The Cinderella Makeover

by Hope Tarr

  She reached out and gave his chest a shove, her hand meeting with nicely firmed pectorals limned in a crisp dusting of dark hair, at least so far as she could see through his T-shirt, which was plain white and slogan-free, one of several she’d selected from her latest drive-by to Rodeo Drive.

  Grinning, he made a pretense of staggering back, though she’d touched him but lightly. “It’s too early for a lot of things, including pumping iron, but we’re doing that too.”

  She commiserated with a nod. “Small wonder I look a wreck.”

  She’d made the comment matter-of-factly—the view in her fluorescent-lit vanity mirror that morning had been nothing short of scary—but the snort he let out suggested he might think her to be fishing.

  “I have eyes, okay, and whether I’m wearing glasses or contacts, they work pretty well. No matter how sleep-deprived you are, you’re still certifiably hot, drop-dead gorgeous, a near-perfect ten. Please don’t act like any of that is news to you.”

  Uh-oh, he did think she was fishing. Seizing on humor to climb out of the hole she’d made, she shot back with, “A near-perfect ten, is it?’

  Turning to her, he took her by the shoulders, hauling her in, her breasts bare inches from brushing against his chest. All right—this was definitely not the Greg she knew. “Well, there is the matter of that freckle on your bottom lip.”

  “That’s a beauty mark,” she said, her breath catching. “Ordinarily I wear dark lipstick to cover it.”

  “It’s a freckle,” he growled, looking fierce, primal, as though he were thinking about licking it. “And covering it up is a definite mistake.”

  So he was giving her style advice? That would be ironic, funny even, if she weren’t so bloody turned on.

  “And you have a tiny little mole at the side of your neck just…here.” He reached up, skimming the spot with the tips of his fingers. “It only shows when you wear your hair up like you’re doing now.”

  She shivered again, and not because of the stiff breeze. “Good thing I’m behind the camera and not in front of it,” she quipped, hoping to cover how flustered she was feeling.

  Turning serious, he dropped his arms to his sides and stepped back. “There’s a lot to like about you, Francesca, a lot more than just the way you look. The right man won’t care whether you have spaghetti sauce on your shirt or spinach on your front teeth—or powdered sugar below your lip.”

  Not sure how to interpret that last bit, she rushed in to fill the awkward gap. “I have a rule against eating spinach in public,” she said, not entirely joking. “But I adore red wine,” she volunteered, aware she was blathering. “A top-shelf pinot noir is well worth the stained teeth.” Dear Lord, in another minute she’d be telling him what music she fancied.

  “So you’re a wine snob? Why does this not surprise me?”

  He followed the remark with a crooked grin. Though she’d seen that same smile dozens, perhaps hundreds of times before, suddenly Francesca felt as if it pulled on every string of her heart.

  She licked her sugary lips. “I’m not. I just know…what I like.”

  “Me, too.” His clear blue eyes staring into hers put the very sea to shame.

  They resumed walking, and suddenly she found herself asking, “May I ask you a question, a personal question?”

  He nodded. “Sure, shoot.”

  “Why does settling down with someone, finding your soul mate as you say, mean so much to you?”

  He shrugged. “Finding your soul mate, pledging your fidelity and heart to that person, is what life’s all about, or at least it’s always seemed that way to me. Money, status, power even, don’t amount to much without someone to share them with. Believe me, I know.”

  Matching her steps to his, she shook her head. “You really are a hopeless romantic, aren’t you?”

  He didn’t deny it. Instead he turned his head to her and asked, “What about you, Francesca? What does happily ever after look like for you—or maybe you’re already living it?”

  She let out a laugh. “Hardly.” Recalling her scotch-soaked Valentine’s tête-à-tête with Starr, she admitted, “The truth is I don’t believe in happily ever after, or in soul mates, not anymore.” Though she’d brought the vintage red shoes with her, she’d yet to take them out of the garment box.

  One dark brow lifted. “Are you sure about that?”

