of favorite Emmy parties. Finally, they moved on to the high-profile network drama series pilot Marley had come to the meeting to discuss.

“I read the script last night,” she said, cutting to the chase. She wanted this job. Needed this job. More, she truly felt passionately about the part. “The character of Elizabeth is beautifully complex. Her motivations, her relationship with her vagabond father, the grittiness she brings to her work as an attorney. It’s absolutely galvanizing.”

Both men stopped eating to gawk at her.

“As Stanislavski said, to find the truth in a character is of paramount importance. If I delved deeper, uncovered the essence of this part—”

Their mouths dropped open. Literally.

Whoops. Hastily, Marley regrouped. “I mean, I’ll bet the character of Elizabeth has a fabulous wardrobe, right? All those Armani suits!”

They visibly relaxed. This was the Marley Madison they knew. The style-obsessed, fashionista Pop Tart who’d set trends in hair, makeup, and stilettos during her eight-year run on prime time TV. That Marley Madison didn’t use words like “galvanizing.” She certainly didn’t think of herself as being capable of portraying “grittiness.”

The only trouble was, Marley did.

The producer patted her hand. “The wardrobe department is still working on contacting the Armani people.”

“That’s fine,” Marley said. Her passionate, revealing speech about the part of Elizabeth had been risky, but she’d been determined to try. Now she needed to take one last stab at it, before it was too late.

She leaned forward. “In fact, all wardrobe questions aside, I want you both to know that I’d be perfectly willing to audition for this part. To do a cold reading, a test with another actor, whatever you want.”

For an actress of her stature, those were humbling concessions. Given all that had happened to her over the past year, Marley was willing to make them.

“Yes, well…about the part,” the casting director said. “We have a little confession to make. We, er, hope you won’t mind.”

“Mind? Of course not.” Her big opportunity had just taken a wrong turn. She could feel it. She lifted her cappuccino with a shaky hand and took a fortifying sip. “What is it?”

“It’s this.” The producer reached into his briefcase and withdrew a glossy magazine. He pushed it across the table to Marley. “Would you mind autographing this? My daughter is a big fan.”

She recognized her own smiling face and scantily clad body on the cover of Cosmopolitan. The magazine—and the article inside about Marley’s one and only disastrous feature film—was eight months old. At this point, it looked a lot like her last hurrah.

Woodenly, she put on a smile. “Sure. What’s your daughter’s name?”

He told her. She duly executed an autographed inscription, complete with swirly starlet script and framed with a sketched heart. As she handed the magazine back, Marley’s gaze met the sympathetic faces of her assistant, publicist, and manager, looking on from their table. Immediately, they all pretended an urgent need for more coffee. They jumped up and scurried to the buffet.

“This is for me,” the casting director said, holding an eight by ten glossy that Marley recognized as her own résumé photo. “When this came across my desk, I knew I couldn’t just file it. When I was in college, I loved your show!”

Determined to soldier on in the face of this unexpected development, she signed an extravagant inscription. There was still a chance this meeting could be salvaged.

“So, about the part,” she began as she handed over the photo. “I’m afraid there was an unfortunate accident involving the script” —Gaffer thought it was delicious— “but I have most of it memorized. Why don’t I do a scene for you right now?”

They both burst out laughing. “Oh, Marley. You are a good sport!”

Confused, she examined their faces.

“To come here, to sign autographs, and to make a joke about the part.” The producer patted her arm again. “You’re a hoot.”

She didn’t want to be a hoot. “I’d rather be an employed actress. In your new drama.”

Ha, ha. Ho, ho. “I can’t cast you in ‘Legal Briefs,’” the casting director explained, shaking his head. “Surely you knew that going in?”

“But—but you haven’t even heard me audition yet.”

“Marley, honey. We know what you can do.”

“We’ve seen you. Hell, Biff here” —the casting director—“practically grew up watching you on ‘Fantasy Family.’ Trust us, the part of Elizabeth isn’t for you.”

It wasn’t? So they’d only brought her here to sign autographs?

Her hopes plummeted. There wouldn’t be a new part for her, wouldn’t even be an opportunity for a new part for her. She couldn’t spend the rest of her life with a Sharpie in one hand and a stack of glossies in the other. She had to move on. But how?

“Oh, here comes Talisha now,” the producer said, glancing up at the woman lingering near the maître d’ station. The casting director nodded, his attention drawn, too.

Marley looked. Talisha was tall, free of makeup, and poor of posture. She schlepped into the restaurant wearing an Army surplus jacket, an artfully embroidered shirt, and a long gauzy skirt. Jeweled thongs adorned her unmanicured feet.

“Now she’s raw. Real,” the casting director whispered confidently to the producer. The producer nodded, his attention fixed on Talisha. “Like a lump of clay. You can mold her.”

If Talisha was a lump of clay, what did that make Marley? Immovable marble? A museum piece? A freaking exhibit?

“You’ll excuse us, won’t you?” the producer asked. “We’re double booked for breakfast.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” the casting director said.

Neither one of them looked at her. They were through.

This was so humiliating. Feeling a lump rise helplessly to her throat, Marley clutched her purse. She left the rest of her veggie omelet uneaten, and nodded to both men in an effort to maintain her professional image. They were too busy watching the “raw, real,” effect of Talisha chatting up a waiter to notice.

She reached her entourage’s table. It was hard to speak. Her throat had tightened up around a big lump of disappointment. “All done,” she squeaked.

“Oh, Marley,” Candace said. “We’re so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Her supposedly nonchalant wave felt a little animatronic, but it was the best she could do. “My numerologist said nine-thirty was a bad time for a meeting today, but did I listen? Obviously there’s something else out there for me.”

They rallied around. “You bet”s were heard. Back patting ensued. All Marley cared about was getting away from the disaster scene before she lost her composure completely.

“Let’s go.”

Making a determined effort, she breezed out of the restaurant followed by her staff. She nodded politely as she passed the producer and casting director. She even held it together as she heard one of them tell Talisha, “You’re perfect for the part of Elizabeth. We couldn’t think of anyone else.”

But there was only so much a girl could take. She slid into her BMW’s backseat and greeted her driver as her entourage waited for the valet to bring around their separate vehicles. She distracted herself by poring over the appointments in her Palm Pilot and opening a bottle of San Pellegrino.

Then she noticed a chip in her manicure and burst into tears. Sometimes, enough was enough. In this case, it was way, way too much.

 

 

“I’m a has-been,” Marley wailed to her manager, Brian, as they approached the site of her next meeting—another in a long series of attempts at career triage. “Worse, I’m a typecast has-been! Nobody wants to see me as anything new.”

“Sure they do. They will. Eventually.”

She shook her head. “You saw what happened this morning. And it gets worse. You know that date I had last night?”

“The fix-up with the accountant?”

“The very same. He didn’t want to date me. He wanted to date Tara!”

Tara was her character from “Fantasy Family,” a southern belle with a sassy tongue and a sexy wardrobe.

“Come on. He knew you weren’t really Tara.”

“I’m not sure anybody knows that,” Marley said. They strode into the dimness of a West Hollywood restaurant foyer. She slipped off her sunglasses and automatically checked her teeth for lipstick. “He wanted me to whisper sweet nothings in a southern accent. He wondered why my hair was different. He was disappointed—clearly disappointed!—that I couldn’t do that knot-a-cherry-stem-with-my-tongue maneuver from the third season.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not. I’m washed up, Brian. But I refuse to go down without a fight. That Talisha’s got nothing on me. I’m as ‘real’ as the next girl, damn it!”

“Your cutlets have shifted, ‘real’ girl,” he said, motioning toward her chest. “Better fix ‘em before we go in.”

Marley frowned and looked downward. Naturally flat-chested, she’d taken to wearing the silicone inserts sometimes referred to as “cutlets” inside her bras. They lifted, they amplified…they felt like uncooked chicken piccata against her meager bosom.

Rolling her eyes, Marley leaned forward slightly. Brian—ever a gentleman—turned away as she reached inside her T-shirt to adjust her left insert, then her right. A tug, a wiggle…a flash?

The unmistakable flare of a camera flash blinded her. She blinked, trying to clear the spots before her eyes. Paparazzi, here?

Apparently so. A man wearing three different cameras slung around his neck grinned triumphantly at the edge of the foyer. “Thanks, Marley. See you in print!”

He dashed away. Undoubtedly, within a week his photo would wind up below a tabloid headline. Something like, “Former sitcom star Marley Madison’s secret obsession! Details inside!” Marley groaned.

“I’ll go after him,” Brian said. “Wait here.”

She grabbed him before he could get far. “Don’t bother. You don’t have to be a white knight for my sake.”

“You had your hand inside your bra. It’s going to look pretty bad.”

She shrugged. “So the world discovers I stuff my A-cups. Big deal. I’ve survived worse.”

He frowned. “Are you sure?”

Marley nodded. After spending most of her twenty-seven years in show business, she’d certainly been caught in less flattering poses. At least this one wasn’t topless.

They made their way to the restaurant’s private back room where, outside its closed doors, she ran through her usual preparations. She drew in a deep breath to calm her nerves, de-lipsticked her teeth again, and ran her hands over her outfit to smooth it. She posed on the threshold. Brian opened the doors.

“She’s here!” someone shouted.

The crowd’s attention swerved expectantly toward Marley. More cameras flashed. A man to her left raised his camcorder. Voices rose in excited chatter. A few women even pointed in her direction as Marley paused in the doorway, psyching herself up for what was to come.

This was a gathering of avid fans of “Fantasy Family,” Marley’s now-cancelled sitcom. It included, she saw as she automatically posed for pictures, sales of the series’ episodes on VHS and DVD. Posters of the cast and of Marley alone. Marley Mania T-shirts, fans dressed in character, even a hairstylist in the corner who appeared to be turning out copies of “The Tara,” Marley’s character’s famous hairstyle, for her customers. It was all “Fantasy Family,” all the time.

In short, it was a compendium of everything she’d been working so diligently to leave behind her for the past year.

But “Fantasy Family” had been her bread and butter for a long time now. She couldn’t afford to ignore the fans it had gained her…which was why she’d come here in the first place.

“Right this way, Marley,” a bubbly brunette said, gesturing toward the far corner of the room. “We’ve arranged a seat of honor for you!”

Smiling and waving, Marley let herself be led past a dozen tablecloth-covered round tables. Their floral centerpieces held cards designating each as a gathering point for discussions relating to particular cast members. There were three “Tara” tables, she noticed. As they passed, someone yelled out, “Marley! Come on, say it! Please!”

Knowing exactly what that request meant, Marley stopped at the table she’d been led to. She smoothed her “Beverly Hills casual” pink shirt and miniskirt, then assumed the flirtatious posture she’d become so well known for as the character of Tara. She tossed back her shoulder-length blond hair and put one hand on her hip. She leaned toward the microphone that had been set up.

“Why, I do declare!” she exclaimed in a perfect Southern drawl. “I do declare, indeed!”

At the sound of her signature catchphrase, roars of approval rang out. Applause filled the room, celebrating Marley’s portrayal of the spoiled debutante who’d made her famous. Despite her vows to move on with her career and really prove her acting abilities, Marley beamed. Ever since her long-running series had ended, this was something she’d been denied.

This enthusiasm. This caring. This love.

She basked in it, knowing exactly how short-lived it could be. Her whole life had been spent performing, from kiddie shows to commercials to the eight-year run of “Fantasy Family.” Now, just over a year after her show’s demise, Marley paused in her struggles and just savored.

This approval, this gathering of people, made her feel good. It made her feel wanted and needed and appreciated, things she desperately yearned to feel after the string of dead-ends, false starts, and failed auditions she’d suffered through lately. As the applause and whistles rang out, Marley felt renewed.

Acting was the only thing she’d ever excelled at. Well, aside from shopping, that is. Acting had come as naturally to her as falling in love came to most other women. When she was inside a character, everything else receded. A big piece of herself had gone into portraying Tara. It meant so much, now, that all these people appreciated her work.

A woman stepped up, wearing a “Tara” haircut and cradling a baby. “I named my baby after you. See? Little Marley Madison Polone.”

Smiling, Marley leaned forward and cooed at the tiny girl. She took a few moments to chat with the baby’s mother.

“I dedicated my Web site to you,” a red-haired man said, shoving a www.MarleyMadisonUniverse.com bumper sticker into her hand. “I get two million hits per month.”

“Good for you!” Marley said, offering him a handshake. She spent a few minutes trying to decipher Internet-speak, then slipped the bumper sticker to Brian, who’d moved to stand beside her. She went on greeting people.

“Please sign this,” a woman in dreadlocks pleaded, thrusting a collectible poster toward her. “It’s not for me. It’s for my mother. She couldn’t come here today.”

Marley did. Three exhausting hours later, she’d met every conceivable variety of fan. Quiet fans, boisterous fans, fans who were annoyed she was no longer on TV and fans who wanted to describe their UFO theories to her. She shook hands and signed autographs until her fingers cramped. She smiled until her cheeks felt like she’d forgotten to remove a mud masque at the spa. She grew hoarse from speaking to be heard over the crowd, and toe-pinched from standing in high heels for too long.

Eventually, Brian rescued her. Candace had arrived by then, along with Marley’s publicist, Heather. The three of them surrounded her as they made their way to the exit. Marley smiled and waved. Cameras flashed again.

