“I’m sure they did. You are an eligible bachelor.” The condemnation behind her words, pricked his temper. He sat forward, fingers steepled. He’d been judged from the moment he started playing sports. People assumed he was a privileged jock and a man-whore who had sex with every woman he’d gone out with. He was no saint but he wasn’t what his grandfather dubbed a hound-dog.
“It’s for charity.” His tone brooked no argument. “Part of the advertising proceeds will fund a reading library.” Being dyslexic, making reading acceptable to all people was important to him. Everyone deserved an opportunity to learn. Sadly that wasn’t always the case. Having a handy-capable sister, he was an advocate for education of any type.
She never looked up from the agenda but tucked her curly brown hair behind her ear. “And hopefully, you’ll find a potential wife. It’s a win-win all around.”
The wife part, one of the two downfalls of the gig, that and the shit his team would throw at him every step of the way. Of course, they gave him shit regardless. “That’s the entire purpose of the show.”
“The intended purpose, yes.” She glanced up then, lips pressed together while her eyes danced. “Just think, in a few months, you’ll find the woman of your dreams.”
He narrowed his own at her silent mockery. “That’s the premise of the show. Although let’s get real, the show is produced and has a script so it’s not real life. It’s an illusion. And it’s only nine weeks with eight women this time. They’re shortening the summer show.”
“Wow, it started out with twenty-two women, then twelve. Now it’s eight?” She placed a hand to her chest, a trace of disappointment in her frown. “My hunch is that they’re bleeding money. That’s a pity but I guess I can see why. Only one couple has ever gotten married.”
“And they are now divorced. So no, I have no intention of finding the woman of my dreams, as you put it. Not on the show.” Perhaps not ever. It was unrealistic to even consider that there was a perfect woman out there, and he definitely wasn’t the perfect man. He was as flawed as the next guy. The only thing he could do was always try to be a better person than he was the day before.
Tapping the end of the pen on the file folder, she tilted her head. The action caused her hair to flow down her chest, a waterfall of curls. Thick and a rich brown, he wondered what it would feel like in his hand. He longed for permission to find out. “As I put it? Are you trying to tell me you don’t have a dream woman?” she asked.
“I think you find someone when the time is right. How about you? Do you buy into the perfect mate theory?” Time to turn the tables on her. She mocked him, something he’d been subjected to over the years. Because of his reading disorder, people often thought he was stupid and he’d let them believe it. It gave him an edge; one he’d honed over the years.
“Yes and no.” She fiddled with the pen, and sat back in her seat. “Like you, I don’t believe anyone is perfect and like you, I don’t think it’s fated that someday you’ll meet the one person in the universe that you’re meant to be with. I do think you have thousands of ones that fit your criteria and it’s a matter of right day-right time.”
“And what is your criteria?” he asked, more interested than he should be. She’d turned him down more times than he cared to count. There was a picture of a guy on her desk, and several more of them together on the beach. He couldn’t really see them clearly because of the glare coming in from the window. Was the guy in the picture her boyfriend?
While he couldn’t help but be disappointed, it shouldn’t have come as a shock. She was a physically desirable woman. Even more than that, she had a sharp mind and he liked matching wits with her.
“Hypothetically speaking, I want what every woman wants, someone who’s decent and kind and gets me,” she said, her voice reflective.
The first two were a no-brainer, he tried to be a decent person. Kindness and decency went hand in hand. as for getting her? He had no clue. She was a mystery; one he’d wanted to solve for a few years now. “That’s a short list but somehow I don’t think it’s simple.”
“No, life is never simple.” The wistfulness in her tone was more pronounced.
Perhaps the guy in the picture wasn’t her boyfriend. Or the guy was a douche. He could simply ask her but it was none of his business.
“But we’re getting off topic. Do you have an assistant?”
“No. Do I need one?” Erik had put off getting an assistant because he needed to save every dime he made. He’d been poor once and he didn’t want to be back to that unpleasant state.
“Not a problem, I’ll make sure the show provides you with one, at least during the filming. I want to milk this for all it’s worth. That’ll mean a press junket and the rounds on all the local news stations.” The excitement in her voice was palpable.
A smile curved his lips at her enthusiasm. While she was off limits to him on a romantic level, he had a feeling he’d enjoy her just as much on a professional level. She was much easier on the eye than Walter, his last agent, and she didn’t give him a sleazy salesman vibe like the other agents he’d interviewed with before the draft.
Like his bookie uncle and his grifter friends, who tried to use Erik’s fame to bilk people out of their hard-earned money.
But he was a long way from Arkansas and he had no intention of going back, nor would he allow them to exploit him.
Not anymore.
Chapter Five
The cab pulled into the front of the studio located at the Seattle Center. Belle grabbed her briefcase and tucked it under her arm. In the past week, she’d dived in deep to her new job and so far, was loving every moment of it. She wasn’t loving her car, the one that refused to start this morning.
She entered the building and caught a glimpse of her new fitted blue suit, professional yet fashionable. The pumps hurt like hell but it was a small price to pay for looking confident. Squaring her shoulders, she glanced around the room, looking for Erik. He’d texted her that he was already there. Her heart jumped for another reason.
Darius Jones, the emcee and executive producer of My Future Fiancé — her dream guy— was standing at the front desk, a phone to his ear. Tall and handsome with a tapered afro and short cropped beard, she’d watched him on the show for the past seven years, a guilty pleasure. Pulling a compact and lipstick from her purse, she opened the tube and swept it across her lips.
“Belle,” Erik said, walking out of the bathroom.
“Erik. Sorry I’m late.” She clicked the lipstick lid back into place and spun on her heel. She tried not to wince at the way her shoes pinched her toes. For some reason, she felt a blush coming on. She forced it down. He was her client no matter how sexy she thought he was. “My car wouldn’t start and I had to take a cab.”
