Who Wants To Marry a Heartthrob?

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 But with Chuck saying it as if mouthwash were a life-or-death decision, she thought it superceded dramatic and launched directly into the melodramatic.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 to open that stupid invitation, get that red card. It’s going to be horrible. But listen, I talked to Buzz and I specifically told him to keep you off camera as much as possible. It will be like the Oscars. As soon as he sees red, he’ll move the camera off you.”

It was stupid and not like her at all, but she actually felt tears welling up in her eyes. His lack of faith in her, well, womanhood, was crushing. Despite the makeup, despite taking off her glasses and despite her attempt at eye fluttering, he didn’t even consider the possibility that Brock might pick her. All he saw was a failure.

“I’m really sorry, Bridge.”

“Me, too,” she mumbled trying to contain an odd feeling of loss, as though she’d had something within her reach, but now it was fading from sight. Forcefully, she stopped the tears. The last thing she needed to do was actually cry and ruin Raquel’s artfully applied mascara.

“And if it means anything, I would have picked you.”

She lifted her face and met his hazel-green gaze. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

He cupped her face in his hands and leaned down to give her a quick kiss on the nose. “Look into my eyes.”

“You’re not going to hypnotize me, are you?”

“No,” he chuckled. “You know when I’m telling the truth. And you know when I’m lying, right?”

She did. She knew everything about him. His favorite foods, his weird allergy to all things sesame and his preference for tea over coffee. She also knew that often when he was in the middle of an important meeting, he was really zoned out creating cartoon characters in his head. Everything.

“Right.”

“I’m not lying now. I would pick you. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. And by the way, nice job getting rid of that booger.”

“It wasn’t a booger,” she hissed. “It was a piece of lint.”

“Whatever. The point is, you’re the only woman here I would want to get to know better.”

“Really?”

“I would want to know why you wear your hair all back in a bun like that. And I would want to know why you’re dressed all in black, and I would want to know why you keep squinting at the camera.”

“Because you made me take off my glasses, and I can’t see very far,” she reminded him.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t know that if I had just met you. Brock’s a fool. Here he’s got the most amazing woman right in front of him, and he doesn’t know it.”

A reply sprang to her lips, but before Bridget could open her mouth, Buzz interrupted her.

“Yo, chicks! Places.”

“Apparently Buzz doesn’t understand the basics of political correctness,” Richard murmured, turning his attention to the fact that they were about to start broadcasting again. “Go sit down, open your silly invitation and I’ll take you out for ice cream afterward.”

“Your treat,” she insisted. “And I’m ordering extra fudge.”

He smiled, bent down to kiss her cheek and headed back to the foyer where the monitor was.

Bridget sat down in the chair that Buzz had picked out for her and girded herself against the rejection that was to come. She smiled at Raquel who gave her a thumbs-up sign, and Bridget mimicked the gesture.

Chuck came back into the room with the fifteen envelopes in his hand. He waited until the cameramen were in place around the room and watched Buzz as he silently counted down to live with his fingers.

As soon as Buzz made a fist, the lights on the camera lit up, and so did Chuck’s smile. “Hello everybody, we’re back.” He turned to Brock who had come into the living room to stand next to him. “Brock, have you made your very difficult decision?”

“I have,” he nodded dramatically. He wrapped an arm around the host’s shoulders and shook him a bit. “And it was difficult. What man in his right mind could decide between all these lovely ladies? It was almost impossible.”

“I understand, Brock. But rest assured that each of the women not selected tonight will receive as a consolation gift a free year’s supply of Breathe Better Mouthwash. So you see, there is a light at the end of this particular tunnel.”

Brock smiled wistfully. “That does make me feel better.”

“Now to the moment we’ve been waiting for. I have in my hand fifteen invitations, ladies. Please wait until I’ve distributed them all, then when I give the word, go ahead and open them. Those with a green card will continue on, and those with a red card…Well, at least you’ll have fresh breath.”