Outside it was quieter and cooler. The air smelled of L.A.‘s special mixture—exhaust and sunshine.

“Smaller group this time,” Heather observed as they headed for their cars. She frowned. “I’m not sure I can even get a mention of this in the media.”

“Events like this are for meeting people, not for generating press,” Marley insisted, trying to retain the good feelings being with her fans had given her. “Besides, once I get that fabulous new part I’m chasing, every publicity outlet will be begging for interviews.”

Brian paused. “Speaking of that part…”

“What about it?” Marley refused to break stride. “Have you heard something from the Warner Brothers people?”

Catching up to her, Brian exchanged a glance with Candace. Warily, Candace unholstered her cell phone from her hip, as though preparing to launch into full damage control mode. If the news was bad, spa visits, manicures, and feel-good shopping therapy wouldn’t be far behind.

Uh-oh.

“They went with somebody else for the part,” Brian replied with obvious reluctance. He reached for Marley’s hand and gave it a friendly squeeze. “I’ve had my doubts about that role all along, though. It was obviously very brave of you to want to stretch into the part of the criminal profiler, but—”

“But you don’t think I can do it. Is that it?”

“No!” all three of them said at once. Brian even held out his hands, palms up in a “stop” gesture. They looked like her own personal backup group. Marley and the Supremes.

“No,” Brian repeated. “I believe you can do it. We all do. But playing against type is tough, especially when making the leap from television to film. It’ll take something drastic to move your career in the right direction.”

He’d been telling her that all along. “How much more drastic does it get?” Marley asked. “I offered to audition. To cold read. Even to screen test. That was humiliating, Brian! And they still turned me down.”

They reached Marley’s BMW. She leaned against it, arms crossed, and pinned her entourage with a fierce look. In turn, they shuffled their feet. Looked down the street. Examined the sunny California sky for shifting clouds.

As the silence lengthened with no easy assurances, Marley felt more worried than ever. Her bravado seeped away by degrees until she was only a scantily dressed blonde standing beside a car and driver she wouldn’t be able to afford much longer. She felt small and alone and insignificant…feelings that were as alien to her as unplucked eyebrows.

“What am I going to do?” she asked quietly, desperately. “I can’t go on like this. I just can’t. I need to work. I need to move on. I need to be me again, before it’s too late.”

Their gazes swerved to hers at last. Sympathetically, they all stepped closer, offering reassurances.

“I do have one new idea,” Brian said. “Sondra” –Marley’s agent— “and I came up with it. But it’s pretty radical, and I don’t want to pitch it without her. Meet me in an hour or so at my office?”

“I’ll be at the day spa in an hour.”

Candace nodded, confirming Marley’s standing appointment.

“Can’t you skip it today? This is serious.”

“So is self-maintenance. I am my product, Brian. I have to take my looks seriously.”

“Fine. Sondra and I will meet you at the spa.”

Feeling immensely reassured now that a plan was under way, Marley smiled at him. It was fortunate she had so many good people to depend upon. “Super! I’ll treat you both to the works. And thanks. I really appreciate this. See you then!”

With a wiggle of her fingers and a cheery “bye-eee!” for everyone, she got into her car. Things would work out. She just knew they would. She was willing to work hard, she was talented, and she had a lot of very skilled people on her side.

Brian rapped on the car window. Marley pressed the button to roll it down. She raised her eyebrows in question.

“Oh, and Marley?” he added. “Keep an open mind about this, would you? You can’t afford to dismiss any ideas that might help your career, however outrageous they are.”

“Outrageous? What do you mean, outrageous?”

Her driver chose that moment to spot his opening in traffic. He put the BMW into motion. Brian obligingly stepped out of the way and waved. So did Candace and Heather.

“Brian? Brian?” Marley hung out the window. “What do you mean, outrageous?” she cried. “How outrageous?”

“You’ll find out in an hour,” he called through cupped hands. Then he smiled and waved and got into his own car, leaving Marley to wonder exactly how much outrageousness she really had in her.

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

“Congratulations?” Jake repeated, stunned. “‘Dream Date?’” The reality of the publicity-stunt nightmare he was about to get roped into hit him. He shook his head. “Uh-uh. No way.”

He followed Sid, who’d neatly sidestepped him and headed for his own corner cubicle after making his big “Dream Date” announcement.

“No way am I making an appearance on some cheesy game show, Sid!” Jake called, doggedly following him. For a big man, Sid could really move. “I’m not doing it!”

Somehow, Jake realized, this entire day had gotten away from him. No matter what he did, it only got worse. He’d tried to have the ads stopped, and what had he gotten instead? A spot on a game show. What were the odds of that?

By the time Jake caught up with Sid, his boss had slapped on his patented like-it-or-lump-it fake smile.

“It’ll be fun,” he said. “You’ll meet a nice girl, go on a few dates…who knows? You might even like the girl enough to marry her—”

“Fat chance. You’re talking to a diehard bachelor.”

“—and wind up with a little brother or sister for that kid of yours.”

“You leave Noah out of this.”

Sid shrugged. “I’m just saying, living like a monk can’t be good for you. Look on the bright side.”

“The bright side of making an idiot of myself? No thanks.” Jake had to make Sid see reason. “Look, I’m willing to do my part. Make publicity appearances, toss baseballs for charity at the Sassy Seniors’ Powderpuff League, host parties for Big Brothers Big Sisters. But this? It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous, it’s already booked.” Richard Holloway, KKZP’s news director, came out of his side office. “And it’s what our viewers want, Jarvis.”

He slapped Jake on the back, demonstrating all the strength that came with his favorite hobby, bodybuilding. With extra-jovial heartiness, he added, “We’re going to give our viewers what they want.”

Jake shook his head. “I can’t do it, Rich.”

“Can’t?” The news director looked surprised. On the surface. Underneath, a certain steeliness came into his eyes. “Or won’t? Because what this station needs is team players. Team players who recognize a terrific opportunity to help KKZP when it’s right in front of them.”

That sounded ominous. Was Rich actually threatening him?

If he was, Jake wasn’t a man who went down without a fight.

“Won’t,” he said, looking the news director in the eye. “I was hired to cover sports news. I’m good at it. My segment of ‘Sports at Six’ consistently earns higher than average ratings. I don’t need to morph into some kind of hunk-of-the-month to pull in viewers.”

Rich nodded thoughtfully. His silvering hair caught highlights from the office fluorescents, and made him look wiser than he deserved. “Yes. Yes, you do.”

Stonewalled, Jake stared out over the newsroom. He had a bad feeling about this. His contract was due for renewal next month. Without the insurance and medical benefits KKZP provided for him and Noah, he’d be no better than an itinerant talking head.

Without references and recommendations from Rich and Sid, it would be tough to score a contract at another station. Broadcast news relied heavily on its anchors for brand identification. Switching stations within the same market didn’t tend to work well. In order to find work, Jake would have to approach different markets, in other cities where his face and name weren’t associated with KKZP. Going on the road would mean moving Noah from Toddler Time, dragging him from place to place…eliminating every hope of normalcy and consistency and ordinariness in their lives.

“It’s only for a few weeks,” Sid coaxed. “A month at the most. The ‘Dream Date’ people will give you a Q&A interview to start, tape you going on a few dates, then interview you again at the end to find out which couple wins the contest. That’s it.”

“That’s it? A month’s worth of blind-dates-by-force, bracketed by two interrogations?”

“Come on,” Sid cajoled further. “It won’t be that bad. If you make a positive impression with female viewers, it could really boost our profile in the market.”

Jake glanced at him. His producer was really sweating this one, he realized. Literally. Sid’s job was closely tied with the success or failure of “Sports at Six”…and sportscasters weren’t the only ones with contracts up for renewal.

Awww, hell. Jake didn’t want to date a stranger for the titillation of a live studio audience. He didn’t want to amp up his studly sportcaster image any more than it already had been. He didn’t want to take unnecessary time away from Noah, either. But faced with the facts—and confronted with Sid’s desperation—Jake knew his wants didn’t matter half as much as his obligations did.

He was going to have to get into the game and become a PR player. For Noah’s sake, for Sid’s sake, and for his own sake.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

Rich and Sid both beamed.

“But in return, I want those promos stopped.”

Sid nodded with evident relief. “I’ll have the graphics guys put your swim trunks back on. We’ll print a new banner right away. No more banana hammock. How’s that?”

“It’s a start.” Jake turned to Rich. “When do I make my game show debut?”

“First thing tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Jake boggled. He had stories to work on, on-site footage to shoot…hell. He didn’t have time for this.

“It shouldn’t interfere with your work,” Rich said. He added a few more details. “After all, most of your ‘Dream Date’ duties will take place after hours, during your personal time.”

Well, that was much better, wasn’t it?

“Fine,” Jake gritted out. “I’ll get it done.”

After all, he always did. At twenty-eight, he was one of KKZP’s youngest on-air personalities, but he made sure his work kept him competitive. He didn’t intend to foul up now.

No matter how much he hated being backed into a corner.

“See that you do get it done,” Rich said. He aimed a pointed glance at Sid. “I’ll be deciding whether or not to pick up the options on the talents’ contracts all month long. It’s always so much nicer for me when I can approve them.”

“Yeah,” Jake shot back. “It’s nicer for us when you can approve them, too.”

Rich paused in the midst of returning to his office. He looked over his shoulder at Jake. “You’re skating on thin ice, Jarvis. I’d watch myself if I were you.”

Jake shrugged. “You’ll have to be content with watching me on ‘Dream Date.’” He removed his horn-rims and channeled his frustration into the slow and deliberate motions required to clean the lenses. “I hear viewers are clamoring for the experience.”

At Jake’s reminder of his popularity with viewers—one of the tangibles his sportscasting brought to KKZP—Rich offered a thin smile.

“Yes. Well. Good luck,” he said as he straightened his tie. “You’ll need it.”

Jake hoped he wouldn’t need luck. The way he saw it, all he needed was to be paired with a “Dream Date” date-ee who wasn’t some kind of crazy fan, but who was a reasonable, ordinary, down-to-earth woman. A woman who wouldn’t shake up his life, who wouldn’t threaten the normalcy he’d built with his son, and who wouldn’t be hoping for more than Jake was prepared to give.

Piece of cake, he assured himself as he slipped his glasses back on and watched Rich leave. He said his good-byes to Sid. A few seconds later, he was at his own cubicle, his fated game show appearance about to be pushed from his thoughts by impending deadlines.

There were millions of practical, sensible women in the world, he told himself as he pulled up his PC’s scheduling software and scanned the day’s tasks. All Jake needed was one. Surely getting matched up with her wouldn’t be that tough.

He hoped.

 

 

“Try the green tea and loofa scrub,” Marley suggested as she settled back into her favorite massaging recliner at the spa. She lifted a de-puffing cucumber slice from one eye and smiled at Brian and Sondra. “It comes with a divine Ayurvedic wrap and heated stone massage afterward.”

They looked skeptical. Brian, after all, was something of a germ-a-phobe. He was never wild about being touched by strangers—even for the most delightful of reasons. And Sondra was an eminently businesslike woman—even while clad in a spa robe, as she was now. Marley doubted Sondra unclenched her cell phone and PDA for anything less than full-scale, official relaxation—all ten doctor-ordered minutes per day she accumulated of it. But, being the good sports they were, both Brian and Sondra settled warily into the recliners flanking Marley.

Directly across from them in their private spa room, Candace and Heather wore terrycloth robes as they sprawled in identical recliners. Sea mud masques had been professionally smeared on their faces. Pedicure sponges were wedged between their toes. Headphones huddled over their ears, providing the soothing spa sounds of Gregorian chants.

They couldn’t hear the conversation Marley was about to have with her manager and agent, but she had a feeling they knew all about it already.

More than likely, her whole “team” knew everything about her—what she’d done, what she was thinking of doing, what she’d failed at. They shared information about her, Marley was sure. And why not? She was what they had in common.

In all though, her entourage was as much a family to her as her own parents and twin sister were. Her theatrical agent, commercial agent, CPA, publicist, attorney, stylist, manager, personal assistant, housekeeper, personal trainer, facialist, Tarot card reader, driver, chef, and all the others had been with her for years. They knew her inside and out—and they’d stuck by her, too.

Because of that, Marley felt a strong sense of responsibility toward them. In a sense, their careers were her career. They depended on her for their livelihoods—and, let’s face it, for prime gossip. She couldn’t let them down any more than she could let herself down. No, she had to do something to get her career back on track, for everyone’s sake.

While Brian’s assigned technician assured him she had indeed put on sanitary gloves and Sondra’s pried the pager from her client’s sturdy grip, Marley chose a lovely peach color for her pedicure. She set aside her cucumber slices and allowed the technician to administer a high-tech treatment cream. She ordered papaya-mango smoothies for everyone.

“Be sure to include those little umbrella garnishes, please,” she told the girl who’d come to offer refreshments. “They’re festive. I could use some festivity today.”

The girl nodded and scurried away. Brian chose that moment to scrutinize the toenail clippers his technician was about to wield. Sondra demanded the return of her cell phone.

“This is all about relaxation,” Marley reminded them. She glanced at Candace and Heather to make sure they were enjoying themselves, then addressed her manager and agent. “If you two don’t pipe down, I’m going to request full-body seaweed wraps and nice long stays in the immersion tank for both of you.”

