He passed his gaze across the studio audience and settled on an olive-skinned face near the front.Not Bethany.Reason dictated it couldn’t be her, but he leaned toward her, his heartbeat stumbling and skipping before resuming its steady cadence.It wasn’t her.But he could not stop his entire being from hoping.
Hank’s gaze moved past Bethany’s look-alike before circling back to study her face in more detail.Definitely not Bethany.Her skin was too dark, jaw too long, cheeks too narrow, lips too thin. He dropped his gaze to his hands and swallowed the disappointment shooting its way into his churning stomach.
Every seat was filled in the studio, which held at least one hundred people, not to mention the millions of listeners and subscribers, all eager to know what he thought.
Would another station pick upApollo?Highly unlikely.(That ship had sailed.)
What kind of car did he drive?A Porsche 911.(A splurge when he’d landed the role that made him famous.)
What did he eat for breakfast?A protein shake.(He longed for one of Bethany’s chocolate donuts with sprinkles.)
Did he and Heather date?No, they were good friends.(He wasn’t certain he would ever date again.)
Jessica cleared her throat. “Hank, what’s the last show you watched on TV, and why did you choose to watch it?”
A picture of Bethany, cheeks pink and hair tucked behind her ear as she slept on his shoulder, tugged at his memory. He forced a shrug and a grin and downplayed his answer. “Mine, actually.”
“Do you always watch your own shows?”
“No, I usually avoid them.”
The crowd laughed, but Jessica persisted. “Oh, really? Intriguing. So tell us, why did you watch your own television show?”
“A friend who hadn’t seen it asked to watch it with me.”
“A friend, eh? A female?”
Hank shifted and unscrewed the cap on his bottle of water. He took a swig to wet his dry throat and forced a grin. “What other kind is there?”
“Now you have us all intrigued. Who is this mysterious friend? Anyone we’d know?”
“No,” Hank said, his smile fading.
“I read you purchased a building in Cleveland, Ohio, where you were born. You’ve been seen around town with the previous owner, Bethany Parker. Was she your audience of one?”
A picture flashed on the confidence monitor in front of him—the picture from the kiss-cam at the baseball game. Heat flooded his body. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. The photo exploded on the giant screen behind him, and the studio crowd whistled and cheered.
Hank cleared his throat and spoke into the microphone, keeping his tone strong and even. “She’s a tenant in thebuilding. She and her brother own a restaurant called Grandma Lou’s. I highly recommend their whoopie pies.”
The audience laughed, but Jessica persisted. Hank wanted to wring her nosey neck, but he plastered a smile on his face and pretended he found the conversation humorous.
“From the photo, you clearly like each other. Is Bethany Parker anything special to you?”
Hank wiped his hands on his pants and spoke into the microphone. “Just a friend.”
“Oh, then you probably aren’t aware her business won a national baking competition today? Sadly, the company sponsoring the contest announced shortly before we went on air that her entry was disqualified due to plagiarism. Apparently, she broke the contest rules when she entered a recipe shared by the Chef King last month on his television show.”
Hank’s throat closed up and his mouth went dry. “No, I hadn’t heard,” he managed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The jingle of the door had Bethany looking up from the counter for incoming customers. Early this morning, Fresh & Easy had announced the contest win and customers had been stopping in all day to congratulate them. Grandma Lou’s phone had been ringing nonstop, so she finally took it off the hook so they could get stuff done and sent her cell phone to voicemail.
A burly man hidden behind a large video camera entered the restaurant, accompanied by a woman holding a microphone. Bethany recognized the woman from the local news—the one who’d shown up on the day she met Hank, to interview him outside the building.
She wiped her hands on her apron and swallowed hard. The local station must be here to interview her. “Can I help you?” Bethany smiled at the visitors, who moved forward in tandem. One of them held a camera, which, from the flashing green light, appeared to be rolling.
The reporter thrust the microphone toward Bethany’s chin. “Why did you plagiarize your recent contest entry?Are you upset you’re no longer the winner of the baking contest?”