Brock lifted his arm from around Chuck’s shoulders, and Chuck moved forward to present each of the invitations to the women. Some women tried to hold them up to the light to see the color of the card within it. Some blew kisses to Brock. Others tried to fan themselves with the invitation in an effort to calm their nerves.

Bridget dropped the invitation in her lap and tried to focus on the hot fudge sundae that she was going to order. She also was thinking that the idea of proving to Richard that there had to be some man out there…somewhere…who might find her desirable still had merit. Why it was important, she wasn’t quite willing to deal with, but that it was important couldn’t be denied.

First she would need to find someone who found her attractive enough to pursue her. Or pretend to pursue her.

Hey, that was an idea. Maybe she could hire an actor.

“Ladies, open your invitations,” Chuck announced.

Of course, she wouldn’t want an actor who looked like Brock. She would want someone more real looking. The type of man who Richard would believe she could attract. She wondered how much actors charged for a few hours of work.

“Wait, we’re missing one.”

If Richard and she did manage to steal Breathe Better Mouthwash from V.I.P. and Richard did open up his own ad agency, then no doubt times would be lean for a while until they got the business off the ground. She’d have to be frugal about this.

“I picked eight,” Brock said forcibly enough to jar Bridget out of her musings.

Realizing that she actually had forgotten she was on a television show, she glanced around the room to size up the situation. All of the women had their invitations open. Green and red cards abounded. That is, seven green cards and seven red cards. One card was missing.

Hers!

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot to open mine,” Bridget muttered a little sheepishly digging into her invitation. She pulled the card from the envelope and held it up for the camera to see. There. Green. Just as she expected…

“Green!” she gasped.

“Green!” Richard shouted from off camera.

“Green!” fourteen women screeched simultaneously, turning their heads in unison to see this purported green card.

“Green,” Brock confirmed. He turned to Chuck to explain. “She was always making funny faces at me. I like a woman who can make me laugh.”

“And there you have it, everyone. Our heartthrob has chosen. Tune in next week to see how this particular plot thickens. 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 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.

Jenna made it all seem so effortless.

“We’ll have to do it again sometime,” she purred, then chuckled. “That is, if Brock doesn’t pick me to be his wife.”

“Sure,” Richard concurred.

“Ladies. Until next week.” She turned and sauntered away and again Bridget couldn’t help but be impressed by how she managed to walk on those heels. It was something Bridget was going to have to practice. Right after she bought a pair of shoes with heels.

For effect however, she turned to glare at Richard. She wasn’t really angry with him, but there was no point in letting him off the hook that easy.

“What?” he asked in reference to her glare. “I was interviewing her.”

The glare continued.

“Hey, that’s not fair,” he replied to her silent accusation.

Her eyes only narrowed farther.

“Okay, maybe it is fair, but nothing happened. She’s trying to mess with you. Don’t let her get to you.”

“I don’t plan to,” Bridget assured him. “Now, I believe someone promised me ice cream.”

“That was for when you lost,” he said. “You won, which means you treat.”

Bridget scowled but figured that was only fair. “Want to come along, Raquel?”

“And do what?”

“Eat ice cream,” Bridget explained although she was pretty sure that had been obvious given the fact that they were going out for ice cream.

“Ice cream? You mean that stuff with all the fat and sugar and calories in it?”

“Yep, that about sums up ice cream.”

“I couldn’t possibly.”

But Bridget could see she was tempted. “When was the last time you had ice cream?”

“I don’t remember,” Raquel whispered as if she were committing some sin by even considering it.

“It’s really good.”

“I suppose, maybe, they have a low-fat variety?”

“Nope. Not this place. All fat and hot fudge.”

“And sprinkles,” Richard added.

“Sprinkles,” Raquel repeated as if she were saying diamonds instead.

“My treat.”

“Okay, but I want to state for the record that I agreed under stress,” Raquel proclaimed and marched off in search of her coat.

Richard considered that. “I think she meant duress.”

Bridget smiled. Her new friend might not be the brightest, but she was an artist, and Bridget was planning on putting her face, hair and body safely in this woman’s hands.