The Cinderella Makeover

by Hope Tarr

  She swallowed against the lump lodging in her throat. “Yes.”

  Expression easing, he stretched out a hand toward her, his softened gaze meeting hers once more. “In that case, let’s go rescue a lost dog.”

  Coming on twilight, they’d yet to find Bosco. After hours of fruitlessly driving the studio lot and its surrounds, they were about to give up for the night and go back to the hotel to put together a “lost dog” poster when a glance at the gas gauge confirmed they were almost out of petrol.

  They pulled into a station off Wilshire Boulevard, and Greg got out. She peered out the passenger-side window, watching him at the fuel pump. Once again, her gaze went to his hands. They were nice, large and yet graceful with tapered fingers and squared palms and just the right amount of dark hair dusting the tops. Recalling the press of them anchoring to her shoulders, she wondered what it might be like to have them touch other places as well.

  Bad Francesca, bad!

  In the background, a dog barked, not a proper bark but rather the sort of high-pitched yap that invariably came from scrappy little slips of dogs seeking to sound large. She leaned her head against the seatback, feeling weary and more than a bit blue. People ought not to allow their pets to run about loose. Even at this off hour, there was considerable traffic.

  She rolled her window the rest of the way down. “Our odds of our finding Bosco don’t look terribly good, do they?”

  Greg acknowledged her with a tired nod. “They sure don’t. I just checked in with Cindy by text. She hasn’t found him either.” If Greg’s ordinarily unflappable optimism was flagging, then poor Bosco must be a goner indeed.

  He finished fueling and slid his credit card back in his pocket. “I’m thirsty. Want something from the mini-mart?”

  “Water would be lovely, thanks.”

  He sent her a tired smile. “One bottle of H2O coming up.”

  He disappeared inside the convenience store. Watching him, it occurred to her that their Muscle Beach mornings were paying off. He was definitely putting on muscle—not that there’d ever been anything terribly wrong with his body in the first place.

  If only feelings were as susceptible to sculpting as were bodies. The sting of their earlier interchange wasn’t something she’d been able to entirely shake. Greg’s charge that she cared only for winning had cut her to the quick, but only because it had rung so very true. Until now, she hadn’t credited how very much his good opinion mattered. He might be a frog so far as Project Cinderella was concerned, but in the world beyond “reality” television, she was the one whose warts had shown through.

  The glass market door opened. Greg stuck out his head. “Francesca!”

  A dog’s scrappy bark obliterated the rest of his call. No, it can’t be…

  She opened the car door, alighting on weak legs. “Bosco?”

  Grinning, Greg waved her over. “Come and see for yourself.”

  She cut across the blacktop and hurried inside, where Greg motioned to the other side of the counter. Standing on her toes, she leaned over for a look.

  Bosco lay at the attendant’s feet munching a bone-shaped biscuit. An open box of Milk Bones sat atop the counter.

  “Bosco!” Francesca cried out, relief flooding her.

  The dog leaped up, shot around the counter, and made a beeline for Greg, of course, not that Francesca blamed him. Greg dropped to the tiled floor. “Hey, buddy, we thought we’d lost you for good,” he said, scratching behind one scruffy ear.

  The station attendant, whose uniform name badge proclaimed him to be Ken, came out from behind the counter and gave the terrier a pat. “Bosco—so that’s your name, huh boy?” He looked from Greg to Francesca. “You almost did lose him. He darted across a four-lane road and ran in front of a semi. A couple of inches and he wouldn’t be here, leastways not in one piece.”

  Francesca shuddered, her photographer’s brain assembling a horrifying visual of Bosco’s near miss. If left up to her, the poor little blighter might well have ended the day as dead as mutton.

  Guilty tears pricked her eyes. “Oh, Bosco, I’m so sorry.” Heedless of her clothes, she joined Greg on the floor, hugging Bosco to her and peppering his matted head with kisses.

  “I feel better knowing he has such a nice couple to go home with,” the attendant remarked.

  Over the dog’s head, Francesca and Greg exchanged embarrassed looks. “Actually Bosco isn’t ours,” Greg admitted.