They quieted immediately, as she’d known they would. There was nothing like the threat of forced solitude to subdue the average workaholic showbiz type.

“So, what’s this outrageous new plan?” Marley asked. “I’m dying to know what you two have cooked up for me. A stint on the New York stage? A series of overseas commercials? The ones in Japan can be very lucrative, I hear. Or maybe a musical. I’ve been taking voice lessons since I was five, you know. I had to round out the tap lessons somehow.”

“It’s not a musical,” Brian said.

“Or a play,” Sondra added. “Or a commercial.”

“It’s something even bigger,” Brian told her. “Something that will revitalize your entire career.”

“Not another makeover.” Much as she loved them, Marley knew she had to look deeper to solve this problem. “I went strawberry blond two months ago and it didn’t accomplish a thing.”

“No. It’s not a makeover,” Sondra said. Reluctantly, she closed her eyes to receive her own cucumber slices. “Not the way you mean. What we’re trying to get at is…Marley, I’m sorry. But you’re just not working anymore.”

“Well, I know that. That’s what’s been bothering me so much! That’s what I’ve been trying to change all year. Right, Brian? Everything I’ve done has been an attempt at getting work. At revitalizing—no, reinventing—my career.”

“What Sondra means to say is, you’re not working.” Brian winced as the technician began buffing the soles of his feet with a pumice stone. His tone remained gentle. “Your image, your approach. You.”

Marley blinked, the beginnings of unease making her stomach clench. “Me?”

“You, as a person,” Brian said.

Sondra nodded. The technician adorned her face with deep-moisture treatment packs, which made her next words come out muffled. “Brian and I have been over this a thousand times. At this point, we’ve agreed there’s only one thing to do: Change you completely.”

“Change me? Me?” Marley repeated in a small voice.

“Yes,” they said in unison.

Yikes. She’d been rejected for acting jobs before, of course. But Marley had never been rejected like this. So personally. So persistently. So brutally matter-of-factly.

I thought you were my friends! she wanted to wail, but couldn’t. She was too desperate not to listen. If what Brian and Sondra had to say could help…well, she had to stand tough and take it.

For courage, Marley chose a revved-up red polish for her manicure. For fortification, she took a big glug of the smoothie the refreshments girl delivered. For strength, she drew in a deep breath and visualized a successful outcome—exactly as her therapist had taught her. Then she faced her future dead-on.

“All right, then. Give it to me straight.”

First, Brian dismissed the spa technicians so they’d have privacy—a move which definitely made Marley even more nervous. Then he began:

“It’s like this,” he said. “Industry people are having a hard time taking you seriously. Thanks to your popularity on ‘Fantasy Family,’ you’ve become the ultimate blond starlet. You’re perceived as glamorous. Sensational. And frivolous—both on screen and off. It’s hard for anyone to imagine you any other way.”

Ouch. Marley had known Brian wasn’t exactly the type to pull his punches, but sheesh…

“This severely limits the roles you can play,” Sondra agreed. “Right now, your ‘type’ isn’t what casting directors are looking for. What we need to do is make them see you in a whole new light.”

Marley began to understand. “A real, raw light?”

“Exactly,” Brian said.

Gulp. Real and raw were uncharted waters for Marley. She specialized in girly girl. In blond bombshell. In spoiled debutante. Those were comfortable for her.

“In order to do that,” Sondra said, “in order to force the change you need and present you in a fresher, more natural way, we’ve come up with a plan. It’s unorthodox, but—”

“We’re sending you undercover,” Brian interrupted.

“Undercover?”

“Yes.” Sondra sounded assured, as though this whole idea didn’t seem crazy. “On ‘Dream Date.’ Are you familiar with it?”

“Umm, sure.” Everyone was familiar with it. It was prime time’s hottest and most-hyped game show since “Who Wants to be a Millionaire.” It was a reality TV mishmash of “Blind Date” plus “The Newlywed Game,” featuring hot singles looking for love and finding battle-of-the-sexes style miscommunications instead. “But I still don’t see what that has to do with—”

“It’s simple,” Sondra explained. “You’ll audition incognito for ‘Dream Date.’ If you can convince the director and producer that you’re an ordinary, un-diva-like girl next door—and they cast you—you’ll be on your way.”

“We can use your appearance on the show to compile a whole new résumé reel,” Brian said, his tone eager. “One that will showcase an undiscovered side of Marley Madison. One that will display the range of your talents like never before. In a real, raw, natural setting.”

“Game shows are the most accessible auditions around,” Sondra added. “And working on a game show—three times or fewer—is SAG-approved. All you need is a suitable alter ego, then…bam! Reinvented, revitalized career.”

They fell silent, obviously pleased with their proposition. Marley had to agree that a reinvented, revitalized career did sound good. A second chance at success was what she wanted more than anything.

But this? An alter ego? It was kooky. Outrageous. And so…gutsy, it just might work. But still…

“Wrangling to get cast on ‘Dream Date’ would be a real come-down,” she protested. “What if someone found out who I really was? What if my real identity were discovered?”

She shuddered, unable to pursue the awful thought aloud. A two-time People’s Choice Award winner, reduced to a bit-part game show gal? Horrific! Everyone she knew would have a field day. Possibly, the Academy would even revoke her Emmy. She loved her Emmy. It symbolized everything that was special about her luxe life in L.A. It represented her accomplishments and her talent. It had gotten her through some tough, doubt-filled times.

“I want to keep my Emmy!” she blurted, panicked.

To their credit, neither Brian nor Sondra so much as cracked a smile. They were taking this seriously.

“You’ll keep your Emmy,” Brian said, “and if your alter ego does well on ‘Dream Date,’ you just might find yourself on the path to winning another one. Or even an Oscar. Marley, this can work. You have the talent to pull this off. You can become an ordinary girl next door for the duration of a ‘Dream Date’ taping. Think of it!”

That was the trouble. She was thinking of it. Thinking of sacrificing the image she’d painstakingly built, just to morph into Miss Mundane for a questionable game show “opportunity.”

“Think of the industry buzz when the show airs and we reveal your image-changing performance as an utterly believable, down-to-earth, blue-collar woman,” Sondra urged. “A woman who knows her craft so well, she’s been able to fool everyone, including her dream date. Honestly, Marley. This opportunity could very well change your life.”

Marley wasn’t so sure she wanted her life changed. Not like this. If she surrendered her special starlet sparkle, who would she be? Since childhood, acting had been the only thing that was truly extraordinary about her.

“My celebrity is my greatest selling point,” she protested. “If I make up some crazy alter ego, if I audition incognito, I won’t be able to rely on it. What if…” She hardly dared to voice her next fear aloud, but she had to. “What if I can’t even get cast?”

“The Marley Madison we know will rise to this challenge and get cast,” Sondra said confidently. Brian agreed.

“But I don’t know anything about being an ordinary girl next door!” Marley cried. “I started acting in commercials when I was four. I was cast as a regular on ‘Playtime’ when I was seven. I was in and out of pilots, bit parts, soaps, and second-string roles all through my teens. I know about spotlights, tutors, and learning lines. I know about hitting my mark, walking the red carpet, and smiling for the camera. But when it comes to non-showbiz stuff….”

“You’ll do fine,” Brian assured her. “This ‘ordinary woman’ thing is a part to be researched, just like any other.”

“That’s right,” Sondra agreed. “So, what do you want to call your alter ego? We should probably decide on that first.”

Sondra had already forged ahead to the next step. Brian had, too, as though Marley’s participation were a foregone conclusion. Their surety only scared her more.

In the expectant silence that followed, Marley’s thoughts ran wild. She imagined trying to create a suitable girl-next-door character—and failing. Imagined the ‘Dream Date’ producers laughing her out of the audition. Imagined her Emmy being toted away and her aura of specialness fading.

Ordinarily, she was reasonably confident. But this…this fell outside her realm of expertise. This was too much.

 “No. No, I can’t do it,” Marley told them. “Please, puhleeze, find me something else. Anything else!”

“Well, let’s see.” Brian tapped his fingers on his spa recliner’s padded armrest. “There’s always that employee training video for our Fortune 500 client, remember Sondra? They need someone to demonstrate what is and is not sexual harassment. Marley would portray the hapless victim.”

“Or that offer from the Tiny Tots Playhouse to portray Miss Minchen in their production of ‘A Little Princess’ on stage. It’s a small play, but it would be so satisfying to give back to the community. Especially to the children.”

“You two are torturing me!” Marley said. “I’d make a rotten victim, Brian. I’d bust a few TaeBo moves on any bozo who got fresh. Plus I’m clueless about children, Sondra, and you know it.”

Brian snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! That infomercial you told me about, Sondra. What was the product called?”

“The ZitKit 3000,” Sondra replied. “Sure, why not? Marley can become the ZitKit 3000 infomercial spokesperson.”

Oh, God. She was trapped between professional victimization, community theater for preschoolers, and—worst of all—infomercial purgatory. It didn’t get much more dismal than this.

“Of course, you’d have to share the spotlight with that smart-alecky kid from the Farrelly brothers movies,” Sondra remarked thoughtfully. “The one who specializes in mooning people.”

Marley covered her eyes and moaned. This just got worse and worse.

“Right,” Brian agreed. “The butt guy. In fact, he’d probably get top billing, given the target market.”

Marley couldn’t believe this. “Exactly where are the blemishes the ZitKit 3000 is designed to treat?”

“Well….”

“No! Don’t tell me.” She held her hands in the air, heedless of their moisturizing paraffin-dipped coating. “Uncle! I’ll do it!”

“You’ll do it?” they chorused.

“I’ll do it,” Marley said. With a glimmer of hope, she considered the challenge ahead of her. It wasn’t going to be easy, and it probably wouldn’t be pretty, either. “Hey, no matter what happens from here, it’ll probably beat selling my own autographed headshots on eBay, right?”

 

 

Marley’s first step in researching her new “part”—and compiling her girl-next-door alter ego—was to turn to the only expert in “real life” she knew: her twin sister, Meredith.

While Marley had spent her childhood studying with her acting coach, memorizing audition monologues, and crying on cue as Bo’s long-lost daughter on “Days of our Lives,” Meredith had spent hers being normal. She’d avoided the spotlight. She’d attended public school. She’d experienced first dates (unscripted), first kisses (unfilmed), and first days at USC (unimaginable, for Marley). Expertly and impressively, Meredith had formed a unique bohemian-scholar image that was all her own—and that couldn’t have been more opposite than that of her famous sister.

At first, Marley had seen Meredith’s vastly different approach to life as a rejection of all things starlet-and-Marley related. Then later…she still saw it that way. It was a constant source of friction between them.

She phoned Meredith at the museum where she worked as an advertising historian, then launched right into the explanation behind her need for an alter ego.

Silence fell. Marley didn’t worry, though. That was typical Meredith. She liked thinking things through thoroughly before commenting.

“Let me get this straight,” Meredith finally said. “You’re going to pretend to be a normal, everyday woman. You. And you want me to help you do it.”

“You don’t have to make it sound so mind-boggling,” Marley replied, offended. “I’m an actress. I can act the part.”

“Sure. But you’re not a miracle worker.”

“Har, har. Can we skip the sarcasm, here? I need help.”

As usual, Marley’s honest plea brought out her sister’s inherent soft-heartedness. “Okay. What can I do?”

“Advise me. I’m pressed for time, because the audition is tomorrow. I’m going to have to build this character from the outside in. If I get cast, I’ll work on the internals. So I need a few shortcuts to looking real and raw. Down-to-earth.”

“Don’t shower. Don’t comb your hair. Wear Mom’s old hippie clothes to the audition. How’s that?”

“It’s a dating show, Meredith. If I go looking like The Swamp Thing, God knows what kind of Igor I’ll get matched up with.”

“Good point.”

Silence. Marley paced her Hollywood Hills bungalow with her cell phone in hand, waiting. She air-kissed her Emmy. She crouched down to pet Gaffer, who waited for her beside his new Hermès leash. She pictured her mousy, nose-always-in-a-book sister forgetting all about Marley’s emergency dilemma and wandering off to work on a scholarly article, or something equally nonsensical.

“Meredith!”

“I’m here.” As always, she sounded calm and self-contained.

“Please, help meeee. How can I look ordinary?”

“All right. Let’s see.” Another pause. “In advertising, wholesomeness is traditionally portrayed using feminine, apple-cheeked brunette models.”

Marley touched her expensively blond-and-highlighted hair. She sighed.

“They wear average clothes. No designer duds.”

Marley had this one covered. “I’m wearing a T-shirt and jeans to the audition,” she said proudly.

She’d had to improvise. There hadn’t been enough time to contact one of her favorite designers and ask him to come up with a few “average” pieces for her. It was too bad, because the “Fantasy Family” wardrobe gal had set up Marley with some amazing style connections.

Her sister scoffed. “Sure, a cashmere Marc Jacobs T-shirt and your Seven jeans, right?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Every ‘ordinary woman’ wears two hundred and fifty dollar jeans.”

“They do! They must,” Marley insisted. Because of the jeans’ low rise, she’d even gotten the complete Derrière Décolleté treatment at the spa, including an upper-buttocks wax, a papaya-enzyme peel, and a jojoba-oil massage. She didn’t want all that effort to go to waste. “For grittier parts, that’s what all the actresses get from the wardrobe people.”