  She hesitated. “They may not be inventoried on a spreadsheet, but I’ve amassed quite a rogues’ gallery of Mr. Right Nows and Mr. Flat-Out Wrongs. The most recent inductee into the Francesca St. James Hall of Infamy is Freddie.” She stopped herself there, wondering if she hadn’t said too much.

  “Freddie?” he asked, screwing up his face.

  She nodded, already regretting having started down this path. “A sous chef I met at a black-tie fund-raiser in Manhattan. He was with the catering company. I was attending as a guest but only because I’d donated a photo session as a silent auction item. He won it, and later admitted that he couldn’t pay, that he’d only written down his name as an excuse to meet me. At the time I found that enormously flattering.”

  “And now?”

  She gave the thumbs-down sign. “Now I see it as a portent of things to come, namely of not living up to his responsibilities—or his word. We managed to stick it out for a full year which, since my divorce, is a personal record.”

  “What happened?”

  She took a moment to frame her thoughts. “He wanted a playmate, I wanted a partner. And I have a child. She comes first—or at least that’s how it’s supposed to be. Freddie never understood that. He felt threatened by Sam, I think.”

  “Sam?”

  “Samantha, but her father nicknamed her Sam, and it stuck. She and Freddie rubbed along well enough at first. Being a bit of a kid himself, he shared some of the same pop culture preferences. Only the longer we were together, the more torn I felt. Keeping my lover content invariably involved giving my daughter less and less of me. And then something…happened, and I had to face reality. I couldn’t manage both. If I stayed in the relationship, I’d never come close to being the sort of mother my daughter, any child, deserves.”

  “So you broke up with him?”

  She nodded. “After weeks of agonizing, I finally asked him to move out—and he found someone new in ten bloody days.”

  She decided against revealing that “someone” was Deidre, and not only in light of the devil’s bargain they’d struck. Biasing Greg against one of his coaches, even one who had a strong stake in his losing, wouldn’t be professional—or fair to him. It would also create tension on set, which would benefit no one.

  “Sounds like you made the right call.”

  “I did—only I made it a year too late.”

  He frowned. “Why do you say that? Sam’s okay, isn’t she?” Bless him, though he’d never met Sam and never would, he sounded genuinely concerned.

  She hesitated, all her ghastly mistakes crowding her conscience. “She is now. By her choice, Sam lives full-time with her father and stepmother in DC.”

  “You must miss her a lot.”

  Thinking of the previous night’s failed phone call, she felt her throat tightening. “I do.”

  “And this Freddie guy, do you miss him?” he asked, again with the face.

  She missed his late night chanterelle-and-goat-cheese omelets, the sinfully savory pleasure of lying abed gorging on his foie-gras-infused fries, but that wasn’t the same as missing Freddie from her life, not really.

  She let out a long breath. “I miss being with someone, the benefits of being coupled, but that’s not nearly the same thing as missing a specific person.”

  Was it only her fancy or did he look relieved? “I can’t imagine anyone walking away from you, not in ten days, not at all.”

  The knotting in her throat worsened. “Walking away from me is apparently bloody easy. And not all that many men are keen to help raise someone else’s child.”

  “Any man worthy of you would stay and
fight for you, fight for the privilege of being a family with you and your daughter.”

  Taken aback by his fierceness, she managed a wobbly smile. “It’s a nice fairy tale, but I’m not at all certain that reality bears up.”

  “Sometimes it does. My parents were married for thirty-five years—happily.”

  “Were?”

  He hesitated, swallowing slowly and visibly. “My mom passed away six years ago.”

  Francesca felt her eyes filling. “Greg, I’m so sorry.”

  He rolled his shoulders. “Losing someone you love that much sucks, but she was a great lady and we were lucky to have her for as long as we did. Seeing how much she and my dad loved each other right up to the end set the bar pretty high. I’m here on Project Cinderella because I want to be with my soul mate, Francesca. I’m not really interested in settling for less.”

  Wishing she had his strength of character, his unflappable belief in the surety of soul mates and the possibility of happily ever after, she shifted away, looking out to the waves in lieu of his eyes. “I truly hope you find her.”

