One To Watch (14 page)

“I don’t understand.”

She told him they’d talk more soon, then attempted to take deep, cleansing breaths during the commercial break.

The third group included a grungy blond surfer named Cooper, a thickly muscled trainer named Kumal, a chilled-out stockbroker named Trevor, and a political consultant named Marco who burst into a broad smile when he saw Bea.

“Gorgeous,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry?” Bea wasn’t sure how to react to being greeted this way at all, let alone on live TV by a man with dark hair and olive skin who looked like he ought to be lounging on a beach in Capri, his muscles glistening in the Mediterranean sunlight.

“No, I’m sorry.” He took her hand and grinned, showing off his blinding white smile. “It’s just—you’re so beautiful.”

“Okay, um, thanks? I guess?” She laughed uncomfortably. Bea didn’t know if Marco was putting on an act, but she doubted very much that she could figure it out during his allotted thirty seconds of airtime, so she made polite chitchat and sent him on his way.

She turned to greet the final man in the third group, who turned out to be the first man of the night who wasn’t trim and handsome: Jefferson Derting, a Missourian with a roundly protruding belly and bushy ginger beard. In dark jeans and a gray button-down topped with an orange tie and tweedy vest, he put Bea in mind of a hipster bartender who would insist on being called a mixologist. Physically, though, his body type was much closer to most of the men Bea had dated in the past—and to Bea herself—and she felt a sense of relief as he approached her.

“Salutations, little lady.” His smile seemed friendly enough, but Bea couldn’t tell whether this was his usual mode of greeting or a barb at her expense.

“Fancy meeting a gent like you in a place like this,” Bea replied in kind. If he was just doing a bit, she didn’t want to ruin it with undue paranoia.

“Seriously, though, I think it’s awesome that you’re going to be the star of the show this year. About damn time they cast a gal who looks like you.” He raised his hand for a high-five, which Bea awkwardly returned. “See you soon, I hope?”

Bea nodded and smiled. “Definitely.”

As Jefferson took a walk toward the riser and Johnny took them to commercial, Bea took a moment to steady herself: more than halfway through now.
You can do this.

“Bea, we have a special surprise with your fourth group of suitors,” Johnny gushed when they came back on air.

“Are you sure I haven’t had quite enough surprises?” Bea joked weakly.

“In this next group”—Johnny lowered his voice dramatically—“every single one of the men …”

Is an astronaut? Is a nice, kind, normal dude? Is a time-traveling wizard possessed of the power to make this night be over?

“… is named Ben.”

“What?” Bea asked, unsure why this merited mention, let alone a grand pronouncement.

“Yes!” Johnny clapped his hands. “Meet the five Bens!”

And so she did: Ben G., a Birkenstock-clad kindergarten teacher who brought his guitar and forced Bea to join him in his class’s good-morning song (on. live. television.); Ben F., a personal trainer; Ben K., a personal fitness coach (“So, like a trainer?” Bea had asked, and apparently this was very much the wrong thing to say); Ben Q., a dental student; and finally, Ben Z., who, at six-foot-six, was known by the group as “Big Ben,” and whose occupation remained a mystery—there seemed to have been a collective decision that his height was information enough.

Once the parade of Bens ended, they cut to commercial and Alison rushed over—theoretically to check Bea’s wardrobe, but really to give her a quick hug.

“Just one more group,” Alison whispered in Bea’s ear. “You’re doing great.”

As Alison hurried away and Johnny announced the arrival of the final group, Bea finally started to relax—there was light at the end of the tunnel. It didn’t matter whether these men really liked her, didn’t matter that this last group seemed the most indifferent yet, didn’t even matter that the second-to-last man presented her with a cupcake that he’d scavenged from Craft Services upon hearing that Bea was, quote, “a larger lady.” As if Bea hadn’t endured thousands of judgmental stares eating sweets (or burgers, or fries) in regular old restaurants, let alone on television. As if her fatness were the essence of her personality, butter and sugar paving the pathways to her heart.