“Hmmm. I forgot. We’re dealing with TV logic. The same logic that insists a mostly unemployed female chef and a waitress could have really afforded a stylish, twelve-hundred-square-foot New York City apartment on ‘Friends.’”

“Hey, if you’re going to take pot shots at my career—”

“I’m not. We’ve covered that ground. Sorry to get off-track.”

Mollified, Marley apologized, too. She needed her sister’s help too much to engage in worn-out debates. “Maybe I can comb the thrift stores tonight.” She wrote down the types of clothes Meredith suggested. “I might even be able to schedule an emergency dye job with Franco.”

“Sounds like a good start,” Meredith agreed. “Oh, and whatever you do, don’t act too sexy. Girl-next-door does not equal sleazy. Think Meg Ryan. Think Cameron Diaz.”

“They’re both blondes,” Marley objected.

“You’re too literal.” Meredith sighed. “Think Sandra Bullock, then. Wholesome, friendly, lovable.”

“Wholesome, friendly, lovable. Okay. I can do that.”

There was a pause. “You know what? Judging by the determination in your voice, I almost think you can.”

Touched, Marley smiled. Sometimes her sister really knew how to cheer up a person. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Meredith said. “You still have to shed twenty-seven years’ worth of glossy superstardom overnight. Good luck!”

Marley hoped, as they said their good-byes and hung up with a promise to talk the next day, that she wouldn’t need luck. If she played her cards right, all she would need was skill. That, and a cooperative “Dream Date” partner.

Whatever else happened, she sincerely hoped the man she was matched up with turned out to have both a sense of humor and zero personal magnetism. Because the last thing she—and her about-to-be-launched alter ego—needed was some kind of hunk-of-the-month hottie who’d wreck her concentration and endanger her whole plan.

Then she’d really be in trouble.

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 

Jake kicked off his second day as an official sex symbol with an extra-thorough flossing job (so he wouldn’t turn up at the “Dream Date” auditions with pepperoni in his teeth) and a set of sixty push-ups. He was sweating through the series of ab crunches that followed when Noah appeared with a “Bob the Builder” toy in one hand and a quizzical expression on his face.

“Whatcha’ doin’, Daddy?”

“Exercising.” Seventy-three, seventy-four….

“Because you’re a stud muffin?”

Whoa. Jake paused at the top of the move, hands cradling his head. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Natalie’s mom told Britney’s mom you’re a stud muffin. I said that was silly, ‘cause people eat muffins. You’re so big, you’d give somebody a tummy ache.”

“A tummy ache, huh?”

“Yeah!” Noah laughed over his own joke, his little-boy’s chortle completely unselfconscious. “A big one!”

“Don’t worry.” Jake began crunching again, speaking between exhales. “Nobody’s mommy is getting a nibble of your dad. So no tummy aches.”

Ever since his son had come into his life, Jake had kept his relationships with women deliberately casual. Raising Noah was challenging enough—he didn’t want complications.

“Okay.” Noah shrugged and sat down on the carpeted floor beside Jake. He flipped his toy in his hands, talking to himself as he invented a new game.

Jake smiled at him, then got to his feet and headed for the shower. “Better get a move on, champ. I’m taking you to Miss Suzy’s early today. I’ve got a busy day ahead.”

Stud muffin’s got some surprises in store.

 

 

Jake made it to the auditions—a formality, Sid had assured him—which were being held in Studio City. Inside the clean-lined office space, he checked in with the receptionist, then sat down with a clipboard to fill out the personality survey she handed him.

Before starting, Jake took a minute to scope out the competition. Men and women ranging in age from their twenties to their early forties milled about the waiting area. Some did vocal exercises. Some checked their appearances in the room’s mirrored walls. Some sat quietly reading scripts, and some watched the door to the inner sanctum with palpable hopefulness.

They came in all types. Good looking and ordinary. Model thin and voluptuous. Surly and friendly. One by one they handed in their surveys and were called back to audition.

It seemed like a pretty standard setup to him. Jake would rather have been at KKZP doing real work—preferably dealing with touchdowns, lay-ups, and triple plays. But as long as he had to be here, he was happy to see there were only about a dozen potential dream daters. Maybe this wouldn’t take long.

He glanced at his personality survey. The first question read, If you were an animal, which animal would you be? The choices, in A-B-C-D order, were: a kitten, a chicken, a wolf, a shark. Jake shrugged. No contest. Kittens were too cuddly, chickens got deep-fried after a life of eggy servitude, and sharks had to be in constant motion.

He circled wolf. He didn’t believe in this kind of mumbo-jumbo in the first place.

“Oh, good! A quiz!” a woman at the receptionist’s station exclaimed. She accepted her clipboarded personality survey with undeniable zest. “Just like in Cosmo. I love these.”

She sashayed—that was the only word for it—to the chair across from Jake and sat down. Her overstuffed purse thunked to the floor beside her. She slipped her sunglasses to the top of her head, revealing a pert face and a sparkly pair of dangling earrings. She crossed her jeans-clad legs and tapped her stiletto-shod foot as she began circling survey responses.

“Done!” she announced four minutes later to the room at large. She delivered her survey to the receptionist with a smile and a pop of her bubblegum, then sashayed—yes, again—to the corner coffeemaker. With her hands on her hips, she studied the half-filled carafe, the Styrofoam cups, the plastic stirrers, and the assortment of powdered creamer, sugar, and Sweet’N Low.

Fed up with answering questions about dreams, goals, his childhood, and his favorite make of car, Jake took advantage of the woman’s position to study her. She had shoulder-length brown hair, a body-hugging pink T-shirt…and a way of bending over to retrieve a dropped sugar packet that reminded him of everything he’d ever missed about real dating.

The attraction. The thrill of discovery. The moment of connection when a woman spotted him watching her…and smiled as though she’d been waiting all day just to see him. Feeling suddenly anticipatory, Jake waited for her to meet his gaze.

To his disappointment, she didn’t. Instead, the woman began pouring coffee. The first cup she prepared with one sugar and no creamer. The second she fixed with two sugars and one creamer. The third she doctored with one sugar and two creamers. The fourth she left black. With a slight frown of concentration, she tasted each brew.

On the fourth cup—after sampling and dismissing the first three with variously comical expressions—she caught him watching. A guilty expression flashed over her face. She regrouped quickly, though.

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

Her voice sounded smooth, vaguely husky. He liked it.

“You seem to have appropriated it all,” he said.

“No problem. I’ll make more!” she announced. Purposefully, she turned to the coffeemaker. She rummaged through the canisters beside it, probably looking for more coffee and filters.

Jake abandoned his personality survey and joined her. His gaze touched on her four coffees, all neatly arrayed. “Feeling indecisive this morning?”

“No, I’m just getting started on internals. I’m optimistic that way.” She saw him looking at her assorted drinks, and smiled. “I’m not sure how my new character—I mean, how I like my coffee, though. I didn’t have as much time as usual to prepare for all this.”

“I didn’t know coffee involved such crucial decision-making.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s very important.”

She squinted at the coffeemaker and tried to pry off its plastic top—which, it was easy to see, swung out like most models did. She seemed about as acquainted with the workings of the thing as Jake was with the details of eyebrow plucking.

“How a person takes their coffee says a lot about them,” she went on, trying another tactic in her quest to brew a fresh pot. She hit the on button and waited expectantly for something to happen; frowned when it didn’t. “A person who likes their coffee black is simple and decisive. A one-sugar person is fancier, but still straightforward.”

He nodded. Listening to her coffee theories beat the hell out of exploring his psyche on paper. Besides, she was cute.

“A sugar-plus-cream likes luxury. A two-sugar-no-cream wants things sweet, with an occasional bite. See what I mean?”

“Not really.”

“Well, take you, for instance.” She picked up the wad of coffee filters she’d discovered and used them to wipe off her hands. She tossed them carelessly into the wastebasket as though they were disposable paper towels, then examined him up and down. “You look like a decaf, extra-hot Italian roast to me. With real cream and no sugar.”

Bemused now, Jake quirked a brow. “How do you figure that?”

“It’s simple.” Wearing a lively expression, she ticked off her points on her fingers. “Decaf, because you seem laid-back. In spite of that suit.”

Her roving, speculative gaze didn’t exactly disapprove of his audition suit…or of the rest of him. “Go on.”

“Extra-hot, because I’ll bet you like all your experiences to be…savored.”

This was getting interesting. “Mmm-hmmm.”

“Italian roast, because that’s the most macho coffee of all,” she continued matter-of-factly. “Real cream, because you look lean enough to splurge on something decadent now and then. And no sugar, because if you were really sweet, you wouldn’t be coming on to a nice girl like me who only wants to do well on this audition. Now would you?”

With an eyebrow quirk of her own, she flashed him a smile. Then she picked up the one-sugar-two-creamers she’d prepared and pressed it into his hand.

“I think the coffeemaker’s broken,” she confided in a whisper as she leaned forward. “This is the best I can do. Enjoy.”

He blinked as she squeezed his shoulder affectionately. The sweet scent of her shampoo still hung in the air as she sauntered away, her remaining three coffee cups in hand.

He’d been had, Jake realized. She’d hooked him, reeled him in like a forty-pounder on “Bassmasters,” and left him flopping in her wake. Wow. It was a good thing he wouldn’t be dating any of these “Dream Date” women for real. He was seriously out of practice.

Of course, he couldn’t just take that kind of treatment lying down. Or standing beside the coffeemaker, either.

Grinning at the sense of challenge unfurling within him, Jake tracked his mystery woman’s progress across the room. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel this way, to want to flex his more…macho impulses.

During the past few years, single fatherhood had been his focus. Not flirting. Not connecting with women. Not dragging a brown-haired cutie back to his inner-Neanderthal’s metaphorical cave o’ love and having his wicked way with her. But something about the quirky coffee woman—with her oddball theories, big brown eyes, and sassy smile—reawakened every masculine instinct for pursuit he’d ever possessed.

Hell, just being here as a potential “Dream Date” contestant gave him license to practice his moves a little, Jake told himself. Didn’t it?

Deciding it damn well did, he considered Little Miss Cream and Sugar for a pleasurable moment longer. Then he crossed the room, intent on giving just as good as he’d gotten.

 

 

Whew, Marley thought as she eased into her reception area chair with all three cups of coffee cradled waitress-style in her hands. That was close.

Despite her preparations, she’d walked in here this morning certain she’d be recognized. Certain her last-ditch career-saving maneuver would be finished before it began. But with every moment she’d spent incognito, she’d become increasingly confident in her new alter ego’s shoes.

Her revamped hair probably helped distance “Carly”—the name she’d given her alter ego—from “Marley” the most. Dyed in a caramel brown shade close to her own natural color and styled in a casual, shoulder-skimming ‘do, it was to starlet style what culottes were to couture: far, far removed.

Her clothes weren’t quite as radical a departure from her ordinary wardrobe, but she still had concerns about going too far. She didn’t want to be matched with a mullet-wearing man with missing front teeth, an exclusively flannel-shirts wardrobe, and a serious attachment to “brewskis.” It was better, she reminded herself, to play it safe for now.

“You look like you could use some help,” someone said.

Marley glanced up. Uh-oh. The sandy-haired coffeemaker hunk was headed her way, moving in a loose-hipped stride that was sexy enough to make her blink. He used his body like a well-trained athlete…one who’d thoroughly mastered the art of relaxation. Taken as a whole, the effect was quite a contrast to the buttoned-up tailoring of his suit and the intellectual effect of his eyeglasses.

“Let me hold one of those for you.” Without waiting for her reply, he positioned his fingers beneath her middle Styrofoam cup. His blue-eyed gaze met hers. He nodded for her to release her grasp, then slid the cup from between the others. “Now you can drink the other two.”

“I would have managed.”

“Like you did with the coffeemaker?”

“I handled it. You got your coffee, didn’t you?”

“Sure did.”

He grinned and transferred her cup to join the one he already carried. His hand was big enough to easily hold both drinks, she noticed.

He noticed her noticing. His grin widened.

Oh, brother. What she didn’t need today was some kind of man on the make, too full of machismo to realize when a girl just needed to get her alter ego-ing into gear. She couldn’t afford distractions. And this man was very distracting. Determined to remain focused on the job at hand, Marley ignored the coffeemaker hunk looming over her in favor of assessing the audition competition.

“I never got a chance to thank you for it, either.” He picked up the newspaper someone had left on the chair beside Marley. He dropped it onto another seat, rearranging the space to suit him. “The coffee, that is. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said grudgingly. Meredith’s instructions flashed into her mind. Wholesome, friendly, lovable. Urgh. Marley sweetened her words with a smile, then gazed around the room in a clear not now signal.

Apparently, he wasn’t adept at picking up signals. Or at giving a girl her personal space. The hunk lowered himself into the chair he’d cleared, all tall male and easy possessiveness. His nearness made Marley aware of the breadth of his shoulders, the pleasant scent of the soap he’d used.

She inhaled. No-more-tears baby shampoo?

“Your hands are trembling,” he said, cocking his head to study her in a friendly way. “Nervous about the audition?”

She glanced down at the liquid vibrations her shaky grasp had caused in her coffee cups. Terrific. He was persistent and observant. Just when she most needed to slide by incognito.

“It’s my first time auditioning.” It was, for Carly.

“You’ll do fine. Don’t stare into the camera.”