  “He belongs to my assistant,” Francesca added. “She brought him to work today, only he stripped his collar and ran off. She’s out searching for him now as well.”

  She glanced at Greg, resisting the urge to reach for his hand. Fortunately he already had his phone out and was punching away with both thumbs, presumably messaging Cindy the good news.

  “I hope he hasn’t been any trouble,” she continued, looking up at the attendant. “We’ll gladly cover any costs you’ve incurred.” She stared at the open box of dog treats, an idea forming. “And I believe there’s also a…modest reward.”

  Greg’s head shot up. He sent her a questioning look, which she answered with a mute smile.

  There was, in point, no reward, but Francesca intended to remedy that. A few hundred dollars was the very least she could contribute, a pittance compared to the potential heartbreak that had been averted by Ken stepping in as a Good Samaritan.

  Catching on, Greg smiled back. “Yes, I believe you’re right.”

  Ken shook his head. “Thanks, but that’s okay. He’s been a good boy and good company. It gets lonely here nights. If it’s not too much trouble, though, maybe you could let me know how he’s doing from time to time.”

  Poor Ken. It seemed the world really was filled with lonely hearts—and a little shaggy slip of a dog could bring about a great deal of positive difference. Had she really been prepared to throw Bosco beneath the bus—or rather the semi—for the sake of a ruddy wager?

  She girded herself to deliver the letdown. “I don’t know as Bosco’s…mum would—”

  “Of course we can.” Greg stood, closed the distance between them, and handed over his card. “Bosco has his own community page on Facebook. His mom, Cindy, updates it pretty regularly. ‘Like’ it and you’ll be able to stay connected, see all his photos and status updates.”

  Ken brightened. “I’ll do it, thanks.” He took the card and suddenly his gaze sharpened. “Hey, by any chance are you one of the guys on that new reality TV show, Cinderella something or other? I read an article about it in Us magazine.”

  Greg flushed slightly. “Project Cinderella and yes, I am.” He crossed back to Francesca, offering her a hand up. “And this is Francesca St. James, one of the fairy… One of the coaches.”

  Ken shifted his gaze to Francesca. Standing and brushing the back of her dress, she considered what a fright she must look—and then decided that for once, this once, she didn’t bloody care.

  “Oh yeah, sure, I recognize you both now. Saw the article a few weeks ago.” He jerked an elbow toward Greg. “Reckon he’s got any kind of shot at winning?”

  Watching Greg stoop to fasten Bosco’s collar and leash, Francesca felt as if her heart were squeezing in upon itself. And that’s when it struck her. It wasn’t all about winning anymore, not even to give an old enemy and an inconstant lover their comeuppance. It was about winning for Greg. Summoning a wobbly smile, she nodded. “I don’t only think so; I know so. I’d wager my last pound on it.”

  …

  “Sorry I had to bail on the conference call,” Greg told Brian later that night from his room, face chatting on his iPhone with his gym-sore body propped against a bank of pillows.

  “We got your text to go on without you,” Brian confirmed. “Everything okay?”

  Greg nodded at the phone’s PDA. “Yeah, just, you know, sidelined with the show.”

  In a weird way, it had been a really good day. He and Francesca had reunited Bosco with a much-relieved Cindy, who swore he would be getting a microchip and a
new collar and leash the very next day. Afterward he’d dropped Francesca at her car parked on the studio lot, sticking around to make sure it started. The surprise hug she’d given him before they’d parted ways had confirmed that dragging her on a dog hunt had been the right thing to do.

  Despite the stress of the search, including a few truly nail-biting moments, it had been nice to spend time alone with her, time that didn’t have anything to do with Project Cinderella. Ken hadn’t been the only stranger they’d encountered in their search who’d assumed they were a couple. They’d both laughed off the idea as crazy, even going so far as to crack a few mutually deprecatory jokes. A tech guy and a fashion diva—talk about an odd couple. They’d kill each other in the first week. Huge as his San Jose house was, he probably didn’t have a closet big enough to fit all her clothes.

