Who Wants To Marry a Heartthrob?. Stephanie Doyle
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Watch as some women will woo, and others will boo-hoo when they get the red card. Next time on Who Wants To Marry a Heartthrob? brought to you by Breathe Better Mouthwash, the mouthwash choice of singles. Because your future could depend on it.”
“And cut,” Buzz called. “Let’s clean it up, guys.”
Richard marched over to where Brock was chatting with Chuck and rudely tapped the actor on the shoulder.
“What in the hell was that?” Richard asked when Brock turned around.
Brock broke out into an all-white-tooth grin. “Great show, huh? Hey, man, thanks again for this opportunity. It’s only been a few weeks since I got canned from The Many Days of Life, but I’m really starting to worry about my career, you know. Last week at the mall I was only stopped twice for an autograph. Twice,” he repeated in low whisper. “That’s pathetic. But this is going to put me right back on top. I’m sure of it. The Many Days of Life will have to take me back.”
“Look at my face,” Richard demanded. “Do I look like a man who cares about your career?”
Brock’s brow furrowed. “Uh…no?”
“No! I want to know what the hell you were doing picking Bridget?”
Brock glanced over at the assembled green-card ladies who were chatting it up as they drank their celebratory glasses of champagne.
“Which one is Bridget?”
“That one.” Richard pointed to Bridget who stood apart from the other seven women still staring at her green card.
“Oh, her. She had a nice smile.”
“Yes, I know she has a nice smile, but look at her will you? She doesn’t belong on TV.”
Brock shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe if she was looking to do some character acting…”
“She doesn’t want to act!” Richard shouted, incensed. “She’s my assistant. You have to pick someone else.”
“Too late for that, Richard,” Chuck intervened. “The other women are already gone, and besides it made for great TV having the dark horse pull ahead in the end. She represents the every woman. You watch, the audience will eat her up. She’ll be an asset to the show.”
Richard wanted to shout again, but there was really no one to shout to. The deed was done and Bridget would be returning for another week. And it was his damn fault. Oh well, he thought. One more week couldn’t hurt. By then Brock would come to his senses and Richard would have his Bridget back.
Chuck and Brock left and Richard made his way to where she was still standing in apparent shock, snatching two glasses of celebratory champagne off the table on his way.
He handed her one and she beamed at him.
“Green,” she said, showing him the card.
“So I see.”
“He picked me.”
“Yes, I understand how the game is played.”
Bridget sipped her champagne and tried to stifle a giggle. It was entertaining to see Richard so clearly agitated—a predictable state for him when things didn’t go according to plan. “Funny, isn’t it? Because you seemed so sure that he wasn’t going to pick me, then he did pick me.”
“Yes, yes,” he snapped. “I get it. He picked you. I was wrong.”
“Really wrong. Colossally wrong. Napoleon at Waterloo wrong. Britney Spears as a brunette wrong—”
“How long are you going to hold this over my head?” he asked, cutting her off.
“I would say the statute of limitations for mocking runs out in about a year on this one.”
Richard groaned. “Fine. Consider this though, getting picked means you have to go back on TV next week. Next week is party night, too. No formal questions, just mingling. And we all know how you love to mingle, Bridge.”
She scowled at him. She hated to mingle. In fact, she hated parties, borne from a lifetime of watching her sisters be the life of every one they had ever attended. Since from a very young age she had known she didn’t have it in her to be the life of the party, she had decided to go the other way. She hugged walls, watched people and counted away the hours until she could leave and be free of the pressure of being a Connor girl at a party.
“But I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he recanted.
Richard had watched her face fall and he’d felt a little guilty raining on her parade so quickly. She’d been truly pleased that she had been picked out from among the throng. He didn’t want to spoil that. But he also didn’t want her getting her hopes up. Next week would be the end of this particular fairy tale. And at the end of the day, he needed his sensible assistant back.
Bridget regarded him as he sipped his champagne.
“This tastes horrible,” he noted, putting the glass down.
“It’s domestic,” she informed him. When he gasped, she reminded him, “Cable, remember. The budget didn’t call for foreign. So, let me get this straight. You don’t think I stand any chance of getting another green card next week, do you?”
“No.”
“You didn’t think I had any chance this week.”
“No.”
“But I did.”
“Fluke,” he quipped. He didn’t want to believe otherwise.
“Really,” she mumbled. “Care to place a wager on that?”
“You want to bet me?”
“A bet might make things more interesting.”
“What do you want?”
“If I get the green card next week, you agree to go on a vacation with me and my family in the Poconos for an entire weekend.”
“Deal. And if I win…you have to clean my loft for a month. Laundry and cooking included.”
“Deal,” she agreed and stretched out her hand. They shook and the bet was sealed. “That’s odd, though, I assumed you would have wanted to get out of Christmas.”
“The Christmas thing is only for two days, this is clean underwear for a month,” he told her.
That wasn’t entirely true. He’d cut his tongue out before he admitted it to her, but the truth was he was glad to have somewhere to go during the holidays. Bridget was his closest friend, and there really wasn’t anyone else he would rather spend that time with. Certainly not with his overly stuffy, extraordinarily successful family who would use the holidays to grill him about his net worth, his prospects for the future and his chances of making partner at V.I.P. Not that creating ad campaigns was a job worthy of the Wells name.
No, the next time he saw his family he wanted to present them with his own business. His name on the office door. His company that he would build into a success. Then maybe, just maybe, he would be forgiven for his lifetime of underachievement.
Bridget shrugged at his response and took another sip of her champagne. He was right. It was awful. But it didn’t matter. Not tonight. She had been picked above seven other beautiful women. She planned to savor the victory.
Not for too long, though. There was work to be done if she was going to compete seriously in next week’s show and she knew just the person to help her.
“Raquel!” Bridget called to the woman standing in the group of seven. Squealing with joy, Raquel bounced her way over to where Bridget and Richard stood.
“Oh, isn’t this exciting? Imagine, me on TV two weeks in a row.”
“Congratulations,” Richard offered her.
“Thank you, but I