Marrying Mister Perfect (28 page)

“The Grand Gesture?”

“You know, something over-the-top romantic.
Something that screams I Love You, since you can’t say it. But in a
way that’s uniquely about the two of you. There’s nothing worse
than a generic Grand Gesture.” Marcy glanced at one of the
producers hovering nervously in the background and grinned
wickedly. “This show is all about Grand Gestures. Do you think you
can use that to your advantage?”

“I don’t know. Right now I’m not sure I could
get her to participate in a Grand Gesture.”

Marcy rolled her eyes. “You’re dating a
couple dozen other women in an attempt to find someone to replace
her. Don’t you think she has a little bit of a right to be
conflicted right now? You just have to prove to her that she’s
special. That you see her and she isn’t an invisible accessory in
your life.”

“I’ve never thought that.” Okay, yes, he had
sort of thought that for a while, but he should get credit for not
thinking it
now
.

“It isn’t about what you think, Jack. It’s
about how you can convince her.” Marcy stepped toward the limo. The
driver quickly opened the door and she flashed him a smile, but
paused with one foot in the car. “Try the Grand Gesture, Jack.
Trust me. She’s worth it.”

Jack couldn’t argue with that.

He watched Marcy drive away, then turned back
toward the house.

He gave a five minute, “Yes, Marcy’s
wonderful” recap in front of the fireplace, then the crew began
packing up for the night, leaving him to his own devices. The kids
were already in bed, his parents had long since left, and he had
some time before they smuggled him off to the hotel so his own
devices meant Lou.

He found her in the kitchen, sitting in her
usual chair. She didn’t seem to hear him come in as she gazed down
into her coffee cup. Decaf, two sugars. He saw another cup sitting
in front of his chair. The liquid inside was the tan of coffee with
his favorite amount of cream. A good sign? Or just force of
habit?

“Marcy’s wonderful,” she said suddenly,
proving she’d heard him after all.

“I like her.” But he didn’t love her. Jack
crossed to sit and pick up his coffee. It was still hot.

“I have to move out, Jack.”

He choked, nearly snorting coffee out his
nose. The hot liquid scalded his nasal passages and he gasped for
air. “What?” he managed, wheezing.

“You could come home from the finale engaged,
Jack. It wouldn’t be right for me to be here.” She was pulling away
from him. It was there in her body language, the closed off
tightness of her expression and the icy delivery of those words.
She was actually going to leave him. His heart stuttered.

“You want to move out next week?” He put down
his coffee, holding up a hand to stop her. “Don’t answer that.
We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Getting engaged is a big step. I
may not—”

“I don’t want to hold you back, Jack.”

“And I don’t want to trap you here if you
don’t want to be here, but Lou—” The words were on the tip of his
tongue. To tell her that he wasn’t in love with Marcy or any of the
other girls. To tell her that he wasn’t going to get engaged to any
of them because she was the only one he wanted, but the fucking
show tied his tongue.

“
You
never trapped me, Jack. I always
wanted this life. Maybe too much. I should have left a long time
ago.”

Hope shuddered through him. She’d said she
wanted this life. How far was that from wanting him? “Lou, I don’t
want you to move out. I can’t explain—”

“You don’t have to explain. It’s okay. I
understand. But I’m going to start looking for apartments
tomorrow.”

“Lou—” Fuck nondisclosure. He had to tell
her.

The kitchen door swung open. “Mister
Perfect!” Miranda called cheerfully. “We’ve got to get you back to
your hotel. You have a long flight tomorrow.”

Jack wondered if killing television producers
was considered justifiable homicide.

“Travel safe,” Lou said, already out of her
chair and halfway out of the room.

“Lou!”

Miranda glared at him. “Behave, dumbass.”

“Have you noticed that I’m always either
Mister Perfect or dumbass to you?”

“All men are. It’s your curse. Come on. The
car’s waiting.”

He wanted to argue, wanted to chase after
Lou, but Marcy’s recommendation about the Grand Gesture teased his
thoughts.

