Miles sweeps together a pile of documents strewn around his desk and opens a thick folder. My eyes narrow on the Fry logo emblazoned on the outside; anything to do with Damian raises my suspicion. A few black-and-white glossy photos spill out, but he quickly gathers the file and puts it into drawer.
“Tell me more about the show.”
Miles’s eyes light up, excited that I’m interested.
“The bachelor is Flynn Beckham. An up-and-coming singer with a pretty decent-size following. The ladies love him. He’s got that rockstar aloof, I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude down pat. There were twenty ladies originally. We’re down to eight. When we get down to four, we go live. So there’s a planned hiatus coming up to let the taped shows catch up with the live shows.”
“Who are the eight?” I’m starting to lose my patience, anxious to find out more about Kate.
“Did you see them? We got a smorgasbord of beauties. One for every demographic. The advertisers are going to love it.”
Right now, I don’t give a crap about the advertisers. I just want to know more about the woman who took all my money, turned me down for dinner, and made my dick come alive, all in the same night.
“I saw them. What’s their background?”
Miles takes out another folder from his top desk drawer. Opening it, he reveals a black-and-white glossy of a woman who looks like she could be Miss California. She’s pretty, but not Kate.
“Jessica Knowles.” He holds up the candid photograph. “Twenty-three, former Miss Teen USA runner-up. Aspiring model and actress. She’s built like fucking Jessica Rabbit. Tits are fake, but huge. Every eighteen-year-old will be having a wet dream when she comes on screen in that white bikini of hers.”
He turns the photograph. There’s another beautiful girl, but still not Kate. “Mercedes Mila.” He smiles like a Cheshire cat. “I’d like to take a ride in this Mercedes. Twenty-four, nurse.”
Ten minutes of résumés later, we’ve covered everything from student to lawyer to stripper. I’m growing impatient. Finally, Miles flips the photo and my eyes land on Kate. “Kate Monroe. Twenty-five. Blackjack dealer. Working on her doctorate in physical therapy. She’s my girl next door. Looks sweet and innocent, but she has a streak of something wild. Father was a hotshot card player.” Miles pauses. “I’m curious if this one’s wild in the sack.”
My brother’s insolent commentary was already wearing thin on my nerves, but his disrespect for Kate gives me the urge to kick him under the table. Jaw clenched, I stare at the remaining headshots, but my mind is a million miles away. I ponder the strange combination … medical student and blackjack dealer. Strangely enough, from the little that I know, it fits her.
“I saw this morning’s dailies,” I say. “What happens next?”
“Tonight he picks his first stranded date.”
“Stranded date?” With my brother’s penchant for risqué, I’m almost afraid to ask.
“He picks one woman and he gets a twenty-four hour date with them on a deserted island. We set up cameras all over the place, so there isn’t even a cameraman following them around.” Proudly, he continues, “We’re hoping to take away all their inhibitions. Other reality TV shows, the contestants are constantly reminded they’re being watched. Filmed. Having cameramen around makes the women think twice before they go too far.”
“What happens if Beckham and his date aren’t into each other?”
“Oh, they’ll be into each other. We make it impossible for them not to be. They might be stranded, but we set them up for romance. Think of the perfect romantic date—the kind that gets you both in the mood. Then multiply it times a hundred. We know how these contestants tick. We’ve done our homework. There will be action on that island.”
Perfect. The first woman I can’t stop thinking about in years, and she’s about to have the most romantic date of her life … with someone else.
“Does Beckham have favorites? Any idea who he’s going to pick for his date tonight?” I ask Miles as I downshift, slowing into traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway. My request to visit the set was eagerly accommodated by my brother. He’s anxious to show me his show. I’m only anxious to see one contestant.
“He has a thing for Jessica.”
I let out a breath too soon.
“And Kate.”
Fuck. “And if he picks someone you don’t think will make for good TV, you can override his decision.”
“Scripted reality TV, bro. It’s what makes ratings. Can’t always let the bachelor think with his dick. We need to think with our wallet. But I won’t have to interfere with his pick this time. He’s salivating to get his hands on one of those two. Either will do. Hell, I’d like to get my hands on one of them.”
I weave in and out of traffic, enjoying my brother grabbing onto the door handle once or twice as I cut a swerve that makes him a bit nervous.
“This thing is thirty years old. Time for a new one that handles better, Coop,” Miles says, referring to our father’s Porsche. The car he loved. It wasn’t worth nearly as much as the other cars he had, but he went through two clutches in this thing teaching me to drive. Great memories. Miles was only too happy I took the less valuable car. Unfortunately, our ideas of value have always been measured on different scales.
“I bought a new car. A bump in the rear at a light cost eight thousand for damage repairs. I like driving this one better anyway.”