Finding Mr. Right Now (3 page)

Fail!
Geez could she be any more lame? No wonder she had no social life anymore. Of course she didn’t exactly have a life, period.

The corners of his mouth quirked up into a slow smile, adding several degrees of hotness. “I guess.”

Monica managed not to snarl at him. It wasn’t his fault she was having the Day From Hell, or that something about his smile seemed to have fried a few of her synapses. “That’s all I’ve got for now.”

He shrugged. “I’ll go check these over. See if there’s anything obvious I can come up with.”

“You do that,” she murmured, following him back toward the break room.

“Monica?” Ronnie trilled from the other end of the hall.

Paul took one look and ducked in the nearest door.

Monica closed her eyes for a moment.
Patience.
“Hi Ronnie, what’s up? How was the interview?”

Ronnie wobbled up the hall toward her on her platform sandals. “I haven’t done it yet. The reporter’s late. Did you find anyone?”

Given that it had only been a few minutes since their last conversation, that seemed like a sort of ridiculous question. On the other hand, this was Ronnie. “No, sweetheart. We haven’t had time.”

“Oh.” Ronnie chewed on her lip for a moment. “Well, I mean, we’re supposed to start next week, aren’t we? Shouldn’t you be getting somebody set up by now?”

Right. Maybe they should just head for
Bachelors R Us
. “We’re working on it, Ronnie. Really.”

Ronnie glanced back up the hall again. “What about him?”

Monica stared at her. “Who?”

“You know. Him. He’s kind of good looking.”

Monica turned to follow her look. Paul the Writer was standing in the doorway of the break room talking to Sid. She took a quick breath. He did look good. Very, very good.

“Oh…that’s one of the writers.” She shook her head. “He couldn’t be a bachelor on the show too.”

“Why not?”

“Because he has to write the show.” Monica slowed her words down a bit. Maybe Ronnie just needed time to assimilate everything.

“But we’ve got other writers, don’t we?” Ronnie was getting that baby seal look again. “I mean how many writers do we need? Couldn’t we spare one?”

“We’re doing two shows now,
Miss Right
and
Mr. Right
,” Monica hedged. “That’s more work. This wouldn’t be a good time to take one of the writers away from his job.”

Ronnie’s lower lip began to tremble. “But it’s really important to find somebody, isn’t it? I mean I have to have another guy. I can’t just go with nine.”

Monica nodded. “We do. Of course, we do. And we’ll find one. I promise we will.”

Ronnie’s trembling lower lip began to slide back into a pout. Then suddenly she focused on something over Monica’s shoulder. She waved frantically. “Hi, Mr. Fairstein, could I talk to you a minute?”

Monica closed her eyes.
Crap, crap, crap.

Artie Fairstein stepped beside Ronnie, giving her one of those smiles that demonstrated what a really good dentist he used. “Hi there, sweetheart. How’s my Miss Right today?”

To Monica, he sounded like he was using a line he’d perfected several years ago, but that might have been because he was studying something on the other side of the room while he talked. By now, she’d gotten used to the fact that Artie never looked directly at you when he spoke. One of the perks of owning the production company—you didn’t need to talk to the serfs who labored in your salt mine.

Ronnie didn’t seem to notice. “Mr. Fairstein, about the missing guy…”

“Missing guy?” Artie’s forehead furrowed slightly as he turned toward Monica. “What missing guy?”

She took a breath. “Glenn was going to tell you…”

“What missing guy?” Artie’s eyes were suddenly sharp. For once he was paying complete attention.

“One of the bachelors for
Finding Mr. Right
has gone back home. We’re working on finding a replacement now.”

Artie frowned. “Gone back home? How could he go back home without clearing it with us? Didn’t we have a contract?”

“He hadn’t signed it yet.” Monica’s mouth ached from keeping a faint smile in place.

“What are you doing about finding a replacement?”

“We’re going back over the other applicants to see if any of them—”

“Why not him? He’d be okay.” Ronnie pointed at Paul again.

Paul glanced her way, looking slightly puzzled. Monica tried to ramp up her smile, but it wasn’t happening.

“Who’s that?” Artie was still frowning.

“That’s Paul, one of the writers.”

Artie’s black eyebrows arched toward his receding hairline. “Have you asked him?”

“Well, no,” she said, a little desperately. “I mean, he’s a writer on the show.”

Artie shrugged. “Right now we need a bachelor more than a writer.
Is
he a bachelor?”

“I don’t know, Artie,” Monica said through gritted teeth. “I’ve never talked to him.”

“Well, talk now.” Artie nodded toward the small knot of people surrounding Paul. “She’s right. He’d work. And he’s here. Go.”

“Yes sir,” Monica muttered. She didn’t bother smiling at Ronnie again. This was totally not a smiling situation.

Paul watched the associate producer heading his way again. Long shapely legs, with a sweet curve at the calf. Honey brown hair, brown eyes that looked like they had flecks of gold. He wondered what she’d look like in something other than that dark power suit, maybe something like that outfit Ronnie had on, or possibly something with a lot less coverage in vital areas. She was way too hot for Fairstein, but that was typical in a business where you had a hundred applicants for any job. Of course, right now she looked like she was about to say something he didn’t want to hear.

“Monica,” the assistant director called, “what’s up?”

Paul pushed his expression to bland. Whatever she had to say probably came from Artie Fairstein. In his experience, ideas that Fairstein came up with were rarely good.

“Hi Sid. And…Paul, isn’t it?” She gave him a very polite smile. It looked about as real as his own bland expression.

He nodded. “Paul Dewitt.”

“Of course, we just met a minute ago, didn’t we?” She gave a breathy chuckle that sounded like it came off a sound effects tape.

Whoa. Something is seriously not right.