Lou had said she understood, but he was sure
she didn’t. He didn’t want to lose her because of all this
bullshit, but as Marcy had said, the show did excel at Grand
Gestures. Was a Grand Gesture the best way to break through Lou’s
uneven defenses and see what really lay in her heart? Could this
damn show actually work in his favor somehow?

He trailed Miranda out to the waiting SUV,
when the door closed, sealing them both inside, he turned to her.
“I want time with Lou. Away from the kids. Away from all this.”

“We discussed this,” Miranda said
unsympathetically, focused on her tablet. “You have to treat her
like any other Suitorette. No confessions of love.”

“I get two-day dates in exotic locales with
the other Suitorettes.”

Miranda looked up from her tablet then.
“True.”

“Lou doesn’t know she’s a candidate. She told
me she wants to move out today. I don’t want to lose her because of
this show, because you made me sign some fucking contract that I’m
not allowed to tell her how I feel about her.
Please
,
Miranda.”

The producer smiled. “Honey, don’t worry.
I’ve got you. I’m a pro at keeping girls who are afraid of their
own feelings from running off.”

“How?”

“We romance them. It’s what we do.”

Chapter
Twenty-Six

Miranda glowered at the budget, trying to
find a way to make the numbers bend until she could cram an extra
two-day luxury date into the shooting schedule. It wasn’t the
flights and hotels—those were always comped in exchange for the
publicity. It was the crew salaries and overtime hours that weren’t
in the original budget.

But she’d promised Jack that she was going to
make this happen, and if it worked out the way she expected it to,
it was going to make her show the most talked about reality
television show in
years
so she was
going
to make it
happen, no matter what it took.

Executive Producer, here I come
.

Her cell phone rang and she reached for it
automatically. “Miranda Pierce.”

“Have dinner with me.”

Bennett’s raspy voice made her shiver. She
rocked back in her chair, fidgeting with the hotel brand pen on the
desk. “I’m in Chicago.”

“So am I. I’m at the Palmer House. ADS is
doing auditions here this week. Have dinner with me.”

“Can’t. I have a work problem to solve.”

“If I solve it for you, will you eat with
me?”

Tempting. So tempting. On so many levels. “I
need a full camera crew for two days in Paris and I can’t pay them.
Solve that.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Unpaid audition.”

“Come again?” He did not just solve in five
seconds what had been giving her trouble for the last hour.

“Use it as a way to audition new local
crews—if they perform well they have a chance to be on your roster
of local crews in the future.”

“Won’t the unions object?”

“If you were doing it the U.S. you might have
trouble—and I’m not sure about the laws in France, but you might be
able to get away with it as a foreign production. Run it past your
lawyers. After you have dinner with me.”

“It isn’t solved until I talk to my lawyers.”
But it was as good as solved and they both knew it.

“Going back on your word?”

There were good choices, bad choices,
terrible choices, and then there was Bennett. She’d never been able
to resist Bennett. “Where?”

#

“How are the auditions going?”

The restaurant at the top of the Hancock
Building boasted the best views and most expensive cocktails in
Chicago, but since Bennett was buying Miranda sipped her martini
without an ounce of sticker shock.

He looked better than she remembered. More
silver in his hair, more lines around his eyes, but he’d always
worn his age well. One of those disgustingly gorgeous men who got
sexier with the years.

“They’re going fantastically,” he said,
studying her over the rim of his scotch. “Every year they get more
amazing. I think this might be our most talented batch of dancers
yet.”

Miranda smile nostalgically. “I always loved
that part. Seeing the future contestants perform for the first time
and realizing that one of them was going to be the next American
Dance Star.”

“You had an incredible eye. You always knew
who America was going to love before anyone else.” He took a linger
sip. “I never understood why you left ADS to go to MMP.”

Of course you didn’t. Because I left to
get away from you
. “More opportunities for advancement. I’d
never have the chance to make EP so young at ADS.”

Bennett frowned. “That’s a bald faced lie.
You were already on track for it.”

