Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
I bite my lip, filled with a strange sensation, a feeling that’s electric, fizzy, the opposite of the soul-numbing dread that’s been tugging at the back of my brain for the past few years.
It’s a feeling so unfamiliar, it takes a beat to realize that it’s…hope.
It’s excitement and hope mixed together and God, it feels good. Like a cold drink of water after a run through Central Park in the dead of summer. Like turning a corner and seeing that what you thought was a dead end is actually a fork in the road, leading to fascinating places and unimagined adventures.
So, even though I’ve never had the slightest urge to appear on a reality show and I’m pretty sure my parents will be mortified—New Englanders don’t like to air their dirty laundry or their clean laundry or anything in between—I find myself nodding. “Yeah, I’d like to hear more. Thanks.”
“Perfect.” Mr. Sexy pulls out his phone, shooting off a quick text. “I’ll have my assistant meet us upstairs at the restaurant on the top floor.” He glances my way as he adds, “I’m assuming you’d rather not stay down here and risk running into your boyfriend? At least not until you’ve filled him in on your change of plans?”
“Yes, that’s probably best,” I say, following him out of the blow-up igloo.
My change of plans…
Chris isn’t going to like this change of plans any more than my parents will. Chris is a private person who’s happy with his peaceful, small-town life with no surprises in it. Even if I behave impeccably and end up winning the competition, he’ll probably be so embarrassed by the associated attention, he won’t leave the farm for weeks.
But that’s something I can worry about later. Reality shows take time to film and prepare for television, after all. It could be six months or more before this show makes it to the small screen, and by then…
Well, by then, Chris and I might be a thing of the past.
Staying with him when I assumed I was simply too depressed to experience frisky feelings for anyone was one thing. Staying with him when I’m suddenly dying to make out with a stranger in a blow-up igloo is another.
Not that I’m going to make out with this man, of course. If I go forward with the reality show, he’ll basically be my boss, and I’m not the type of girl who mixes business with pleasure.
Besides, Mr. Sexy could have a girlfriend.
Or a wife…
I don’t see a ring, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a devoted spouse back at his apartment. Men don’t always wear their wedding rings. I see an alarming number of bare left fingers around the inn, even when guys are on vacation with their wives, let alone when they’re out and about in the city, wheeling and dealing.
Or looking for gullible mountain girls to human traffic. I hear there’s quite a market for sex slaves during the most magical time of the year…
Heeding the inner voice—I don’t think this man is a human trafficker, but you can’t be too careful—I reach out, catching the sleeve of his dress shirt as we cross the hotel lobby. “I’m sorry,” I say, when he turns to face me. “I didn’t get your name. I should probably do an internet search to make sure you’re legit before I let you chloroform me in an elevator, slip me into your suitcase, and put me on a private plane to Kathmandu.”
“Right. Shit.” His eyes widen as he gives a quick shake of his head. “I mean, sorry. I can’t believe I forgot to give you my card. I blame the igloo. It threw me off my game.”
“No worries at all,” I say, accepting the card he hands over with a smile.
But my grin falls away as I read the name etched in classy bronze letters: Leo Sampson Fenton.
My head snaps back up, my jaw dropping. “You’re Leo Fenton?”
He nods but seems confused by my reaction. “I am.”
“The Leo Fenton who used to write for Sketch Night Live and Sandy Saunders?” I ask, certain I must be wrong. He doesn’t look old enough to have been writing for television when I was in high school.
Or to have betrayed my cousin four years ago and still be this recklessly handsome…
He has to be at least forty, but there’s barely any gray in his dark hair and only the faintest lines around his eyes.
Those eyes crinkle with happiness at my question. “Yeah. That’s me.” He laughs. “I can’t believe you knew that. No one remembers the writers on a sketch show. Most people never know our names in the first place.”
“You always wrote my favorite sketches,” I say.
It isn’t a lie—his sketches were my favorite—but I didn’t know he was responsible for writing them until my cousin Vivian pointed it out. She was dating him at the time and so wildly in love. She stayed that way until she caught him going at it with another woman in a sauna while they were on a trip to Maine and came running home.