  And yet when he’d driven up to Cindy’s apartment, an exhausted Bosco passed out on the backseat and Francesca’s eyelids drifting closed, there’d been a flicker of a moment when Greg had imagined that they were more than frenemies or even friends. That maybe stepping outside of his fantasies and asking her out on a real date might not be such a crazy, out-of-the-box thing to do.

  “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” Brian said, his hurt-sounding voice bringing Greg back to the present. It struck him that other than a smattering of work-related e-mails and text messages, this was the first communication they’d had since he’d come out to LA.

  Shit. He let his head drop against the headboard. “I’m sorry I’ve been MIA, man. My contestant contract prohibits going on any social media sites while we’re filming—even my own.” Second to the “no fraternization between coaches and contestants” rule, the embargo against social media seriously sucked. “So, where are we with getting ready to launch at South By?”

  For the next few minutes, Brian filled him in on the meeting he’d missed. Version 1.0 of their photo share app was good to go. There’d been some last-minute bugs to address—that was always the case—but so far they were on schedule to unveil the app at South by Southwest. Held every spring in Austin, the conference with its associated festivals and sponsored parties was a premier forum for indie film, original music, and emerging technologies. It was a geek-fest for developers, especially those with start-ups.

  “You and the team are doing a great job,” Greg said after Brian had finished.

  “Thanks. By the way, what’s up with the hair? And your glasses, where’d they go?”

  Greg realized this was the first time Brian was seeing his emerging makeover. He reached up to flatten his slightly spiked hair, not wanting to seem too different. “They gave me a haircut and talked me into contacts, no big deal.”

  “Dude, you look like Tom Cruise except with different colored eyes.”

  “Thanks—I think. So what’s been going on with you?”

  Instead of an update on Brian’s stats in World of Warcraft or Halo, the kid blew him away with, “I’m seeing somebody.”

  Recovering, Greg said, “Wow, that’s…great.”

  Brian grinned. “Yeah, it kinda is. Her name’s Katie. We met at a mobile app meet-up group a couple of days after you left and really hit it off. We’ve been hanging out pretty much every night since. She’s a coder, totally cool, just graduated from UCLA and got a job here with a start-up—not ours, by the way.”

  “Sleeping with the enemy, huh?” Greg teased.

  “Maybe.” Although the picture resolution wasn’t all that great for face chatting, Greg would swear Brian blushed. “So how’s the soul-mate search going? Met any hot babes in Reality TV Landia?”

  Without warning, an image of Francesca’s face flashed into his head. The tired but radiant smile she’d sent him inside the mini-mart had made him feel like maybe happily ever after wasn’t as far away as it often felt.

  “Dude?”

  “Not really,” Greg finally said. “I’m just, you know, staying focused on the filming right now.”

  Francesca was certifiably hot as well as smart and kind and even funny when she let her guard down, which was happening more and more frequently. But even if they hadn’t lived on opposite sides of the country, even if she wasn’t a coach on the show and he a contestant, they were just too…different.

  “That’s too bad. But look, don’t give up. You’ll find your girl when you least expect it, probably when you’re not even looking, like I did with Katie. Oh, shit, I gotta go. She’s on her way over. I guess I’ll see you when you get back. Miss you, man.”

  “Yeah, same here, and congratulations again. Katie sounds great. I can’t wait to meet her.”

  Greg ended the call, his earlier euphoria fading. He was happy for Brian, he really was. It was just that he’d never imagined that the kid would be the first of them to find someone. Despite the cool haircut and the contacts and the emergence of discernible muscle groups, he was still sans soul mate, still alone.

  Wired, he scrolled through his playlist, coming back to his comfort music—ABBA. Listening to “Take a Chance on Me,” it struck him that maybe his approach to dating and relationships had been wrong all along.

  Instead of trying to get a woman to take a chance on him, maybe he was the one who needed to start taking chances—by showing America, and Francesca, exactly who he was.