“But it will always be your show, whereas
with MMP I have the chance to make it mine. Wallace doesn’t want to
be involved in shaping the show. As long as I keep him updated, I
have free rein.”

“And that’s satisfying for you? Feeding
America’s hunger for love-starved wanna-be-stars having emotional
breakdowns on television? Manipulating them into giving you
drama?”

“You’re awfully high and mighty, considering
we have the same job,” she said tightly.

“Your job is to manipulate people into being
happy they made the choice to be on a show that exploits their
emotions. Mine is to give people an opportunity to be on a show
that can genuinely change their lives for the better. See the
difference?”

Miranda put her martini glass down with a
decisive click. “Did you invite me to dinner to insult me?”

“It’s a compliment, not an insult. You’re
better than what you’re doing at MMP. Come back to ADS.”

Her stupid heart lurched. Damn it. She’d
actually wanted him to be asking her out because he wanted
her
. Not because he wanted to offer her a job.

“No.”

“You won’t get an executive producer credit
right away, but it wouldn’t be far off for you. Not the way you
work.”

“I’m not interested, Bennett.”

“Why not? We could be making amazing
television together again. Why wouldn’t you want that?”

Because I’m halfway to being in love with
you, you idiot
.

“I’m already making amazing television and I
don’t need your patronage to do it.”

He frowned. “I’m not trying to be
patronizing.”

“It just comes naturally to you, does
it?”

“You always did have a smart mouth.” His eyes
drifted to her lips.

She waited for him to say something else
about her mouth—or what she could do with it—but he just looked
away, out over the skyline, sipping his scotch.

She should have known when he didn’t want to
have dinner someplace closer to his hotel that this wasn’t
that
kind of date, but she was still stupidly
disappointed.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how my season is
going?” she prompted.

He shot her a frustrated look.

“Oh, thank you for asking, Bennett!” she
mocked. “It’s been really brilliant actually. Very outside-the-box.
I think this one might land me an Emmy and if I don’t screw it up,
I’m a lock for EP. I really appreciate your help with that
budgeting issue too. I’ll be sure to thank you in my acceptance
speech.”

“Just remember to speak slowly,” he said
dryly. “It’s easy to rush under all those lights.”

She grimaced. She’d forgotten that he’d
actually won an Emmy. Four of them, if she remembered
correctly.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He sighed. “You really won’t consider coming
back? I’ll match whatever you’re making at MMP.”

“You have a lot of great producers. I don’t
see why you need me.”

His gaze held hers, and again that stupid
hope that this was more than a business dinner rose up. Then their
food arrived and the spell was broken.

“You’re the best,” he said, as he poked at
the delicate tilapia with his fork.
Heart healthy
. Was
Bennett watching his cholesterol? It was discomfiting how badly she
wanted to know the intimate details of his diet.

“Thank you.” She cut into her lamb. “I’m also
unavailable.”

In more ways than one
.

His eyes held hers for a moment. “My
loss.”

Miranda smiled. “Damn straight.”

But she had a feeling it was hers too.
Bennett Lang wanted her. If only it was the way she wanted him
to…

Chapter
Twenty-Seven

Lou was up to her elbows in Kelly’s oven when
her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She managed not to fling the
tray of blueberry scones for Emma’s snack day across the kitchen,
dropping them hurriedly on the cooling rack. She threw off Kelly’s
borrowed oven mitts and dug into the pocket of her jeans for the
buzzing phone, but her new jeans were so tight her hand got stuck.
Lou hopped around in a circle, cursing Kelly for talking her into
buying the tight jeans in the first place.

“What are you doing?” Kelly stood in the
doorway. Behind her, the children shrieked as they played tag
through the halls of Kelly’s house. Luckily, Kelly was wise to the
ways of hooligan children and had long since packed away all
breakables into storage until the twins hit puberty. Outside, the
rain that had been falling all day drummed against the window
panes.

The phone finally jerked free of its denim
cage. Lou hurriedly flipped it open before voicemail could catch
the call. “Hello?” she said, a little breathless from jumping
around like an idiot.