Stephanie Doyle - Who Wants To Marry a Heartthrob?

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 really had no doubt. But you, Bridget. See what mascara and the right shade of lipstick can do for you?”

“I’m beginning to,” she replied. “Listen, Raquel, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, do you think you could help me out for next week? I’m going to need a dress and more makeup and—”

“More makeup?” Richard protested. “What happened to all that stuff about not giving in to society’s dictates and taking the inner beauty high ground?”

“You were the one who made me put the makeup on in the first place!”

“That was when I thought it would be just once,” he countered. “Twice might compromise your morals.”

“Hello,” Bridget replied. “One word—television. There are no morals here.”

“She’s right,” Raquel agreed. “And say no more. Raquel to the rescue. Hee, hee, that rhymes.”

Neither Richard nor Bridget had the heart to tell her that it really didn’t.

“Give me your address and I will pick you up tomorrow. Then we’ll go shopping.”

“Hey,” Richard complained. “Tomorrow is a work day.”

“And this is work,” Bridget informed him. “I’m doing this for the show and for the client.”

“It will be so much fun,” Raquel bubbled. “I know just the dress place we should hit first. They have the most marvelous things for women. Even for women without breasts!”

“I have breasts,” Bridget grumbled.

“If you insist.”

“Sounds to me like a lot of effort for nothing.” This came from Jenna who had strolled over to their group during the conversation. “You don’t actually think a new dress is going to help you, do you dear?”

Bridget had to hand it to the woman, she played the catty bitch better than anyone on daytime television she’d ever seen. As a reply, she merely held up her card. “Green.”

Jenna smiled, displaying all of her white, perfectly formed teeth. “This week.”

She turned to Richard and moved up against him, definitively invading his personal space. “It’s good to see you again, Richard. I never really got a chance to tell you how much I enjoyed dinner with you the other evening.”

“Uh…” he stuttered. “Sure. Dinner. It was nice.”

Bridget watched the scene in complete fascination. She wasn’t jealous. Richard had dated several women throughout the three years she’d known him, none of whom had ever exceeded his four-date limit. He had several goals in life, but as far as she knew establishing a long-term relationship wasn’t one of them. Which was really one more reason why any nebulous and burgeoning feelings she might have for him were ludicrous. She was the ultimate long-term relationship girl. At least, she’d always thought she would be. Those kinds of thoughts, however, were for another time.

For now, Bridget needed to concentrate on Jenna. Maybe she could learn something from her. Currently, she was wielding seduction skills the way a samurai wielded a sword. Bridget watched how Jenna slid her hand up the front of Richard’s suit coat. The way she leaned into his body without actually touching him. The way she tilted her neck at just the right angle to give a man a few ideas. And Richard, Bridget did not doubt, was a man who could quickly get ideas.