“You know about cameras?” she asked, surprised. She’d expected there to be actors at the auditions, since “Dream Date” was a paying gig with national exposure—a gold mine for newbies. The coffeemaker hunk didn’t strike her as the desperate out-of-work actor type, though. “Are you…in show business?”

Please say no. Please say no. If he was involved in the industry and recognized her, this scheme would be over with before it began. Could he be a grip? An extra? A stunt man? His intelligent demeanor—augmented by the glasses—suggested something more technical, but he definitely had the body for rough-and-tumble stunt work.

Leisurely, he raised the cup she’d given him and drank. Evidently, he was thinking it over. His expression, when he lowered the coffee again, gave no clue as to his career choices. But it did suggest—incredibly enough—that the coffee was the most delicious brew ever.

Marley knew nothing could have been farther from the truth. The stuff was inky and stale. Not even the packets of sugar and powdered creamer had been enough to rescue it. She’d never appreciated her own in-house cappuccino maker—operated daily by her housekeeper—as much as she did today.

“Showbiz? Not really,” he replied. “I’m a sports reporter. My news director thinks it would make a great publicity stunt if I appeared on ‘Dream Date.’”

Reporter leapt into Marley’s mind in flashing neon letters. Publicity crowded in right behind it. Uh-oh.

With a rueful shake of his head, he leaned his forearms on his thighs and blew on his hot coffee. Unable to move, Marley examined him. A reporter. The nemesis of every actress who’d ever donned a baseball cap and sunglasses to catch a flight undetected. The curse of every actor who’d ever punched out a paparazzo for snapping topless shots of his girlfriend-of-the-moment.

The unwitting adversary of every Marley who’d ever pretended to be a Carly in order to save her career.

He was the worst possible person for her to be talking to right now.

Sure, this guy’s beat was basketball and football and hockey, but sports reporters had friends. Friends, for instance, who were entertainment reporters. Entertainment reporters who’d love to get the scoop on a former sitcom star who’d descended to game show desperation.

She had to get away from him.

He was watching her. “What, you don’t like sports?”

Sports were the least of it. She offered a wan smile, remembering Meredith’s wholesome, friendly, lovable mantra. She tried to think of an excuse to bolt, one that wouldn’t make him suspicious.

He mistook her silence for acquiescence. The edge of his mouth tilted upward in a self-deprecating smile. Marley found it—heaven help her—charming. She must have lost her mind. She downed two of the coffees she’d prepared for “Carly” as though they were tequila shooters, hoping the caffeine would assist in her getaway.

“I’ll admit,” he said, “running through stats and scores isn’t rocket science. But I like it. I can see where a woman like you might not be interested, though.”

She paused in the midst of stealthily reaching for her thrift store purse. “Why not?”

“Well…”

His thoughtful perusal touched her from toes to nose. It roved over her in a heated slide much like the one she’d given him earlier by the coffeemaker. The cliché was true, then. Paybacks really were hell. Despite everything, Marley couldn’t help but feel a teensy quiver of interest stir within her.

More than likely, that was due to the sportscasting thing. Now that she knew what he did for a living, the air of blunt masculinity that clung to him made perfect sense. It was a testosterone teaser, a purely chemical charge. She could resist it, and would.

However, there was one little problem.

She was curious. Too curious to leave before hearing what he had to say about her.

“Because you’re obviously a girly girl.”

Marley froze. She was supposed to be a girl-next-door. An ordinary, unnoticeable type. “I am not!”

“Stilettos, ankle bracelet, designer jeans—”

“These came from a thrift shop!”

“—belly chain, tiny T-shirt, big hair, lipstick.”

Oh, God. Her cover was unraveling. She should have targeted a “brewski” man for Carly. Vanity was her biggest weakness—and now it was going to be her downfall, too.

“Hold on a minute,” Marley said, soldiering onward anyway. She jabbed her finger at his chest and encountered solid muscle. “Just because a woman likes to look feminine doesn’t mean she deserves to be stereotyped. You don’t have any idea what my interests are! For all you know, I have front row seats on the fifty-yard first base line.”

“You’ve been to a football-baseball game then?”

His easygoing demeanor only aggravated her. She fixed him with a pointed gaze. “I don’t see what’s so damned funny about gender discrimination.”

“Nothing.” He spread out his arms, an earnest expression on his square-jawed face. “I just can’t picture you cheering on the home team.”

“I’d cheer on the visiting team, too,” she announced defiantly. “That’s how much of a sports fan I am!”

“I’m impressed.”

He was amused. Marley could tell. He was choking on a full-on guffaw. She wasn’t used to people laughing at her, especially know-it-all wannabe jocks with sparkling eyes and an excess of personal magnetism. Usually, men like him were wowed by her.

Or, she should say, men like him were wowed by the real, non-alter-ego her. It wasn’t easy to find herself on the wrong side of things now. Suddenly, she missed autograph seekers and screaming fans and men who hung her poster in their locker rooms. She wanted to be blond and bodacious again. Being “Carly” sucked.

But it was her only chance. She had to make the most of it.

“If we get matched up on ‘Dream Date,’” he was saying, “I’ll have to take you to a Dodgers game.”

Heaven help her. “Great. I’ll take you shopping.”

“Whoa, no need to make threats.” His grin flashed again. “I’m trying to be friendly.”

Too friendly. Did he suspect who she really was?

Marley couldn’t risk it. She grabbed her purse and stood. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “I just remembered something I forgot to tell the receptionist.”

Okay, as a smooth exit, it lacked finesse. But it worked.

He nodded. “Good luck on your audition.”

“You, too.”

She bolted to the other side of the room, trying not to wiggle too much. She was certain he was watching her. He was just that kind of guy. All male. Born to appreciate a woman’s body, and not the least bit shy about indulging that birthright.

At the receptionist’s desk, Marley glanced over her shoulder. He raised his gaze from her derrière, not at all chagrined to have been caught ogling.

She should have been offended. The weird thing was, she wasn’t. Instead, Marley felt almost…encouraged. As though maybe her extra three pounds weren’t that horrific after all, if a regular guy like him still found her desirable.

Despite everything, the notion cheered her. Raising her chin, she decided right then and there that “Carly” didn’t practice Pilates. Or jog.

Okay. Back to business.

She turned to the receptionist. “Look, I have to ask you a favor.”

“Yes?”

“See that man over there? The one with the suit, the sandy hair, the glasses—”

“—the gorgeous grin, the friendly face, the kick-ass body?”

“Don’t point! He’ll see you!”

The receptionist nodded. “What about him?”

“Whatever you do, please don’t pair me up with him.”

The receptionist squinted at him. She gave Marley an are-you-crazy? look. When Marley confirmed her request, she nodded. “All right. I’ll do my best.”

Relieved, Marley thanked her. Then she headed for the last refuge of all women in sticky situations: the ladies’ room. If she was lucky, by the time she got back the sportscaster would be auditioning. Their paths would never cross again.

 

 

“Those two,” one of the “Dream Date” producers said, pointing through the two-way mirror between the waiting room and the room he’d gathered in with some of the key decision makers on the production team. “Put those two together.”

“They haven’t even auditioned yet,” his assistant protested.

“I don’t care. They’ve got something together.” The producer watched as the woman he’d indicated paused at the waiting area’s doorway. She snuck a speculative glance at the man he’d chosen, then shook her head and stepped outside. “Something that will make good TV. A sizzle. A spark.”

“Yeah. A spark.” Murmurs of agreement were heard among everyone gathered there. Everyone except his assistant.

“We’re supposed to wait for the results of the personality surveys. Match up like meets like, remember?”

The producer waved away the notion. “I’m willing to take my chances. See that it’s done.”

Two down, one to go. He went to select the last of their three “Dream Date” contestant couples.

 

 

 

Chapter Five

 

After an audition, a mountain of paperwork, more waiting, and a final callback, Jake made the cut. To his mingled chagrin and relief, he was going to be an official “Dream Date” contestant.

He still didn’t know who his partner was going to be. Someone easy to work with, he hoped.

Sid had already called him twice from the station—once to offer encouragement, and once to warn that Rich was already talking about replacing the sports segment with a scores ticker during the weather broadcast. Jake would be damned if he’d let Rich dismiss all his years of work.

More determined than ever, he sat on the soundstage bleachers near the empty game show set with the contestant finalists. The sports-challenged brunette with the coffee theories was there. So were two other men and two other women. Together they listened to a member of the “Dream Date” staff explain the rules of the game show.

“I’m Doug, your guide to all things ‘Dream Date!’” the staff member said.

“Hi, Doug!” Everyone applauded.

He held up his palm modestly. “Thank you. Now, before I announce who will be paired with whom, let me give you an overview of the process you’ll be going through. You’ve already completed your paperwork, your personality survey, and your audition. Next will be your dream dates!”

Some of the contestants cheered.

“Each couple will share two dates—one daytime, one evening—per week for a month. At least half of those dates will be filmed for potential airing, with camera and audio crews to be assigned to you.”

Several contestants—those who’d never appeared on TV before, Jake guessed—gave excited smiles.

Doug held up his hand in caution. “Just do your best to ignore the cameras. That makes for the most entertaining TV.”

He chuckled. A feeling of doom inched over Jake.

“We’ll compile those dates,” Doug explained further, “along with footage from your initial interviews and month-end debriefing interviews, into five ‘Dream Date’ episodes. As the shows are broadcast, viewers at home will vote via phone or our Web site to rank each couple’s ‘Dream Date’-ability.”

Great. Jake was about to be graded on dating. Sort of like taking the getting-to-know-you SATs. Uggh.

“But I’m getting ahead of myself.” Doug gave a practiced shake of his head. “First, each of you will complete a baseline interview about your life. That’s happening today. Then you’ll come back for the debriefing interview I mentioned, which will be recorded at month’s end. It’s really just a follow-up session designed to gather feedback about your partner. You know, what you liked and didn’t like about them.”

Doug swept them all with a deliberately encouraging look. Disgusted, Jake frowned. He’d seen “Dream Date.” The “debriefing” was usually a televised gripe-fest wherein each date-ee bashed their assigned partner—or, occasionally, raved about them. Given the brutal honesty often involved, Jake didn’t doubt that particular episode was must-see-TV for the show’s fans.

Thank God he worked in sportscasting, where bone-crunching tackles were as brutal as it got.

“As you know,” Doug went on, “encouraging communication between the sexes is our primary goal here at ‘Dream Date.’”

Jake scoffed. Encouraging high ratings was the primary goal at “Dream Date,” just like it was at every other show. But unlike at KKZP, at least Jake wouldn’t have to wear a banana hammock to encourage those ratings.

“After the debriefing, all three couples will be invited back to the studio to appear before our live audience in the sixth and final episode: the Q&A.” Doug paused, doubtlessly ratcheting up the tension. “Where you’ll compete for the grand prize!”

Jake directed his gaze toward the coffee girl, several seats away from him. She might have been taking a crucial quiz, so intent was her expression as she listened.

“It won’t be easy, though,” Doug warned. “Here at ‘Dream Date,’ we pride ourselves on running a top-notch show. To provide maximum challenge between the three pairs of contestants, the final questions will take gender skills into account. Men, you’ll be quizzed on your date’s feelings, dreams, and shopping habits.”

Masculine groans were heard. Jake frowned. What the hell did he care about shopping?

“Women, you’ll be tested on your date’s opinions, actions, and sports-viewing practices.”

The women looked worried. Jake perked up. It wasn’t fair that the women got all the easy questions, but he could cope with that. He was relieved to know there’d be sports included.

“Note-taking, sympathetic hinting, and third-base-coach-style signaling will be considered cheating. Is that perfectly clear?”

“Yes,” the contestants said.

Jake nodded. This wouldn’t be so bad. He felt sure he could wine his date, dine his date, and perform well enough in the final Q&A to have a shot at winning the grand prize. That would be enough to get Rich off his back—and to ensure the option on his contract was picked up.

Discussion followed about the Bahamas vacation-for-two that was the ultimate prize, about the prizes for runners-up, and about tax obligations. Jake followed most of it, but he wasn’t here for prizes. He wanted to win—even if in this case winning meant achieving temporary coupled bliss with one of the women here—but he didn’t care if he got a genuine Jacuzzi brand whirlpool spa for his efforts.

He could do this, though. This “Dream Date” thing wasn’t going to affect his life much at all, he realized. He’d take his date to a few ball games, maybe go bowling or throw darts down at Lefty’s, share a meal or two. Yeah, this was going to work out just fine. All he needed was a date who enjoyed the simple things in life, the way Jake did, and he’d be home free.

He glanced at the women. The one to his left sure looked the part in her track pants, sneakers, and plain white T-shirt. He could easily imagine her cheering on the fifty yard line or hurling a twelve-pounder at the pins. The woman beside her might be a good option, too…although her obviously amplified breasts might get in the way of a good game of pool.

Briefly, Jake considered the brunette. She was undeniably pretty, but she screamed high maintenance. A woman like her would expect much more than he had to give. She’d been fun for a getting-his-feet-wet flirtation in the waiting area, but that was it. There was no way he could see himself with a woman who greeted every home run with a jubilant “touchdown!”

He’d probably be matched with someone else, Jake decided. There was no way he and Miss Cream and Sugar had turned up simpatico on that personality test.

Doug explained a few more details about “Dream Date.” Everyone agreed to the process he described.

