“Carly took great care in choosing a man who shares common interests with her stepmother. You’ll recognize him as WKLK’s most popular and handsome investigative reporter. These two already know one another, but let’s see if sparks fly when they’re paired up for romance.” Tess and the camera turned toward Annabel. “Let’s Talk is pleased to welcome Annabel Morgan and her lucky date, Max Williams!”
The introduction barely registered in Annabel’s head before a tall, muscular form bounded out from stage right. He turned her with a hand on her arm and planted a kiss on her check.
Stunned, she reared back to confirm her misfortune. The shock in his eyes mirrored hers.
Under cover of the applause, they objected in unison, “Not you!”
The following Saturday night, Max arrived on Annabel’s front porch in Hyde Park. With his favorite cameraman in tow, he looked around at one of Cincinnati’s oldest and stodgiest neighborhoods. Sturdy brick houses lined the quiet, residential street. Subdued shutters bordered windows with overflowing flower boxes. Tidy yards sported geometric mower grids. Traditional, conservative, established, and settled. All things Max preferred to avoid.
Grinding his teeth, he cursed his current circumstances and the unapologetic people responsible for it. If given the chance, he’d banish meddlesome teenage girls to a world without cell phones or teenage boys.
He’d blast Tess Hartley to an unending life of flat hair, tabloid journalism, and bad ratings.
He’d send all judgmental, uninteresting women to an island far, far away, where they could bore one another to death with their rules, restrictions, and lack of original thoughts.
And he’d reserve a special circle of hell composed of angry advertisers, prolonged power outages, and drunken weathermen for Charley Asherton, the usually-sensible station manager who had included Max’s name in a pool of eligible bachelors for Let’s Talk without notifying him first.
How he’d let Tess and Charley talk him into participating in such an asinine waste of time, Max couldn’t explain. He’d thought it a joke when he received the message to appear for the first-round interviews. But he hadn’t stood a chance against the innocent wiles and harmless demeanor of the young girl who singled him out. If he’d known she’d matched him up with Ms. Frostbite of Cincinnati, he would have pulled a no-show for the actual program.
Tess would pay for this. Due to their brief, steam-up-the-sheets, personal history half-a-dozen years ago, he’d expected her to let him out of his arranged date. When a conspiratorial smile and the promise of a future favor hadn’t worked, he explained that Annabel didn’t want to go out with him any more than he wanted to go out with her.
The ratings-minded diva just laughed and insisted he keep his part of the bargain. She’d even had the nerve to goad him over the fact that he’d finally met a woman who didn’t worship at his feet. Tess had also suggested he look on winning Annabel over as a challenge—one the show would pay for and record—as the “relationship” unfolded. Relationship, hell. Disaster was more like it. And Tess had licked her glossy lips over the possibility.
Ever conscious of the camera, the reporter in Max erased the scowl and put on his game face. He shot the sleeves of his suit into place, then smoothed his hair and straightened his frigging tie.
“Quit primping, Casanova, you look fine,” Roger said from behind him. He lifted the video-camera to his eye. “Now, ring the bell. No, wait. The doorknocker seems more forceful, more masculine. Use that.”
“More masculine.” Max snorted but banged the knocker as instructed. “Masculinity’s wasted on Annabel. Why do smart women like her favor those limp-wristed sensitive types who drink lattes and go to poetry readings?”
“Why do you care what kind of men she likes?”
“I don’t. I’m just saying, she’s not my type.”
“Yeah, I can see why the combination of smart, nice, gorgeous, and talented wouldn’t work for you,” the cameraman muttered.
When the door swung open, Max faced the beaming teenager who’d gotten him into this mess.
“You’re here!” Carly clapped her hands.
Despite his annoyance, Max grinned at her enthusiasm. “Hey, kid. How’s it going?”
She peered over his shoulder to the street, then leaned out the door to view the driveway. His Jeep Cherokee elicited a frown. “Where’s the limo?”
With the Porsche in the shop, he’d been tempted by the station’s offer of transportation, but he hated that kind of fancy crap. Besides, he and Annabel weren’t two pimply-faced, sweaty-palmed teenagers on the way to the prom. “I prefer to drive myself.”
Carly planted her hands on her hips. “But what about what Anna prefers?”
“When we talked yesterday, I asked her if she wanted to show off with a car and driver.” He shrugged. “She said she didn’t care.”
“Well, if you put it that way, what else could she say?” She glared at him with disapproval. “Besides, I care. I want this to be so special for her.”
“Maybe next time, kid.” Of course, there would be no such event. The terms of the show indicated he could dictate when and where they went on their second date, if he wanted to see her again. In a rare moment of agreement, he and Annabel had decided this would be a one-shot deal. She would have to be the one to break the news to Little Ms. Blue Eyes here.
Carly accepted the disappointment with a grudging sigh. “Come on in, then. Anna’s almost ready.”
He stepped across the threshold of the Morgan home, suppressing the urge to sneeze. The place smelled like a damn flower shop. Fresh roses decorated a table in the foyer. Potpourri sat in little dishes around the living room. They probably even sprayed the air with floral perfume.
In about two minutes, he’d break out in hives from the cloying scent combined with the rampant middle-class-values decor. Family pictures lined the mantle in the living room. Knick-knacks rested on frilly lace things. He’d bet his Porsche that coasters bloomed automatically under every beverage.
Structured, neat, and fragrant, a reflection of Annabel herself.
Everything in the house whispered its good taste in monotonous neutrals. Nice, he supposed, if he went in for this sort of Boy Meets World, mom, and apple-pie hominess.
Which he didn’t.
Not that he had any reason to dislike sitcom-perfect domesticity. But growing up without a mother present, he’d never experienced it. This whole scene existed as the polar opposite of his childhood and adulthood. Both had teemed with loud and boisterous chaos.
He’d never lived anywhere that remotely resembled this house or neighborhood, and he’d never dated a woman with as little fire and flash as Annabel.
Roger trailed him inside. “Would you go out and come back in again? The lighting in here isn’t what I expected.”
“Forget it,” Max said. “We’re not staging anything or doing any retakes.”
“If you’re willing to settle for a pasty image that makes you look like one of The Walking Dead, fine by me.”
Annabel’s stepdaughter chewed on her thumbnail and creased her forehead as she eyed Roger from head to sneaker. Max empathized with her concerns about the two-hundred-twenty-pound free spirit sporting a ponytail, eyebrow piercing, forearm tattoos, scruffy jeans, and a concert T-shirt. He attempted to set her at ease. “Roger’s the chaperone-slash-shooter for tonight. Even though he’s misguided enough to worship the Dave Matthews Band instead of real rock ‘n’ roll, he’s harmless when he’s not obsessing about things like camera angles and lighting.”
“If you say so.” Carly took a small step back, as if reluctant to give them the benefit of the doubt. “Please take a seat in the living room. Anna said to offer you something to drink and let her know when you got here.”
A footstep at the top of the stairs alerted Max to his date’s presence before he could decline the offer. In spite of himself, he watched Annabel descend.