  The alarm she’d set on her cell phone going off was a welcome distraction. She pulled it from the sports holster at her waist. A tap on the screen confirmed it was seven.

  She turned back, looking past him to the sea. “You’re due at the Gold’s Gym in an hour and traffic will be beastly by then. You should go. If you’re late, Madonna’s trainer will have your guts for garters.”

  …

  Don’t go wasting your emotion. Lay all your love on me.

  The lyric kept running through Greg’s head, and not only because the ABBA song was currently topping his iPhone’s playlist. He’d wanted to say those exact words to Francesca at the beach earlier. Unfortunately she didn’t seem ready or willing to hear them. He was pretty sure that pushing any harder would scare her off, maybe for good.

  Lying back on the vinyl-covered weight bench, sweating through his second set, he barely noticed the production squad ranged around him. The cordless microphone was concealed inside his T-shirt. A and B cameras honed in from either side of the workout room. Just beyond the sight line, a production assistant held a shiny bounce card beside his head. To a person, the ten people in the room, including the celebrity trainer, were focused on him.

  And yet all he could think about, focus on, was Francesca.

  Hearing about the romantic roller coaster she’d spent the last decade riding had ripped away at his heart. It had also mystified him. Witty and brilliant, sought-after and talented, blindingly beautiful, Francesca should have been a shoo-in for finding true love. If she couldn’t find it, who could?

  Only people did find it—and hold on to it, too—people with a lot less going for them than his internationally famous fairy god-mentor. People like his mom and dad; his older sister, Sarah, and her husband of ten years, Rick; and a host of happily married employees and friends, all of whom went about their mostly unremarkable lives simply loving each other and being, for the most part, happy.

  Before meeting Francesca he’d always assumed beautiful people must be wildly happy. Getting to know her over the past month, he now knew that wasn’t necessarily true. That he’d been so quick to judge her, so sure that she couldn’t be both nice and hot, said a lot more about him than it did her. Thinking back to their first meeting and the grief he’d given her, he felt regretful and ashamed.

  Spotting him, the trainer said, “Whoa, Greg, my man, you are on fire today, but don’t forget to breathe. In and out, slow and steady wins the race.”

  “Not when the race is only three weeks away,” Greg muttered.

  “What’s that?” the trainer asked.

  Greg glanced up as the guy shouldering camera A zoomed in. Considering how the story producers could twist even the most straightforward sentiments into Franken-bytes, he declined to answer. Instead, he jerked his chin toward the weight rack and asked, “Remind me again what I’m lifting?”

  “Ninety-five pounds,” the trainer confirmed.

  “Ninety-five, huh?”

  Was Francesca his soul mate? It was too soon to say—but she was definitely worth him taking the time and making the effort to find out. That meant dropping the frog suit and going full-throttle prince.

  “Add on another thirty,” he said.

  The trainer’s brows lifted. “You sure, man? That’s a big leap.”

  It was a big leap—of faith. “Yeah, I’m sure. Load me up.”

  …

  Nestled in a quaint queue of shops on Westwood’s Glendon Avenue, Espresso Profeta was far enough removed from the UCLA fray and yet still near to the contestant bungalows where they’d just wrapped the latest location filming. Its proximity made it a perfect spot for Francesca’s late-afternoon meet-up with Franc. Her fellow fairy god-mentor had suggested they settle at one of the sidewalk café tables in the front. Francesca thought the walled garden in the back would have been nicer, certainly more private, but as Franc had been the one to issue the invitation, she was disinclined to fuss.

  “One English breakfast tea with lemon,” he said, sliding the white porcelain cup toward her across the wire-mesh tabletop.

  “Brilliant, thanks.” Francesca pushed her iPad to the side to make room. She surveyed the cup, mammoth despite being the “medium,” and shook her head. “No matter how long I live in this country, I shall never become accustomed to American portions.”

  Slipping into the red folding chair opposite her, Franc hesitated. “Supersizing isn’t only for fast food restaurants anymore, it’s true,” he agreed, though she sensed he didn’t view it as a problem. He popped the plastic lid on his paper cup, releasing a sugary aroma into the air.

