Patt Marr - Angel In Disguise

“Welcome, Pete! It’s going to be a great show, folks!” the host proclaimed. “After we break for commercial, we’re going to match one lovely lady with one lucky guy and send them on their very own Dream Date! Don’t go ’way.”

Pete settled into his leather chair and checked out the group. The guy next to him was a regular weight lifter. If the sleeveless T-shirt showcasing massive biceps didn’t give him away, the tree-trunk neck did.

The other guy had longer hair than most women, holes in his jeans, a dangly earring and a soulful look. Two bucks said he played a guitar and screamed into a mic.

Pete fingered his ugly tie. He could have worn what he wore at the beach and felt less out of place here. Leave it to a woman to overdress a guy.

The three female contestants were knockouts. The lush blonde was giving him the eye, and the petite brunette looked unbelievably interested, as well. Pete wondered which they liked best—his new nose, cheekbones or chin.

He still wasn’t used to The Face, as he’d come to call it, or women’s reaction to it. He doubted if he ever would be. No matter how much the guys with knives changed his looks, he was the same Pete Maguire he’d been for thirty-two years.

There’d been a time he’d have appreciated two babes checking him out. Shoot, he’d have been tickled with one. You’d think a guy whose wife had dumped him for his best friend would be happy with the attention, but that wasn’t the way it worked. Not when he knew it wasn’t him that turned them on—just The Face.

The redhead across from him seemed preoccupied with covering long, gorgeous legs with a skimpy black leather skirt. From the way she flipped that mane of coppery curls, he’d say she’d give a lot to be just about anywhere else. Edgy, that’s what she was. Real edgy. And indifferent to him. Good for her.

Signaling the end of the commercial, the stage manager pointed to the show’s host who smiled at a camera and said, “It’s time for our guys and gals to share their responses to our Dream Date questionnaire. When a gal’s answer matches a guy’s, they get a matchmaker point. Everybody understand?”

Pete understood the questionnaire was a big deal, but Meggy said she’d completed his with such crazy answers he couldn’t possibly win. Thirty minutes, she’d said, and it would be over.

“Okay, here we go,” the host said. “Remember, the couple with the most points at the end of the show shares a fabulous Dream Date. Then in a couple of weeks they’ll return to rate their date. Will it be a dream…or a nightmare? Everybody ready?”

Pete hadn’t dated since high school and wasn’t about to start now. He leaned forward in his chair, the better to concentrate on losing.

“The first category,” host Mike Michaels enthused, “is ‘Food on a First Date.’ On their bios, contestants were asked to state where or what sort of food they would enjoy on a Dream Date. Cheryl,” he said to the blonde with the low neckline, “let’s start with you. What’s your choice in food?”

“Well, Mike, I like really nice restaurants. Romantic places with gourmet food and fine wine. Oh, and valet parking.”

The audience chuckled, and Pete smiled at the idea of turning his old pickup over to a parking attendant. ELEGANT DINING popped onto the board behind the woman. Mike moved on to the brunette. “Jacy, how about you?”

“Sushi, Mike. Can’t get enough sushi. I like to head down to the marina and spend some time there.”

As SUSHI appeared on the electronic board behind Jacy, Pete wondered if either the weight lifter or the longhair were more willing to eat raw fish than he was.

Mike turned to the redhead. “Sunny, what’s your preference?”

Sunny glanced at the studio audience where a dozen or so teenage girls chanted, “Do it. Do it. Do it.”

Taking a deep breath, she turned back to the emcee and said, “Mike, I like to stay home and cook for my dates.”

Looks could be deceiving, but Pete would have bet his pickup that this woman didn’t know a whisk from a blender.

The board faithfully registered HOME COOKING, and the host looked at the redhead with awe. “We don’t get too many women choosing to cook. Bet you’re real popular, Sunny.”

The redhead grinned and shrugged her shoulders. Personality sparkled in her pretty brown eyes.

It was only a little twinge Pete felt. A little zing in the gut. But it took him by surprise. It had been so long since it happened that a moment passed before he recognized the feeling. Attraction, he guessed you’d call it. Man, it had been a while.

Even in the old days he’d never been attracted to redheads, yet he felt the impact of this one’s smile right down to his socks. What was her name? Sunny? She sure was when she smiled. The smile was beautiful. In fact, spectacular.

She caught him staring at her. Her eyes were huge, the warm color of butternut, and uneasy. Rather pointedly, she turned toward the host. He had to smile. She didn’t know it, but she didn’t have to worry about him coming on to her. Any interest he had in her was purely analytical.

“Kevin,” Mike said to the longhair, “on your questionnaire you stated that you prefer ethnic food. Right?”

“Mostly Mexican and Thai. The hotter the better,” Kevin claimed in a dark, sultry voice, dramatically swishing his hair as ETHNIC FOODS registered.

Pete was fairly sure he’d have trouble relating to Kevin.

“Frank, our fireman from the LAFD…”

“Firefighter,” the weight lifter corrected politely.

“Frank the firefighter,” the emcee repeated goodnaturedly, “says he prefers pasta and salad. Looks good on you, Frank.”

Frank smiled as if he might think so, too. Pete approved of his diet, if not the attitude.

“According to Pete,” the host said, “the perfect meal is a big pot roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn on the cob dripping with butter and chocolate-chip cheesecake.”

The audience groaned. So did Pete, at least inwardly. He avoided red meat and kept an eye on his fat grams. The pot-roast fantasy was Meggy’s creation. “Trust me,” she’d said. “I know these girls and what they say.”

She’d better, since her life was on the line.

“Pete also says,” continued the host, “that his favorite place to eat is his mom’s own backyard. Isn’t that nice?”

The audience laughed. Pete thought they’d get an even bigger kick if they knew his mother was so into her art that she never knew when it was time to eat.

He looked warily at the board behind Sunny. Her HOME COOKING could be a match with Frank’s PASTA or the POT ROAST hanging over his own head.

“What do you say, audience?” yelled the host. “Which couple matches? Cast your electronic votes now.”

In mere seconds the boards flashed behind Pete and Sunny.

The “Do it” girls exploded in screams and piercing whistles as they high-fived each other all over the place. The blonde threw him a pout, and the brunette seemed disappointed.

Sunny looked as if she’d been sentenced to ten days in the county jail. He wasn’t happy about the match, either, but he couldn’t say he liked her reaction.

In the second category, which had to go better than the first, Mike started with the guys, asking their music preference on a first date. Frank the firefighter liked rhythm and blues. Kevin the longhair predictably talked about rock and said he sang with a band. Since Pete didn’t know the answer Meggy had given for him, he gave his honest preference: country.

Sunny’s answer, “All types of music,” made him nervous until Cheryl answered, “Rock.” That, of course, was a perfect match with Kevin the longhair, and Pete breathed easier.

For the next category, “TV Preference on a First Date,” Mike started with Sunny. “I understand you’re a teacher and the girls’ basketball coach at San Josita High?”