“Great!” Doug exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “Glad you’re all on board. Because we’re starting right now.”

Several more employees came from backstage. They carried portable cameras, wireless lavalier mics, lighting and sound equipment. With well-practiced motions they tromped up the bleachers and waited.

The match-up announcements began. First one couple, who shrieked when their names were called and then high-fived each other. They sat, beaming, as the crew wired them up for remote filming. Then a second couple, who eyed each other warily and grudgingly sidled closer. The two of them watched attentively as the crew prepared them.

“I guess that makes the third couple obvious,” Doug announced with a smile. He spread out his arms to indicate Jake and the coffee-theorist brunette. “You’re it, you two! Have fun!”

Jake looked at her. She stared at him from the opposite end of the bleachers, dismay plain on her face. She didn’t make a move to slide closer, to high-five him, or even to offer a good-sport’s smile. Instead she crossed her arms, disgruntled.

Offended, Jake crossed his arms, too. Did she think she was the only one who wasn’t crazy about this pairing? How about him? It wouldn’t be easy dating a woman who thought the Lakers were a resort, and a body check was a kinky version of foreplay.

“Come on, you two!” Doug urged. “It’s not all that bad, is it?”

It’s worse, suggested the look the brunette sent him.

It’s ten-runs-down-in-the-bottom-of-the-ninth bad, added the look Jake offered.

“You should be happy,” Doug told the brunette. “You’re getting paired up with a local celebrity, Jake Jarvis of KKZP’s ‘Spooooorts at Six!’”

Jake didn’t appreciate his just-joshing delivery of the broadcast’s usual intro. He frowned.

“And you,” Doug went on, changing gears to address Jake. “You’re getting paired up with…”

There was a pause as he glanced at the brunette. She tensed. He consulted his clipboard, squinted at her, then shook his head.

“Carly Christmas!” he finished exuberantly.

“Christopher.” She cleared her throat, her cheeks flushed inexplicably pink. “It’s Carly Christopher, not Christmas.”

Doug made a note of it. Jake studied the brunette—Carly—who hadn’t moved an inch from her unyielding position. She still looked embarrassed. Odd, for a person who’d just auditioned to appear on TV.

Maybe she felt uncomfortable in the limelight, he decided. Maybe she wanted a date, but not publicity. He vowed to make sure no one singled her out for unwanted attention during their time together.

Unless he could change the match-up somehow.

“Listen, there must be some kind of mistake,” he said.

“Definitely a mistake!” Carly cried, charging down the bleachers to confront Doug. She tossed Jake a triumphant look as she beat him to it, stilettos and all. “We’re not supposed to be matched up together. The two of us are completely wrong for each other.”

A shrug. “I just go by what’s on the clipboard.”

“She doesn’t know a fly ball from a fly swatter!”

“Sorry. You two are it. Unless you want to clear out and let the runners-up take your places?”

Jake froze. He looked at Carly. She looked at him. Her big brown eyes turned thoughtful as she bit her lower lip. Was she about to ditch him?

He had to act before she could.

“Hang on a sec,” he told Doug. “We’ll be right back.”

He caught hold of Carly’s arm. She tried to wrench from his grasp. He refused to let her. At Doug’s words, Jake had realized exactly what might happen if he and Miss Cream and Sugar couldn’t work together. He couldn’t let this job-saving adventure in Date-ville be over before it began.

He towed her to a more secluded spot at the far end of the bleachers. Studio lights beamed down on them, highlighting the toasty gleam of her hair and the frigid snap of her stubborn expression.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked in a furious whisper. Her gaze darted to the clipboard-wielding staff member and the crew waiting to wire them for filming. “Second thoughts? Now? You can’t back out on me!”

Relief struck him. She wanted to go through with it, too. Jake smiled.

“You can quit with that panty-peeling grin of yours, too, because it won’t change a thing. You heard him. We’re stuck together.”

“Panty-peeling?” He raised his brow.

“If you were hoping to get hooked up with Miss Hooters over there, well…that’s just too bad.”

She raised her chin. Crossed her arms over her own less-spectacular endowments. Glared.

Did she really think he was that shallow? “Look, those two little mosquito bites of yours have got nothing to do with this.”

She gasped. “I was talking about her!”

Jake nodded. He was sensitive enough to know when there was more to a situation than met the eyes. No pun intended.

“Come on. If I was hung like a hamster, I might feel a little defensive about it, too.”

Thunder rolled into Carly’s expression. Ah-hah. He was on the right track, then.

“But I’m not.” Jake lifted one shoulder in a modest shrug. “I’m actually pretty well en—”

“I don’t want to hear it!”

She started to pace. He snatched her before she got far—and before the impatient glances they were earning from the “Dream Date” staff got out of hand. He leaned in.

“I just want you to know,” he confessed in a low voice, “that stuff doesn’t really matter to me. Physical appearance is not the most important thing in the—”

“Oh, so now you’re saying I’m unattractive? Listen, you big dumb jock—”

“No. You’re very attractive.”

She shushed, apparently mollified.

“I’m really more of a leg man, anyway.” Truly, he was an “allover” man when it came to women, but Jake could tell he’d hurt her feelings. He wanted to make her feel better. “I don’t care a bit that you have itty-bitty little—”

“Finish that sentence and I swear I’ll clobber you with that abandoned boom mic over there.”

He glanced at the piece of technical equipment she’d mentioned. Carly was familiar with TV terminology? For the first time, it occurred to him to wonder exactly who she was. Earlier, Jake hadn’t asked why she’d been interested in dream dating. His motives were plain, but hers?

Whatever they were, they’d have to wait.

“You’re cute when you’re all fired up,” he said.

“You’re wasting time. Judging by the way the P.A. keeps checking his watch, we’re about to get booted in favor of another insta-couple.”

Her accusatory look grated on him. “It’s not my fault we’re over here. You’re the one who started with the eye-rolling. And the I’m-having-second-thoughts look. I’m managing the problem.”

“By practicing breast-size discrimination? Excuse me if I’m not bowled over by your management skills.”

“Maybe I need more hands-on experience.”

“Oooh!”

“Look,” Jake said, adopting a more conciliatory tone in an effort to calm her down. “Don’t blow a gasket on me, here. I have no choice but to go through with this. I’m guessing you’re in a similar situation—”

“Why? What makes you think that?”

Confused by her sudden alarm, he shrugged. “Just a feeling. Anyway, I’m prepared to make the best of this, but if you’re not going to help—”

“If we blow it, it won’t be my fault.”

“Fine. Let’s do this, then.”

“Fine.”

They tromped back to the other end of the bleachers, where the “Dream Date” crew was waiting.

“Glad to see you two worked things out,” Doug said, writing something on his clipboard. At his signal, the crew began wiring them with identical body mics, earpieces, and golf ball size “date cams.” “I’ve gotta tell you, though—I wouldn’t lay odds on the two of you winning this thing.”

Jake figured he had a point. He and Carly, together, were long shots for sure.

One of the crew members scoffed in apparent agreement as he adjusted Jake’s mic. “No way,” he said, shaking his head. “The sportscaster and the pop tart?”

There were knowing elbow-jabs. General chuckles.

“I’ll take that bet,” Carly announced, holding her chin high. “Fifty bucks says Jake and I win this round of ‘Dream Date.’”

The crew stopped working. The clipboard guy blinked. Jake cheered up. Maybe little Miss Cream and Sugar had more chutzpah than he’d given her credit for. This just might turn out to be interesting after all.

 

 

She should have worn her cutlets, Marley thought as she tottered through the muck of the petting zoo the “Dream Date” producers had sent her and Jake to for their first date. Then there wouldn’t have been any cracks about her “mosquito bites.” Or any need for her to make those very un-girl-next-door-like threats about clobbering Jake with a boom mike.

And that suggestion he’d made about needing more “hands-on experience?” Hah! Jake Jarvis wouldn’t be getting close enough to her for that. She wouldn’t give him an opportunity to make her feel any more off-balance than she already did.

She’d felt a little wobbly in her “ordinary” persona to begin with. Now, after being briefed on the complete “Dream Date” process, Marley felt more worried than ever. She’d have to keep up her alter ego performance twenty-four hours a day!

After all, it wouldn’t do for Jake to visit his supposedly ordinary date…only to find her wearing a fabulous Gucci gown while polishing her Emmy in her two-thousand square foot bungalow. She’d need more clothes, a modest temporary apartment, maybe even a clunker of a car to make her performance ring true.

She’d call her favorite prop guy for the car. He’d know where to find one that looked inconspicuous on the outside but ran well on the inside. She’d call Meredith for advice on her new digs. She’d throw her Jimmy Choos into storage and give her staff some time off. It wouldn’t be easy, but Marley figured she could do it for the sake of her career.

When it came to Jake Jarvis, on the other hand, she felt considerably less confident. She couldn’t quite figure him out. She would eventually, though, she was sure. Men were pretty simple and this one—currently standing near the split-rail fence like the lord of the pot-bellied pig pen—couldn’t possibly be that hard to handle.

He was easygoing. Earnest. Friendly. Okay, and he was irritatingly free with his opinions, too. His blunt, testosterone-charged assessment of her had stung in places she’d forgotten she had. Enduring her gawky teen years in the glare of appearance-conscious Hollywood should have cured her of caring what other people thought of her, Marley knew. But it hadn’t.

Still…no one she knew would have offered advice to a supposed newbie on not freezing up in front of the camera. Never mind that Jake’s guidance had alerted Marley to the potential dangers of his job as a reporter. That had been a really nice thing for him to do.

She still wasn’t sure how they were going to make this “Dream Date” thing work between them, though. The two of them were completely different. He liked sports; she liked shopping. His job involved chronicling feats of sweaty strife and sportsmanship; hers involved making the artificial and pre-constructed seem magical. He was the DiMaggio to her Monroe, the Gary Cooper to her Mae West. There was no way they could possibly see eye to eye.

Somehow, they had to try.

“Come on over, princess.” Jake beckoned her toward his end of the petting zoo’s enclosure. A fat pig rooted there in the mud. “Don’t worry about getting your shoes dirty. There’s a pump over there to wash them off with.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that!” Yes, she was. She searched for a likely alibi. “It’s just that this pony over here is so cute.”

He looked at the animal approaching her on spindly legs. “That’s a goat.”

Thank God. She’d thought the poor thing was deformed.

“Of course! That’s what I meant.”

The black and gray creature stepped closer. Nervously, Marley stepped backward.

Jake gave their little barnyard cha-cha a knowing look. She frowned, not nearly as happy with this petting zoo stunt the “Dream Date” people had pulled as he apparently was.

This wasn’t a date. A date involved flowers, candlelight, expensive restaurants and magnums of champagne. The closest she’d come to those things today were the bougainvillea at the petting zoo’s entrance, the springtime sunshine beating down on her head, the promise of a hot dog from Jake, and a sip of the watery lemonade he’d treated her to.

Naturally enough, he didn’t seem to know the difference between this and a proper getting-to-know-you first date. In fact, despite their surroundings, he looked contented. The breeze ruffled his sandy hair. The shadows cast by the nearby trees played tag over his big body, as though they just couldn’t stay away. Never had she seen a man more at home in his skin. She should have guessed Jake would make himself completely comfortable anywhere.

The minute they’d arrived at the petting zoo, he’d shed his suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He’d loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top three buttons on his white dress shirt, and hunkered right down in the mud with the rest of the wild, happy beasts.

His ease irritated her. She envied it, even as she puzzled over it. Didn’t Jake care that his shoes might never be the same? That these animals might carry fleas or dirt or the barnyard equivalent of a ferocious head cold? He didn’t seem to. He petted the pig as though it were his favorite pampered pet. He even murmured words of praise. In response, it rolled in the mud in a fit of porcine delight. Jake glanced up with the expression of a kid who’d found a new pal.

She wanted a little of that. That ease, and that comfortableness. Just to prove him wrong about her, Marley tentatively patted the goat’s knobby head. Its fur felt like the coarse false hair of a wig she’d once worn in a production of “Little Orphan Annie” for local children’s TV.

“When you’re finished, come pet this puppy.” Jake scratched between the pig’s ears, obviously making a joke at her expense. “Maybe you can teach it to play fetch.”

“I—I’m fine over here, thanks.” Another goat approached her. Its wiry white hair was longer than the first goat’s. “Just a minute,” she told it. “I’m busy with this little fella. Er, lady. Umm…”

Marley bent at the waist to try to determine the appropriate gender. The gray goat took exception to her nosiness and snorted on the leg of her jeans.

Yuck. Grimacing, she reached for tissues from her purse. The white goat, apparently mistaking her gesture for an offer of food, began rooting at her purse for a snack. Marley twisted sideways, sandwiching her handbag between her arm and side in an attempt to protect it.

She swabbed at the wet spot with a handful of tissues. The goat continued to nose his/her/its way around her purse, but the bag seemed secure for now. Marley was still bent over when she caught Jake watching her. His gaze was pinned to her derrière, and his attention looked gratifyingly rapt.

Hmmm. It occurred to her that there might be at least one way she could hold her own in this “Dream Date” situation with Jake. Even as “Carly”—and even surrounded by goats—Marley figured she still possessed some of her usual sex appeal. It might have been muted by mud-masque-colored hair and a thrift-store wardrobe, but it wasn’t completely gone. And every man’s weakness was sex, wasn’t it?

