“What did you think?” he asked Rebecca the moment they were alone.
She shrugged. “They were nice.”
“Nice?” He looked at her as though she’d grown a second head. “Those places were freaking amazing. I mean, did you see the closet in that last one? It was bigger than my first apartment.” Granted that was in college, but still.
She mustered a fraction of the enthusiasm he’d been expecting. “Do you need one that big?”
“It’s not about needing it, Rebecca. It’s about being able to afford it.”
“If you say so.” She started walking toward the car, but Brody was not to be deterred.
He caught up with her in two long strides. “And what about the room service? Pretty sweet, huh? I’d be like that girl in the movie.” He snapped his fingers until it came to him. “Eleanor at the Waldorf Astoria.”
Rebecca finally cracked the smile he’d been waiting for. “It was Eloise, you dope,” she teased. “And she lived at the Plaza.”
“Same difference.”
She stopped walking and turned to face him. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes, I know that those are two different hotels,” he joked.
“No, that’s not what I wanted to know.” She shielded her eyes from the sun as she squinted up at the building they’d just toured. “Why were all the places the same?”
“They weren’t,” he said. “One was on the water, another was at the park, and that first one—”
“Was on the river. I know.” She smiled. “I was there, remember?”
Brody frowned.
“I meant, why were they all modern bachelor pads?”
“Because that’s what I am.” He laughed. “Haven’t you seen the commercial for the show?”
Rebecca ignored his attempt at a little levity and forged ahead.
“Don’t you want some place that reflects the real you?”
Now she really had him stumped. He waited until they were both in the car to ask what she meant. But instead of an explanation, all she offered was another question.
“What was your home like growing up?”
He started talking as he drove, describing his life on their ranch back in Oklahoma, painting a picture of everything, from the acres of rolling pastures to the weathered red barn to Touchdown, the trail horse he’d had as a kid. “I always said if I made it big, I’d have a place just like that.” He started describing the ranch of his childhood dreams. It was a good five minutes before he realized Rebecca hadn’t said a word. He stole a glance at her. A smug grin had curved her lips.
“What?”
“I think you just described the home you should be looking for.”
For a moment, Brody didn’t know what to say. Rebecca had just peeked inside his head, and he never even saw it coming. “You’re a sneaky one, you know that?”
Her grin gave way to a wide smile. “Just led you to the path you wanted all along.”
“One problem,” he said as he rolled to a stop in front of her building.
“What’s that?”
He gestured out the window. “I don’t really see any ranches around here.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” was all she said. And then she was gone.
Brody watched her—reaching for the flyer someone had stuck between the railings, fumbling with the keys to the building’s glass front door, bending to squint into the metal mailboxes that lined the entryway. All totally mundane activities he usually would have considered about as exciting as watching paint dry. But there was something about the way Rebecca moved that held his attention no matter what she was doing.
She disappeared up the stairs. Show’s over. He should have felt like a creeper for watching her like that, but he couldn’t help it. In fact, as he pulled out into traffic, all he felt was sorry that their day together had come to an end.
A call rang on the car’s Bluetooth system, and a flicker of something hot flashed through his chest. But when he looked at the dashboard, all he saw was a picture of Conor’s ass on the screen. Brody rolled his eyes even though he knew the little turd couldn’t see him. He really needed to stop leaving his phone unattended. At least he hadn’t reprogrammed the ringtone again.
Brody jabbed the phone icon on the steering wheel. “What’s up, asshole?” he asked, making sure to emphasize the word ass.
Conor laughed so hard, Brody had to turn the volume down. “Aw shit, forgot I even did that.”
“Probably because you’d had too much tequila.”
“It was whiskey that night. Variety is the spice of life, my friend.”
Brody groaned. “You are not my friend.” Truth was, Conor was not only his friend, but the only one he had in Chicago. At least the only one who wasn’t home hovering over a pregnant wife or off ruling a kingdom. That would change after training camp when his teammates became his family. But for now, he was stuck with this man child, something Brody was quick to point out, even though he knew darn well they’d probably be friends for life.
Conor knew it too, which was why he completely ignored Brody’s jab. “How would you feel about a hot fudge sundae?” he asked. Brody hadn’t even had dinner yet, but who was he to say no to ice cream? Wasn’t that one of the benefits of being an adult?
“What did you have in mind?”
Conor laughed. “Something along the lines of a redhead, a brunette, and a blonde with a whole lot of whipped cream.”
Jesus.
“The Diamond Club is having a special event tonight. What do you say?”
Normally, Brody would be up for a night at a strip club with the guys, even if there was only one guy and it was Conor. But not tonight.
“Sorry, man. I’m under house arrest, remember? If my bloodhound of a publicist gets even a whiff of that…” Brody sucked a breath through his teeth. “Let’s just say your family jewels might end up on a string around her neck.”
“Fuck me. She’s a little buzzkill, that one.”
Brody agreed, knowing full well Marguerite wasn’t the only reason he’d turned down the offer.
“Golf this weekend?”