  “Coffee drinker?” Francesca remarked, peering into the froth.

  He hesitated, and then admitted, “On occasion. This is the White Velvet—a white chocolate latte. Someone ahead of me ordered it, and I couldn’t resist.”

  “It sounds deservedly decadent,” she said with a smile, using her spoon to wring out the teabag. Were loose leaves an utter impossibility in this coffee-cult country?

  But it wasn’t drinking bag tea that was to blame for her being in a mood. She’d been out of sorts since she’d parted ways with Greg on the boardwalk the previous morning. They hadn’t had a private moment since, largely because she’d been avoiding him. She hadn’t meant to wound his pride or his feelings, and yet he hadn’t left her with much of a choice. Given their circumstances, their positions on the show and the wager she had with Deidre, not to mention that they were utter opposites and living a country’s breadth apart, his flirting had needed to be nipped in the bud—hadn’t it?

  “You seem pensive,” Franc remarked. “Is everything all right?”

  She fiddled with the tag of her discarded tea bag. “Working out the logistics of taking my daughter on summer holiday is proving on par with overtaking a small nation-state.” That was true, of course, but no longer the full story.

  “Hmm, well, you’ll get it all sorted soon,” he consoled, slurping more of the coffee concoction from his takeaway cup. At times such as this, it was difficult to believe he was British.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she murmured, though she wasn’t at all. When she’d finally gotten Sam on the phone, instead of excitement, she’d heard a great lot of hemming and hawing about needing to wait and see what her friends and “other” family were planning.

  It seemed she was well on her way to becoming that mother, indeed.

  High-volume voices from the vicinity of the street diverted her attention away from the article. A shriek of laughter further pierced the peace. Curious as to who might raise such a ruckus given the early hour, she peered beyond Franc’s shoulder—and spotted Greg strolling the sidewalk, a female contestant bracketing his either side. Judging from the ear-to-ear grin wreathing his face, any hurt feelings from the other day had been speedily gotten through.

  Shopping bags dangled from everyone’s arms. An unmistakable bright-pink bag hung
from Brittany’s wrist. Victoria’s Secret?

  Any hope she’d had that they might be passed by died in the wake of Kimberly’s wild whooping. Bollocks!

  The trio, led by Greg, sidled up to their table. He glanced over to Franc’s cup. “The White Velvet, huh?”

  “It is,” Franc admitted.

  “Excellent choice. It’s my standby.”

  “You come here often?” Francesca asked, wondering when he’d found the time—and with whom.

  He looked between Brittany and Kimberly, still stuck to his sides like carbuncles clinging to a ship. “The girls and I hang out here every chance we get.”

  “Here and the bar down the block,” Kimberly interjected, cozying closer. Now that she’d lost the spiral perm and the glitter eye shadow, she had rather pretty features.

  “Doing a spot of shopping, I see,” Francesca said, eyeing their bags, the pink one particularly.

  “Greg’s so generous,” Brittany trilled, sending him a simpering smile. “He bought me the cutest sleep shirt from Vicki’s Secret,” she added, proudly proffering the bag.

  Like Greg, she’d done with shrouding herself in shapeless clothing. Her scoop-neck tee revealed a respectable rack as well as a waist that was visibly winnowing.

  “And he got me this awesome leather thong,” Kimberly interjected, pulling the panties from her jacket pocket.

  Oh. My. God. Gaze freezing on the wisp of animal hide festooned with metal spikes, Francesca fought for speech. Despite her years in fashion, she’d never fathomed that studs could be sewn quite…there. “I, er, wasn’t aware Victoria’s Secret sold uh…leather wear.”

  Kimberly leaned in closer. “They don’t. We got this from the other store.”

  Franc chimed in. “Join us, won’t you?” Francesca shot him a pleading look and a silent “no,” but he didn’t seem to see. “We can push two tables together and make room.”

  Greg’s gaze landed fleetingly on her face. “Thanks, but there’re a couple of thirties-era movie theaters in the neighborhood I want to check out. One of them, the Bruin, may be instituting a special monthly salute to the silver screen.”