Throwing Meredith’s “don’t act too sexy” advice out the window, she shifted to aim her posterior more squarely in Jake’s direction. She finished her tissue job, then leisurely bent over to fiddle with her stiletto. Her derrière had been voted “most bootylicious” in Allure‘s annual “best of” issue two years ago. Marley planned to give Jake a good eyeful—and grab herself the upper hand in her dealings with him at the same time.

Yes! He was looking! For good measure, she gave a subtle wiggle. It was a move straight out of paparazzi heaven. If there’d been reporters here at the petting zoo, they’d have screamed with joy. If Jake could still make fun of her after witnessing this, then he was a stronger man than she’d thought he was.

Marley moved to examine her other shoe, using the task as an excuse to smile coquettishly at Jake. The move was wasted. He’d moved and she couldn’t see him.

She turned her face this way and that, beginning to feel a little dizzy from hanging her head upside down. She didn’t want to bring herself upright again until she knew Jake had been completely snared.

As she pretended to refasten her stiletto’s strap, she accidentally dropped the tissues. The gray goat dove at them. Plucked them into its mouth. Began to chew.

“No! Wait!” Marley jerked upright. Tissues weren’t edible. For all she knew, they were poisonous to goats.

She didn’t want to be responsible for hurting a petting zoo goat. She was a good person. Not somebody who recklessly endangered zoo animals. She reached for the slobbery wad, but couldn’t catch hold.

The white goat chose that moment to make its move. It head-butted her in the crotch, bleating insistently. With a yelp, Marley lowered both hands to protect her pelvis. Her purse fell to the mud. The white goat pulled back its lips and grinned—she’d swear it did—and began munching on the bamboo handle of her purse.

“Stop, stop!” she cried. Sure, bamboo probably had plenty of fiber, but that didn’t mean it was good for goats. “Give that back.”

She grabbed the opposite end of her purse. Tugged. The goat tugged back. At the ruckus, some nearby children backed away. A few pointed. “Look at the silly lady wrestling with the goats.”

Great. Now she was the official petting zoo crazy lady. Marley stuck her tongue out at the laughing brats. She went on pulling, digging her stiletto toes into the ground for purchase. She would get her purse back, or else.

Suddenly, the gray goat gagged. Coughed. Made all the same sounds Gaffer did when he got a hold of leftover foie gras—which never agreed with him. This was serious. More worried now, Marley let go of her purse and took the only action that seemed reasonable. She treated the gray goat like Gaffer.

“Give it over,” she demanded sternly, cupping her hand beneath its scraggly bearded jaw. “Right now.”

Obligingly, the goat coughed the gooey wad of tissues into her palm. Marley felt too relieved to be grossed out.

“Good goat.” With her unsteady non-slimed hand, she patted its head. “Nice goat. Pretty goat.”

The other goat bleated. It had managed to gnaw open her purse and was pushing it through the mud with its snout. Muzzle. Whatever thing they would have called it on Animal Planet.

Newly courageous, Marley chased it down and snatched up her purse. “No,” she scolded. “Bad goat.”

It lowered its head and bleated plaintively.

“I mean, naughty goat.”

It blinked its big brown eyes at her. Bambi in the barnyard.

“Oh…all right. Just don’t let it happen again, okay?”

When Jake finally reappeared, Marley was consoling the goats with treats from the emergency stash in her somewhat worse-for-the-wear purse. She glanced up to find him sauntering toward her, a sun-kissed sportsguy wearing a bemused expression.

“Where have you been?” she asked. “Why didn’t you help me?”

“Help you?”

“During the goat attack!”

He tilted his head. “Sorry, I was talking hockey with one of the animal handlers. I didn’t see any goat attack.”

“I could have been gored to death!”

“What I saw was a goat love-fest. You seemed to be handling things all right.”

Nonplussed, Marley blinked at him. If any of her staff had been present during the goat fracas, they’d have summoned help immediately.

“I’m glad you’re an animal lover,” Jake went on. “I like a woman who enjoys simple things. Who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty and her feet wet.”

Yeah. Dirty and wet. That was the famous Marley Madison, all right.

“Great. We’re a match made in heaven.”

“Or made in the petting zoo.” He located the camera and audio crew, which had been trailing them since embarking on their date. “We’ve probably provided enough animal follies for the ‘Dream Date’ people. How about lunch?”

“Sure.” A nice spring greens salad, a piece of seared herb-encrusted Ahi, a glass of chardonnay—

“There’s a hot dog stand near the picnic tables.”

A diet-wrecking fat bomb on a bun…

“Carly” would probably love that, though, so Marley summoned up some girl-next-door enthusiasm. “Yum. Just let me finish this.”

Jake stood patiently nearby as she held out the final handful of treats. The goats nibbled them from her palm, their lips and hairy beards tickling her skin. Once Marley had realized they were just larger versions of Gaffer-like creatures, she’d been fine with them. Now, she was actually quite proud of herself for having survived her goat encounter.

But that didn’t mean she was happy with Jake for non-chivalrously abandoning her to the vagaries of the animal kingdom. How had he known she’d be able to cope?

“Hold this, would you?” She slapped the slimy tissue wad into his hand. “That’s it, goats. Snack time’s over.”

They bleated and romped away at top speed. They chased through the pen, kicking up dust. They rose on their hind legs and waved their hooves, jumped onto barrels, and did everything short of the goat mambo in their exuberance.

Jake raised his eyebrows, the tissue wad still in hand. “Hey, what were you feeding them, anyway?”

“Altoids.” Marley slapped the dust from her palms. She led the way toward the wash basins beyond the pen’s exit gate. “Believe me, they needed them.”

 

 

 

Chapter Six

 

When Marley emerged from the zoo ladies’ room after freshening up, she found Jake—typically—talking sports with the hot dog vendor. He was laughing as she approached, exclaiming over foul balls and triple plays and buns…er, bunts. He had his back to her, so she took the opportunity he’d presented and inspected him from a new angle.

What an angle. His backside looked tight and perfect, even in his dress pants. She would have loved to see him in a pair of well-fitted jeans…or even less. Jake appeared to be hiding more than a few perfectly developed muscles beneath his pants and dress shirt. She’d always been a sucker for a fit man.

She’d have bet anything Jake came by his healthy look naturally, via honest work and manly effort. Say, hauling a hundred pounds of baseballs for disadvantaged kids, or building vacation cabins with his bare hands. He was just that kind of guy.

Enjoying the view—hey, there had to be some perks to this setup, didn’t there?—Marley let her gaze wander up the ever-broadening slope that began at his lean…assets and rose all the way to his shoulders. She’d never found a man’s back sexy before. On him, she suddenly did. Maybe it was the heat getting to her, maybe it was the fit of his white dress shirt, maybe it was just him. If Jake’s back was anything like his front, it would be taut with strength. Slightly tanned. Soap-scented with a fragrance like baby shampoo.

Oh, yeah. She’d meant to ask him about that.

Vowing to do so once he’d finished raving over “Sosa’s home run streak,” Marley let her gaze linger on the back of his neck. She examined his neatly clipped hair, watched a bead of sweat roll from behind his ear to beneath his collar, savored the allover machismo of a man who actually sweated without calling for a makeup artist to fix the problem. She’d definitely been hanging around actors for too long.

There was something about Jake that called to the non-Stanislavski-ed part of her, that spoke to the most primitive, ravish-me femininity she possessed. Even as she knew their pairing might well be disastrous, Marley couldn’t resist wondering about it. Would Jake kiss her good-bye at the end of their date? Would he go home thinking about her, spend his idle moments dreaming of ways to touch her?

She felt positively tingly at the thought. She’d have liked to touch him. To approach from behind, slide her fingertips from his shoulders to his broad, blunt-fingered hands, wrap her arms around his middle and give a good squeeze. Her breasts would press against his back muscles. When he shifted position, she would—

“Eat this.” Jake held a hot dog beneath her nose. He raised her hand and closed her fingers decisively around its paper holder. “You look faint.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sound breathless.”

“It’s…the heat.” And the view, the man, the wonderings.

“You’ll feel better after you’ve had the works.”

“Hey, I’m ready when you’re ready.”

“I’ve been waiting on you.”

Jake grinned and raised his other hand, showing her two more fully loaded hot dogs. They oozed with mustard, ketchup, and relish. They disappointingly put the lie to the ribald thoughts she’d been entertaining about receiving “the works.”

It was probably for the best, Marley told herself as she followed him to the nearby picnic tables. She needed to keep her mind on her performance—not on cozying up to a man with whom she had nothing in common. Their time together was a means to an end, nothing more. It was simply a way to show the world exactly how “real and raw” Marley Madison—aka, “Carly Christopher”—could be. She had to remember that.

The tinny sounds of a sports broadcast coming from the hot dog vendor’s radio chased them across the paved area. She glimpsed the “Dream Date” crew at a distant table. Mothers with toddlers and snoozing babies in strollers surrounded them, while a zoo employee moved about beneath the canopied space with a broom and dust pan, scraping the concrete as he cleaned up. The cool breeze carried the scents of smoked sausage and cotton candy.

Jake waited for her to sit first. She glanced up with her hot dog in hand, expecting him to take a seat on the opposite side of their shady concrete table. Instead, he made more trips to the vendor’s cart for two lemonades and additional hot dogs. Finally, he straddled the bench right beside her—knees nearly touching her thigh—plunking down paper-wrapped straws and a two-inch stack of napkins as he did.

“Expecting to be messy?” she asked.

With a hot dog halfway to his lips, he gave her a puzzled glance. Marley gestured toward the napkin bonanza.

“Force of habit. Eat. You’ll feel better.”

She did feel better, in an oddly cared-for way. Not in the fussy, spoil-the-starlet, it’s-our-job way that her staff cared for her, but honestly watched out for. And she hadn’t even taken a bite yet. With a silly grin, Marley raised her hot dog and did just that.

Competing flavors filled her mouth, along with the unfamiliar texture of spicy, fatty meat. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d experienced a meal that wasn’t designed to keep her in slinky award-show dresses and size I-suffered-for-this wardrobe pieces. Cautiously, Marley chewed.

“What’s the matter? You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

“You say that like it might be contagious.”

“Oh, Jesus. You are. What are you eating that for, then?” He reached for her hot dog.

Marley held it away. Vigorously, she chewed and swallowed. “I love hot dogs.” Her stomach roiled.

Jake eyed her suspiciously. “How about hamburgers?”

“Nirvana.”

“Pork chops?”

“Heaven.”

“Steak?”

“To die for.”

A skeptical look. “Chicken and fish?”

She shook her head. “Carly doesn’t eat chicken or fish.”

Marley had just decided it. Those lean sources of protein had been the staples of her diet for years now. It was time to break free. Past time to break free.

“‘Carly doesn’t eat chicken or fish’?” he repeated. “Why not just use the royal ‘we’ and get it over with, princess?”

Whoops. She had to remember to stay in character. Being around Jake was completely throwing her off her Method.

“Don’t call me that.” Blithely, she set down her food long enough to unfold a paper napkin and arrange it on her lap with dainty motions. She brushed a speck of dust from her paper lemonade cup, then took another bite of hot dog. “I’m an everyday, ordinary girl next door.”

“Who acts like she’s dining with the queen.”

She shrugged.

“Well, I’ll tell you something, girl next door.”

“What’s that?”

He leaned nearer. She felt herself being pulled into the warm blue of his eyes. What would Jake look like, Marley wondered all at once, without his Clark-Kent-style glasses?

Like Superman, probably.

“Most everyday, ordinary girls next door haven’t had vocal coaching,” he said. “You have.”

She gasped, sudden panic turning the bite of hot dog in her mouth to tasteless goo. Marley snatched a napkin to cover her lips and tried to recover.

“I have, too,” Jake said casually, using his index finger to spread his hot dog’s mustard more evenly. He popped his gloopy finger into his mouth and sucked it clean with unselfconscious motions. “Most sportscasters—most TV journalists—have. That’s how I recognize the signs.”

“Oh.”

“La, la, la, la. Oh, oh, oh.” He grinned, having executed a perfect example of one of the vocal exercises her coach had used to teach proper projection techniques.

“Oooga, oooga,” she said, trying to sound more like a run of the mill good sport and less like a nervous undercover starlet. In a sense, they were bonding already. Even if it was over a potentially secret-revealing subject. “Gotta love those vocal drills, huh?”

Jake nodded, going on to discuss memories of strengthening his vocal cords, practicing correct diction, and learning breathing techniques. Marley nodded and listened, occasionally offering a story of her own. Then Jake took a bite large enough to finish his next hot dog. Thoughtfully, he chewed.

Just when she decided he was merely making idle conversation, he zeroed in on her face. “Why did you do it?”

She blanched beneath his steady regard. “Do it?”

“Vocal coaching. Are you a journalist, too?”

God forbid. She knew some really nice ones, but mostly journalists were considered part of the enemy camp. A necessary evil. Marley shook her head.

“A professional speaker?”

She pantomimed being unable to answer because of an extra-large mouthful of hot dog, realizing in that moment that she hadn’t come up with a suitable career for Carly. She had to think fast.

Warming to his guessing game, Jake put down his hot dog and rubbed his palms together. He tilted his head. “You don’t sound like voice-over talent, common as that is in this town. You don’t look like an actress—”

Stung, Marley felt a pang of regret for this stupid scheme. She knew she should have been happy her alter ego was going over so well, but a part of her soundly resented having to force her real identity underground.

