Who Wants To Marry a Heartthrob?. Stephanie Doyle
known that from his three years of working with her, he’d certainly learned it at her sister’s wedding.
Bridget liked to blend. She was the kind of person who was always there, but was never seen. The ultimate assistant: always on hand, but never underfoot. It wasn’t until after the wedding that he began to understand where that quality came from.
Four sisters. Each of them more stunning than the next. Each one of them knowing it, too. Bridget was the worst kind of Cinderella in a family like that, situated between the two older and two younger stars, with a mother who prized beauty and landing a prince above smarts and success.
And Bridget had too much pride even to ask for a fairy godmother.
“Can you make her stop doing that?” Don or Dan asked.
Richard took his eyes away from the monitor and moved back toward the living room, standing just behind Pete, one of the cameramen. At least Bridget seemed to have cleared up her facial tic and once again was focused intently on Brock.
In this particular group of women, she stood out simply because she was so unremarkable. A bubble of annoyance gurgled in his gut and he suddenly had an irrational desire to walk onto the set, grab her arm and get her the hell out of there.
He didn’t want anyone sitting at home watching this show to wonder what she was doing on TV with those other gorgeous women. He didn’t want anyone thinking that she was desperate. She wasn’t. She was doing him a favor. And in some ways, she was one of the most beautiful women he knew.
Not to mention the kind of guts it took to sit alongside a panel of women who looked like that. But the audience couldn’t see guts.
This was his fault. He’d made her do this and now he regretted it. And the worst part was yet to come. Brock still had to reject her on television in front of everyone. The reality of that was sinking in now that the moment was fast approaching. Suddenly anxious, Richard wondered if she would ever forgive him for this…and why it mattered so much to him if she didn’t.
“OKAY, let’s hear from the ladies,” Chuck decided, still oozing his unique charm. “Tell me what you’re looking for in a potential mate. Raquel.”
“I’m looking for someone just like Brick Brockman.”
“You mean Brock Brickman,” the host corrected her quickly.
“That’s right.” She smiled and pulled her shoulders together a bit more to enhance her cleavage. “Brick Brockman. He’s my ideal man.”
“Okay, moving right along. You, Jenna?”
A sultry brunette with impossibly blue eyes stood and drew all eyes to her. Bridget had already determined that this woman was no fool. She had a goal, and Bridget assessed that Jenna would be undaunted in the pursuit of that goal. This woman was going to marry Brock or land a role in a soap opera.
Whichever came first.
She looked at Brock then shifted her head slightly, no doubt to give her best side to the camera, and told everyone in clear strong tones, “I’m looking for someone who completes me. Someone who fills my heart and is filled in return by all the love I have to give. I don’t want just a husband, but a life mate. A partner. Someone I can share my innermost feelings with, not to mention my innermost…desires.” She sat down again with a flick of her hair and a sultry glance that might have been aimed at Brock, or at the camera behind him.
Wow. That was some speech, Bridget silently applauded. She only hoped she didn’t have to follow that.
“And Bridget, tell us what are the pieces that make up your Mr. Perfect?”
There were times, she decided, that life could be entirely unfair.
“Uh…well, he…should…uh…I suppose I’m looking for…” The camera guy zoomed in on her and the blinking light above it forced her to turn her eyes away. The light also didn’t help with her stuttering.
“Ah,” Chuck extolled. “I see we have a shy one here. Please, don’t be scared. All of America wants to know what it is you’re looking for in a man.”
All of America. Bridget gulped. “I guess what I’m really searching for is…”
“I’m sorry.” Chuck stopped her with a raised hand and turned his back on her to speak directly to the camera. “But we’re out of time.”
“Why does that not surprise me,” she muttered under her breath.
“This is the part of the show where Brock must retire to his solitary space. In that space he will have to ask himself ‘Is she the right one for me?’ Fifteen women will receive an invitation, and in that invitation there will be either a green card or a red card. Green means she gets to go on to the next show to see if she can win the heart of our heartthrob. Red means that life has chosen another course for her. Tonight only eight cards will be green. We’ll be right back to watch our ladies open their invitations. As always Who Wants To Marry a Heartthrob? is brought to you by Breathe Better Mouthwash, the mouthwash choice of singles. Because at those critical moments it’s important to have good breath. Your future could depend on it.”
Bridget winced at the phrase that Richard had finally decided on as the tag line for the campaign.
Breathe Better Mouthwash—because your future could depend on it.
She’d told him it was too dramatic. But with Chuck saying it as if mouthwash were a life-or-death decision, she thought it superceded dramatic and launched directly into the melodramatic. Typical Richard, she thought to herself. Always pushing. Always going over the top.
The red lights on top of the cameras abruptly went dark and Bridget breathed a sigh of relief. During each of the intermissions some of the women had had a chance to speak with Brock one-on-one. Getting close to him, however, meant running a gauntlet of pointed elbows and spiky heels.
Fortunately, Bridget had an edge over the crowd since she wasn’t as afraid of bruising as some of the other women were. She had actually made it to his side during the last commercial, but had only managed, “Hi, my name is…” before someone—her money was on Jenna—had knocked her out of the way. Now would be her last chance to impress him if she had any hope of getting a green invitation.
She stood up, scanned the room for Brock and saw him being whisked away by Chuck down a hallway that led to one of the studies in the back of the house. She was about to follow in pursuit when, of all people, Richard moved in front of her path.
“Okay, I’ll say it. I was wrong and you were right. I never should have made you do this. I’m sorry.”
She knew she should have been thrilled with such a statement, especially coming from someone who hoarded apologies the way Scrooge hoarded coal on Christmas Eve. But hearing this from Richard at this particular moment wasn’t good news. No doubt after watching her on the monitor, it was obvious that she didn’t belong with the others. But she wasn’t going to let the fear that she might have made a fool out of herself on television stop her from getting what she wanted.
And what she wanted was Richard. No, no, no, she thought, shaking that idea completely out of her head. She wanted Brock. Well, not really Brock. Just another night with Brock to teach Richard a lesson.
“Richard, move out of the way.” Bridget attempted to move around him, but he stepped with her, continuing to block her path. And he was big. Sometimes she forgot how tall he was, but when she stood toe-to-toe with him she barely reached his chin. It was the lean, easy quality about him that made her forget sometimes that he was, in fact, a lot of man.
“No. I guilted you into it. I forced you in front of a camera, made you put on all that makeup, which I know goes against your whole inner-beauty-motto thing—although I have to say, it really does look nice on you—and now I’ve set you up for this failure.”
His last item had her stopping in her tracks. “Failure?”
“I know and I’m sorry. You’re going to have