“Shooting for the show starts this weekend, so I’ll have to let you know after I get the schedule.” Shit, he hadn’t even mentioned that to Rebecca. Then again, did he need to? They weren’t dating. Hell, for all he knew, she wasn’t planning to see him for more of their “lessons” until next week anyway. A stab of disappointment hit him in the gut, and after ending the call with Conor, he jabbed the touchscreen until he saw her name in his contacts.
He was about to roll into voice mail when she finally answered. “Did I forget something in the car?”
Yeah, me, he thought. “I was just thinking…”
“Uh oh. That sounds dangerous.”
Jesus, this girl. Always busting his ass, and yet there he was coming back for more.
“I was just thinking that as far as dates go, I sort of dropped the ball.”
“A date?” He wished like hell he could see her face because her voice gave no indication as to how she felt about that word. It was unsettling. Then again, he was supposed to be keeping her in the friend zone, something he was having a hard time remembering.
Either way, it was time to cover his ass. “I mean, wasn’t that what you said, that I needed to learn how to date?”
“That you needed to learn how to date well,” she corrected.
“Well, I fumbled on the first down.”
“By taking me house hunting?” He could hear the smile in her voice.
“I think we can call that even since you took me to work.” He chuckled. “I was more thinking about the fact that I took you out today and didn’t feed you. Seems like that’s Dating 101.”
“Not all dates have to include food.” He heard the rattling of what sounded like bottles on a refrigerator door. “But seeing as how my fridge contains the ingredients to make either an omelet or a very questionable smoothie, who am I to object?”
“Great. Let me grab a shower, and I’ll head back over to pick you up.”
“You could shower here,” she said.
He stilled.
“I mean, if you wanted to. It would save the time spent in traffic.” Now who was covering their ass? “Unless, of course, you wanted to spend more time driving the loaner car.” Her nervousness was downright adorable.
“I was more thinking I wanted to change into nicer clothes.”
“What you’re wearing is fine for the place I have in mind.”
“Who said you get to pick?”
“Seems only fair since you struck out.”
He really needed to do something about her sports metaphors. “Always the planner, aren’t you?”
“Guilty as charged.” Even over the phone, he knew her cheeks had blushed the most beautiful shade of pink. “So, what do you think?”
No need to think. He was already hanging a U-turn. “I’m on my way.”
Chapter Thirteen
Brody knew chicks used more products than guys did—well, except maybe for Tom Brady—but nothing could have prepared him for Rebecca’s bathroom. The whole place was full of lotions and candles and tiny soaps. There was a tray on the counter, a few items on a glass shelf above the toilet, and even a wicker basket on the floor. It was like he’d wandered into that store at the mall, the one where the lady was always trying to spritz customers with some fruity-smelling crap as they walked by.
And if the fact that he was going to smell like mangoes for the rest of the night wasn’t bad enough, he could barely fit his whole body under the tiny shower head. Still, there was no place he’d rather be.
Brody reached for a bottle that appeared to be lacking fruit on the label and flipped it open. The vanilla scent took him straight back to the night of their infamous poker game. It was how Rebecca smelled when he’d lifted her up and set her on the kitchen counter. What he wouldn’t give to do that again. Or even better, to have her in the shower with him.
He nearly groaned aloud as he let himself imagine the two of them under the pulsing spray of water, their hands and lips greedy for every inch of slick skin. He’d want to take it slow but knew damn well he wouldn’t be able to. His hands would grip her waist, lifting her so that her back was pressed against the cool tile wall. She’d wrap her legs around his torso, and her hands would find their way into his hair. He could picture the way her head would roll back against the tile, how her eyes would drift shut, and how she’d moan his name as her entire body began to quake.
“Brody…”
Yeah, just like that.
Then he heard the knock.
Rebecca said his name again. Only this time, it wasn’t the thready cry of a woman in the throes of an orgasm, but rather one trying to get his attention from the other side of the bathroom door.
“Yeah?” he said. His voice sounded like gravel.
“Just remembered there aren’t any towels. I’ll leave one outside the door.”
“Thanks.” The shot of reality had him wrapping up the shower. Just as well, because after his dick screamed at him, his stomach did. Seemed like he was always hungry, but especially so tonight. Who knew house hunting worked up such an appetite? Lucky for him, the restaurant Rebecca chose wasn’t one of those pretentious joints with tiny portions served alongside some sort of edible flower. No, the place she picked was a traditional Italian restaurant, the kind with candles dripping down empty Chianti bottles onto red-and-white-checked tablecloths.
Most girls Brody knew ate like rabbits, nibbling on lettuce or some celery. If they were feeling a bit wild, maybe they had a bit of hummus. But not Rebecca. She ate like a horse. He had no idea where she managed to put all of it, but she was definitely enjoying it. So much so that she was halfway through her fettuccine Alfredo before she even bothered to pepper him with questions.
“When does filming start?” she asked. Brody was actually relieved she’d been the one to bring it up since it settled the internal debate he’d been having in the car.
“Next week.” He reached for the platter in the middle of the table and rolled a third meatball onto his plate.
Rebecca paused with a forkful of pasta in midair. “So soon?”