“—so what are you?”

What was she? What was Carly? Arrgh.

“A self-improvement junkie.” The notion occurred to her in a rush of inspiration. She decided to run with it, since it allowed her to sidestep the real question for now. With a shaky laugh, she embellished. “You name it, I’ve tried it. Voice coaching, therapy, affirmations, hypnosis, motivational speakers…if it’s supposed to help, I’m game to try it.”

“You don’t need improving.”

Marley was touched. And relieved he’d moved on from the subject of Carly’s job. “Thank you. That’s sweet.”

“Except maybe with your pig handling.”

He finished his third hot dog and started in on his fourth. Jake clearly had a voracious appetite. He ate like a man, with big bites and a blatant enjoyment that probably came from being oblivious to calories. Despite that, though, he practiced good manners and had made sure since they sat down that Marley was enjoying her food, too.

“Lester was offended you didn’t come over to pet him.”

She was scared of Lester. Unlike the goats, he was too muddy to be likened to Gaffer. His hooves looked dangerous, also. “I’m sure he didn’t mind. He had mean squinty eyes.”

“You would too, if the prettiest lady at the zoo ignored you. He was trying to hide his hurt feelings.”

“He was imagining snacking on my shoes.”

Jake raised his index finger and thumb, holding them about a half-inch apart. “Maybe a little bit. But mostly he felt overlooked.”

Quizzically, Marley studied him. Was this about more than a pig’s hurt feelings? Was it about Jake’s hurt feelings? She couldn’t imagine a man as self-assured as him ever feeling overlooked, but… “For a guy who’s crazy for hot dogs, you have a lot of pig empathy.”

He looked horrified. “Shhh! Not so loud. Lester thinks I’m a vegetarian.”

She admired his sparkling eyes and happy-go-lucky expression as he popped the last of his hot dog in his mouth. She’d say one thing for Jake Jarvis—he had good cheer to spare. It seemed sincere, too. After being surrounded by too-sophisticated-to-smile industry types for so long, Marley found his openness as unfamiliar as it was unexpected.

“Besides,” Jake said, “Lester’s a male and so am I. We have to stick together when confronted with the whims of women.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then splayed both hands on his powerful thighs. He leaned slightly forward. “For instance, what would you say if I told you we’re going to lie in the grass over there and listen to the rest of the baseball game on the hot dog guy’s radio?”

“No!”

“What would you say if I suggested spending the day in the antiquated arcade outside, trying to beat the high score on Galaxian?”

“No!”

“Ripping off our clothes and streaking through the zoo?”

Were these the kinds of things “normal” people did? “No!”

“See?” Jake gave a knowing grin and shrugged. “Whims.”

Nonplussed, Marley shook her head. She was clearly out of her depth with this stuff. She frowned, trying to figure out whether she was the loopy one or Jake was. She wished she could call Meredith for real-world advice, but slipping away to use her cell phone would look suspicious—not to mention pretentious. Very un-Carly.

She wished she had a script.

“Not wanting to act like a ten year old isn’t a whim,” she said, trying to make light of his theory. “Where would we be if everybody behaved that way?”

“We’d be a lot happier, I’ll bet.” He watched a nearby brother and sister chase each other beneath the picnic area canopies. A smile tilted his mouth as the little girl made a face at her brother. She ducked beneath a table to elude him in their game of tag. Jake turned back to Marley. “You can learn a lot from kids.”

“Sure. Like how to be mean.”

He gave her a quizzical look. “Mean?”

She shrugged, not wanting to delve into her own memories for elaboration. “You know. Kids can be cruel sometimes.”

“I guess so. But other times…they’re the best.” He hesitated. “You don’t want kids of your own?”

Marley couldn’t help but laugh. “Me? Heck, no,” she said sanguinely. “Me with kids would be like Martha Stewart with ring around the collar. J.Lo with a butt blaster. A Tarantino film with Julie Andrews as its star.”

“The hills are alive,” Jake sang in his deep voice, “with the sound of gunfire….”

“Exactly.” She was glad he understood her so thoroughly. “When it comes to me and motherhood, we’re completely incompatible. Bordering on impossible.”

“Hmmm.” Thoughtfully, he studied her. Then he nodded. “Well, we’ve just about exhausted the “Dream Date” resources for today. If you’re going to keep that fifty bucks you bet, we’re going to have to stick together longer.” He checked his watch. “I have a couple more free hours. How about we blow this Popsicle stand and go shoot some darts at a place I know?”

Before she could answer, the tag-playing boy ran past. He shrieked, trailing both a zoo balloon and his hapless younger sister in his wake. Both children collided with Carly, looked up at her with Kool-Aid smeared faces, then detoured.

She shuddered. “Sure. Darts. I think I’ve had about all I can take here in Kid-ville, anyway.”

 

This stupid game show had to be rigged, Jake figured. There was no other explanation for it.

How else to account for the fact that Jake—sportscasting’s single dad of the moment, currently wearing mud-smeared shoes—had been stuck with a sports-hating, child-challenged, fussy girly girl like Carly? Paired with her, it would be next to impossible to win.

He’d been optimistic. Until she’d come out with that crack about kids. Now he knew the path to victory was going to be even tougher than he’d thought. He could already hear Rich canceling “Sports at Six”—and not picking up the option on Jake’s contract.

Damn. What the hell were the odds?

Determined not to go down without a fight, Jake decided he’d just have to give Carly a dose of that famous Jake Jarvis, hunk-of-the-billboards charisma. He’d talk with her, have fun with her, and make sure their dates were models of modern magnetism. He could do it. He was a charming guy. He’d make them both winners. Single-handedly, if necessary.

He started while they drove to their next destination in Jake’s Accord. Since Carly had mentioned something about having taken a bus to the “Dream Date” auditions, he’d agreed to drive them wherever they went.

“That’s nice perfume,” he said, sniffing appreciatively at her light fragrance. It enlivened his entire car in a subtle but enjoyable way. “Is it some kind of exclusive designer stuff?”

In his experience, women liked exclusive designer stuff. The fancier the better. Jake glanced at her.

She looked back at him as though he’d just suggested she rolled in dog shit on a daily basis.

“No! It’s commonplace, ordinary drugstore perfume. Very commonplace. Very ordinary.”

Carly muttered something that sounded like a swear word. She raised her forearm and, while gazing out the window at the busy L.A. streets whizzing by, sniffed her wrist. She shook her head.

Jake didn’t get it, but he wasn’t done yet. When they reached the sports bar, he hurried around to Carly’s side of the car. Chivalrously, he reached to help with her door. At the same moment, she swung it open.

“Oooof!”

“Oh, Jake! I’m so sorry!”

Which explained why he walked into Champs—a place buzzing with neon, dark woods, and loud music—and placed his weirdest order ever. “A Bud, please. And an ice bag for my nuts.”

He looked at Carly and manfully tried not to cry. “What would you like?”

“A vodka martini, very dry. Two olives, please. Oh, and I’d prefer Belvedere or Grey Goose, if you have it.”

Jake and the bartender both raised their eyebrows.

“I mean” –she scanned the neon signs covering the walls in all the places not already occupied by sports paraphernalia— “a Budweiser?”

The bartender nodded and served up two longnecks. Jake handed one to Carly, then tossed some money on the bar. He grabbed the ice bag the bartender offered and limped gingerly toward a nearby booth.

Carly slid in across from him. “I’m very sorry about the car door.”

He waved off her concern.

“I’m not used to people opening doors for me. Ever. In fact, if I want to go anyplace, I open every single door myself. No special treatment for Carly Christopher. None at all.”

She shook her head emphatically. Jake swigged some beer to dull the wallop to his balls. He wondered why she felt the need to protest so strongly.

“I’ll be fine,” he told her.

“I really am sorry. I just forgot about my open-every-door-myself policy for a second, that’s all.”

Carly levered upward, bracing herself on the table to peer at his crotch. Of all the ways he might have hoped for this kind of intimate attention from her…this sure as hell wasn’t one of them.

She winced. “Does it hurt much?”

“Only when I breathe.”

Or you do.

Her upward-and-forward motion, tentative as it had been, had placed her breasts directly in his line of vision. Only inches from his face, those rounded swells teased him. Her pert nipples distended the fabric of her pink T-shirt.

Sure, her breasts were small. But they were damned cute. Jake imagined himself raising his hand to touch her, encountering the softness of her skin beneath his palm, feeling her suck in a breath as he stroked her.

Nice fantasy. He suffered the inevitable consequences of it a nanosecond later. A tingle shot to his groin, his cock valiantly tried to respond as usual…his balls throbbed. Ouch.

He swigged more Bud and made himself think about the starting rotation for the 1969 Mets.

“Only when you breathe? That’s worse than I thought.” Carly bit her lip, looking remorseful. Concerned. Then, she brightened. “But I’ll bet I can help.”

She formed a circle with her manicured thumb and middle finger, then brought her hand to her lips. A moment later, the rumble of nearby conversations, the ever-present jabbering of ESPN on the wall-mounted TVs, and the music from the jukebox were all dwarfed by a piercing whistle.

Carly beamed. “Neat, huh? I learned to do that for a movie.”

Jake nodded gamely. She’d whistled so loudly, he’d temporarily lost hearing in his left ear. He wasn’t sure what she’d said, but she looked so happy about it he couldn’t bear to disappoint her.

She waved for the bartender. He stared blandly back at her.

“I know he can see me!” Carly groused, obviously perplexed. “He knows I’m trying to get his attention. There aren’t any other customers getting drinks right now. What’s his problem?”

Jake was about to tell her that Champs was a small place, where customers ordered for themselves at the bar. The owner didn’t have the money for cocktail waitresses and bartenders who came at a whistle. He’d spent it all on satellite access and pay-per-view sports coverage—the real draws in this place. Before he could speak, though, Carly hustled to the bar.

“This man” –she gestured dramatically back toward Jake— “has a serious, serious groin injury!”

Jake sank lower in his booth.

“He’s in a lot of pain,” she went on. Jesus, but her voice carried. “Probably more pain than he’ll admit to me.”

At this, she threw a proud look over her shoulder. Did she expect Jake to applaud her insight? She was making him look like a damned crybaby. He cleared his throat and endeavored to look macho.

“He’ll need more ice. A clean towel. Maybe a free beer, too!”

Some of the customers—regulars whom Jake all recognized—nudged each other and hooted. Some merely grinned. All watched avidly as Carly somehow secured everything she’d asked for—plus a bowl of pretzels—from the chagrined bartender. She sashayed across the sports bar, her trek an unexpectedly sexy display that didn’t do anything to remove her from the guys’ radar. She plunked everything down on the table.

At the sight of the second ice bag she held toward him, Jake shook his head. “My boys need numbness, not freezer burn.”

Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. She waggled the bag.

“I don’t need it. Thanks, anyway.”

Her pleased, hopeful expression began to fade. Jake couldn’t stand it. He accepted the second ice bag and carefully arranged it in his lap. His nuts already felt like the equivalent of two ping pong balls in a deep freeze. What were a few more degrees of frostbite?

“Is that better?” she asked hopefully.

He grunted “yes” and wished for amnesia. No, he wished for amnesia for their amused spectators.

“Good. It’s the least I could do to help.”

She patted his hand, looking relieved. Obviously, she felt better now about whacking him with the car door. Carly had serious misperceptions about the healing powers of ice and Budweiser when it came to a man’s prize package. Jake forgave her anyway. What else could he do?

They ignored their bonus pretzels. Jake was still too full from lunch, and Carly claimed she avoided anything that was fat-free. She assured him the pretzels might well be.

“The fattier, the better, that’s my motto!” she told him as she pushed the bowl away. He didn’t have the heart to reveal that the beer she’d been daintily sipping was completely fat-free—a fact he’d gleaned from Skip at KKZP. Skip was Jake’s sometime-running-buddy, and was always on some crazy fitness plan or other. His Beer Bong Blast had only been the latest in a long—and failed—line of diet regimens.

Jake and Carly talked for the next half hour. During that time, the “Dream Date” crew caught up with them. Stealthily they filmed from a corner of the sports bar. Until the crew appeared, Jake almost forgot what he was supposed to be doing there. The reminder of their arrival kicked his original plan back into gear.

He was due to pick up Noah from daycare in about an hour. Not much time left, but probably long enough to do what he had to do: charm Carly. No matter what.

“You know what?” she mused suddenly, resting her elbow on the table and plunking her chin in her hand. “We’ve been having such a good time talking, I forgot all about playing darts. That’s what we came here for.”

He took in her casual posture—the easiest she’d sported all day—and felt himself drawn toward her. Toward her princess-y appeal, her prettiness, her quirky sense of nut-crunch healing. It was almost as though…hey. Was he planning to grab the upper hand here, or what?

“Don’t worry, we’ll get to the darts,” Jake said. “Hear that song?” He tilted his head toward the corner jukebox, upon which a ballad had just started playing. “Let’s dance first.”

Before she could say no, Jake abandoned his spent ice bags. He stood, intending to whisk her away to the three-by-four dance floor. All women were ridiculously impressed by a man who danced in public. Voluntarily. Especially to Michael Bolton-style crap like they were playing right now. If he moved quickly, he could still keep up with his initial game plan.