  …

  Plucking at the coverlet covering her California king bed, Francesca shook her head. “No, I’m being a perfect ninny. Of course she’d have her phone turned off at the movie theater,” she said into her cell phone—her ex-husband, not Samantha, on the other end of the call. “I mean that’s what one’s supposed to do. When I called twice and she didn’t answer, I worried, it being a weeknight.”

  “Macie took her and a friend to see Les Miserables,” Ross explained. “They’re reading the book in Lit class.”

  “That’s nice,” Francesca said, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the mammoth mattress. She hadn’t known Sam was reading Victor Hugo, but then these days she didn’t know terribly much about what went on in her daughter’s life.

  “I’ll make sure she calls you first thing when she gets in,” Ross assured her.

  She hesitated. As much as she missed Sam, she refused to become that mother, the one who had her children dreading her calls and dodging them whenever possible. “No, don’t,” she finally said. “With the time difference, it’ll be late, and she has school in the morning. And I have an early set call.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite.” She summoned a brisk tone to cover for the catch in her voice. “I’ll…send her a text message in the morning, and we’ll work out a time to catch up later in the week.”

  “How’s it going out there?” Ross asked.

  She paused, thinking how best to frame her answer. Reality TV would be something of which her conservative ex would likely disapprove. Steering clear of specifics, she answered honestly, “Early mornings, late nights, lots of lag time between set calls. The money’s bloody good, though. In point, I was thinking I’d, uh…take this summer off.” She paused to gauge his reaction.

  “That’d be different,” he said drily, a not-so-vague allusion to her workaholism—former workaholism.

  “Yes, well, I was thinking perhaps I might have Sam for…well, for as long as she’ll have me.”

  Ross hesitated. “You talked to her about this?”

  She’d hoped to do so that night as well as on several previous occasions. Between having to put her phone on airplane mode while filming, the crazy on-call hours, and Sam’s school and social calendar, which since the DC move seemed to have become as packed as a A-list celebrity’s, they hadn’t connected beyond text messages and a few brief phone calls in passing. Meanwhile, Sam’s promises that they’d catch up soon continued mounting. Francesca had begun to wonder if perhaps she wasn’t that mother already.

  “No, not yet,” she admitted. “We keep missing each other and well, I don’t want to push.”

  “Sometimes kids need a push. And you�
��re not some stranger, you’re her mother. Talk to her and let me know what she says. Other than a beach week here and there, we don’t have any big family vacations planned. Whatever you two decide, we’ll work it out, okay?”

  “All right, I shall.” Tears slipping down her cheeks, Francesca nodded although there was no one to see. “Ross?”

  “Yes, Frannie?”

  “Thank you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Behind the scenes, Francesca ramped up their coaching sessions, grooming Greg for the final push. Instead of meeting every other morning, they now met daily. The fashion and photography segments, episode seven, were coming on fast. Once filming began, there would be no do-over. She was resolved that he would be spot-on.

  The last thing she’d expected was to learn from her protégé, but she found herself doing precisely that. According to Greg, she needn’t always be on point. “Lighten up” was his frequent invocation. Eating a doughnut at the end of their morning meet-ups wasn’t going to murder anyone. Sharing their takeaway breakfast while walking along the Venice boardwalk had fast become her favorite part of the day.

  Sucking powdered sugar from her thumb one morning, she said, “My family fancied Brighton for seaside holidays. We’d drive down from London on weekends.”

  “That sounds nice. Living in San Jose, my closest beach is Santa Cruz. Hold on, you have a…” Stopping, Greg reached over and swiped the pad of his thumb just below her bottom lip, the light grazing shooting a shiver through her.

  At the same time, the intimacy of the gesture sounded an inner alarm. What had gotten into him? It wasn’t like Greg to be so forward. Then again, if she were truthful with herself, she’d admit she rather liked it.

  “Thanks,” she said, dabbing at her tingling mouth. “I seem to always be wearing food when I’m with you. I must look a fright.”

  “Yeah, you do. You’re seriously hideous.” He rolled his eyes.

  Teasing her—now that was like him. “It’s too early for sarcasm.”