Brody nodded. “We shot publicity stills yesterday.” A crew from American Sweetheart had come by the day before to take a few pictures of Brody in front of some of the city’s most iconic backdrops. He’d felt like a first-class tool standing in the middle of Grant Park wearing a tuxedo while holding a bouquet of roses and a football, but they assured him it would play well against the rural montage featuring the various contestants.
A small crease formed between her brows. “Guess I didn’t realize it was already time.”
“We should probably start meeting every day.” He had no idea what made him say that. The words just sort of came out.
“Every day?” she repeated.
“Yeah.” He leaned back in his chair and after wiping his face, placed his napkin back on his lap. “I mean, for me at least, I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Safe to say, I fumbled on the first down.”
“What?”
He chuckled. “It means I blew it.”
“I know what it means.” She rolled her eyes. “But how?”
“I took you house hunting.”
Her cheeks turned pink. “After I took you to work.”
He lifted his glass of red wine and waited for her to join him in a small toast. “Here’s to both doing a little better.”
Admittedly, Rebecca Halstead knew nothing about Hollywood. Maybe a thing or two about the stars of the black-and-white movies her mother used to watch late at night, or a tidbit she might have learned from one of the Biography Channel shows she sometimes caught at the gym. But nothing about what actually went on behind the scenes. And while she wasn’t sure what to expect when Brody began taping scenes for American Sweetheart, one fact definitely surprised her—there was nothing real about reality television.
For starters, the intimate dates they showed viewers were actually large group outings. Sure, she’d expected a camera, but she’d always assumed they were more of the hidden variety. Tiny, strategically placed cameras to allow the millions of voyeurs watching from their living rooms a peek into the oblivious couple’s date. Not an actual cameraman getting right up in their personal space. Or someone who popped in and out of the frame with a little machine that checked the light. Or a woman who stuck a clapperboard in front of the camera before every take. There was even a guy whose entire job was to hold a microphone on a giant stick, bobbing it up and down over their heads while they gazed adoringly into each other’s eyes. But the crew member she really didn’t expect was the script supervisor. Turned out that while shows like Sweetheart were classified as “reality” as opposed to “scripted” television, not much about the interactions was genuine. Scenes were planned ahead of time for optimal impact; scenery was staged; shots were filmed, rearranged, and shot again; even the dialogue, while not dictated word for word, was outlined with suggested talking points. And if everything wasn’t perfect—if the director didn’t like the shadow of a tree, the producer didn’t like the expression on someone’s face, or as was often the case, a passing car honked or a fan hooted—then the scene was shot again.
Take after take after take.
When Brody had first invited Rebecca to watch the filming, she’d hesitated. Knowing Brody was going to be wooing other women was one thing, actually watching him do it was another. But Brody had argued it was all part of their deal, pointing out that having her there for encouragement was essential to her plan to have him look “less Neanderthal and more Prince Charming.” She’d laughed and told him she didn’t recommend challenging Hank for that title as Americans were already quite taken with him, but Brody was undeterred. He fought dirty, appealing to her inner nerd by telling her he needed her to take notes during the shoots, which she could compile into binders for them to review. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he’d even use
d the puppy dog eyes she’d made the mistake of pointing out one day. Which was why in the end, Rebecca found herself tagging along more like a twelfth wheel than a third on romantic outings all over the city.
According to Brody, the network had agreed to film all of the on-location “dates” before he left for training camp. The show was set to premiere as a live event the night before his first game. After that, there would be live dinner dates with a different girl every Monday night, each featuring the footage he shot with her over the summer. Of course, there would also be plenty of behind the scenes footage of the contestants, gossiping, arguing and backstabbing, much to the audiences’ delight, but Brody would be kept out of that fray. He never even had to eliminate anyone. All he had to do was crown his “homecoming queen” during the show’s live finale. And spend part of his summer going on “spontaneous,” romantic outings with whichever potential Sweetheart was up next in the batting order. Crap, wrong sport, she thought, but the result was the same. Brody had a bevy of beauties to woo.
Carriage rides down Michigan Avenue, strolls through the botanical gardens, fireworks at Navy Pier, and a candlelight cruise on the Chicago River were just a few of the locations the show’s producers chose. And they didn’t let state lines hold them back either. There was a day spent strolling the streets of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, while Brody feigned interest in antique dolls—she teased him about that one for a solid week!—and a day at Indiana Dunes State Park where someone had the not so genius idea of the pair of the day hiking the 3 Dune Challenge when it was ninety-six degrees. Brody had weathered it just fine thanks to the two-a-day summer practices he’d endured for most of his life, but the contestant of the day was another story. Shrieks and cries paired with lines like “my makeup is melting” and “the sand is burning my feet” until the director finally called it a wrap.
Rebecca’s favorite day had been the one spent at Lincoln Park. The producers had decided it would be a great idea for Brody to take a very bouncy blonde on a boat ride around the park’s pond. It had all started out fine—the two of them drifting through the reservoir in an enormous swan boat—but ended with a splash thanks to a bee with an affinity for the smell of hair spray.
Save the Date (Wild Wedding Series Book 3) Page 14