“I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute, Paul. Maybe in my office?” She was still smiling that totally artificial smile, and Paul’s internal alarm bells were clanging at full volume.

“What the hell, Monica?” The assistant director, Sid, looked at her as if she’d just dropped in from planet Xyphon. “What’s going on?”

McKellar’s smile disappeared, and she ran a hand through her hair. The color reminded him of something, but he couldn’t think what at the moment, mainly because he was too concerned about the possibility he was being fired. He licked his lips. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s Artie.” She sighed. “And Ronnie. Look, it would really be better if we didn’t have this conversation in the middle of the hall.”

“Why don’t we use Glenn’s office?” Sid nodded at a nearby door. “At least it’s closer than your cubie.”

Paul followed the two of them into Glenn Donovan’s office. He sank into a metal and leatherette chair at the side. “What’s going on?”

McKellar pushed her hair out of her face again.
Butterscotch.
Her hair was the color of butterscotch. It made her skin look like cream, very lickable.
Lickable? Jesus.

She took a breath. “Okay, I told you we were missing a bachelor, right? One of them took off for Ohio yesterday.”

Paul nodded. “Right. But you said you were going to find somebody else.”

“Yes.” McKellar grimaced. “Well, Ronnie had an idea. And apparently Artie thinks it’s a good idea.”

Sid narrowed his eyes. “Artie likes something Ronnie came up with? That’s like one of the signs of the Apocalypse.”

“Be that as it may.” McKellar sounded like she was gritting her teeth. “They both think Paul here would be a good substitute for Bachelor Number Ten.”

Paul stared at her blankly. “Me? One of the bachelors? But I’m supposed to write the damn thing.”

“Right, well, we’d be down a writer for this show. They’d have to transfer somebody over from
Finding Miss Right
or one of the other shows. But look at the bright side—it would give you some really good insights into what the bachelors and bachelorettes go through when they’re doing the challenges. It might help you with the writing.” She gave him a very bright smile that didn’t go any further than her lips.

His stomach felt as if he’d swallowed a dozen ice cubes. “And if I say no?”

McKellar pushed her hair back again. “Look, I don’t know what would happen if you didn’t take the gig, but knowing Artie it wouldn’t be good.”

Sid nodded. “If you don’t do it, I think you could probably kiss off your chances of getting another contract with Fairstein. But look at it this way—if you do go through with it, Artie will owe you, big time. That could be a good thing.”

Paul tried to pull his tumbling thoughts back into some kind of order. “But the thing is, I don’t even like Ronnie Valero.”

One of McKellar’s butterscotch eyebrows arched up. “You don’t think the other bachelors are interested in a real, long-term relationship, do you? I mean, you’ve been with
Finding Miss Right
for a while.”

His jaw tightened. “No, of course not. But—”

“The bachelors and bachelorettes are all in it for something other than a great romance. A lot of them want the screen time. Some of them want the money. Some just want a paid vacation. You’d be in it to keep your job. It’s not that different—maybe even a little more honest. Everybody in the production crew would be on your side.” Those pink lips edged up into another faint smile.

Paul’s stomach twisted again. “But I…”

McKellar gave a little huff of exasperation. “Look, let’s be blunt here. You’d be Meat. That’s all. One of those people who fill out the list. After a couple of weeks, you’d probably be gone, particularly if you didn’t want to stick around. If you don’t come across as interested, Ronnie will probably reject you. Then you could go back to working on
Finding Miss Right
. No harm, no foul.”

Paul’s chest clenched tight.
Meat.
Well, at least she was up front about it, which was more than they probably were with the other guys. Still, the thought gave his ego a solid kick. “I see.”

“Right.” Sid nodded encouragingly. “Probably wouldn’t take more than a month of your time, tops. And you could get a trip to Colorado out of it, assuming you get through the L.A. challenges.”

Colorado.
Paul’s gut twisted again. His folks would find out. His hyper-romantic mother would probably see the show and start planning for a wedding.
Hell.
“Seems like I don’t have much of a choice here.”

McKellar leaned back against the side of the desk, extending one shapely leg. “It won’t be that bad. And like Sid said, Artie will owe you. He’s pretty good about paying his debts too. You’d probably have a chance for a long-term commitment from the production company.”

Paul considered his possible options, all of them lousy. He rubbed his eyes, then sighed. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Bachelor Number Ten.” Sid gave him a relieved grin. “Welcome aboard.”

Chapter Three

An hour later, Monica had broken the news to Harriet Korngold that she’d be down one writer and given her the information on the resort. Monica still had to work out the schedule and logistics for moving the production to Colorado.

Obviously, it was time to put Sid on Ronnie duty. There was no way she was getting stuck taking care of the bachelorette’s needs full time. In fact, right now she was so annoyed with Ronnie that she didn’t even want to talk to her. It was bad enough that she’d grabbed one of the writers to be her tenth bachelor, but then to go over Monica’s head directly to Artie was just tacky. She had no idea who they’d use to write
Finding Mr. Right
, but she had a feeling whoever it was wouldn’t be as good as Paul Dewitt.

However, given the way her luck was going, it didn’t surprise her when she heard Ronnie’s voice from somewhere up ahead. Briefly, she considered heading back the other way, but who knew what other train wrecks might be hiding elsewhere around the building? At least the voice didn’t sound like Tearful Ronnie or Petulant Ronnie or Sulking Ronnie. In fact, it sounded more like Ronnie the Last Romantic.

Monica took a deep breath and stepped into what passed for a reception area in the office wing. Ronnie was sitting in one of the leatherette chairs that made the place look a little like a doctor’s office. The woman across from her had a pen and notebook in her hand and a digital recorder on the coffee table in front of her. Another woman sat at the other side of the room, checking her phone, probably the Fairstein publicist.