“Thanks,” she said curtly to the cupcake-bearer, a smarmy property broker named Nash who struck Bea as a locker-room bully, “but I think I’m going to leave this with you. A snack for the riser!”

She faked a smile as he walked away, then turned to meet her final man, taking a deep breath and insisting to herself once more that it didn’t matter who he was or how he reacted to her.

Which was a lot tougher to believe when she realized he was the most attractive man she’d ever seen in her life.

Plenty of the other men were conventionally handsome, but this man was absolutely devastating: dark hair long enough to brush his neck, crooked nose, full lips, crinkly brown eyes, incredibly strategic stubble, geometric tattoos peeking out beneath his shirtsleeves along his muscled forearms.

And he spoke with a throaty French accent. Because of fucking course he did.

“You do not ’ave a sweet tooth?” he asked as he approached—a reference to the cupcake she’d just refused.

“I’ve been known to indulge,” she murmured, “under the right circumstances.”

He took her hand as if to shake it, or kiss it, but instead he just held it, his thumb tracing deliberate circles inside her palm, turning her insides molten.

“Well, I am a chef,” he quipped, “so perhaps I will discover the sweetness you desire.”

“I think I might like that.” Her face warmed with a genuine smile, this dazzling man temporarily erasing her ability to feel self-conscious.

“Pardon me if I am forward, Bea.” He dropped his voice and looked directly at her. “But I think you should have everything you want.”

“What’s your name?” she asked, the words little more than breath escaping her body.

He smiled and finally raised her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips against it.

“I am Luc,” he answered. “
Enchanté
.”

The moment should have been cheesy, but it was the opposite, somehow—it felt almost too intimate to be shown on camera. The barest touch of Luc’s lips on her skin was pure sex, and in that moment, all Bea wanted in the world was to leave the set with him and make everyone else disappear.

“And that’s the ball game!” Johnny interjected, reminding Bea her fantasy was impossible—and probably unwise. “When we come back, we’ll find out what Bea thinks of these men—and what they think about her—so stick around!”

Bea reluctantly let go of Luc’s hand, and PAs descended upon the stage to organize a semicircle of chairs and dole out enormous noise-canceling headphones to all twenty-five men—well, twenty-four, since one had made an untimely exit. For this next segment, Johnny would interview Bea about her impressions of the men while they sat directly behind her, listening to loud music and unable to hear a word she said. For the following segment, though, the dynamic would be reversed, and Bea would be forced to sit in ignorance while the whole group talked about her.

“So, Bea.” Johnny leaned in conspiratorially after shouting a few childish insults at the men to make sure they couldn’t hear him. “We’re all dying to hear what you think of these men! Pretty amazing group, am I right?”

The audience clapped appreciatively, and Bea understood the game: There was only one way a fat woman was supposed to feel when a trim man paid her attention.

“I’m so grateful,” she effused. “I mean seriously, how lucky am I that these incredible men were all willing to spend time away from their jobs, their families, their lives, just for the chance to meet me? It’s overwhelming.”

The applause level rose, and Bea knew she was playing her part correctly.

“It wasn’t all smooth sailing, though, was it?” Johnny’s face was lined with faux concern. “That was the first time in
Main Squeeze
history that a suitor walked off the show before the end of the season premiere.”

And that’s the headline Lauren’s PR machine will be pitching the second this episode is over,
Bea thought bitterly.

“How did you feel when he walked away?”

“Well,” Bea answered frankly, “it’s not like that was the first time that’s happened to me.”

She heard a few gasps and some titters from the audience—perhaps she’d been a little too honest.

“Really?” Johnny pressed. “You’ve had a man walk out on you that way?”

“What can I say?” Bea did her best to put on a brave face, knowing that’s what Lauren wanted. “A lot of men really care whether a woman is thin. For some men, that’s the only thing they care about. As if our entire worth can be measured in the inches of our waistlines.”

Johnny shook his head. “We’ll have to hope the rest of the men aren’t like that.”

Bea nodded, reassuring herself internally that it hardly mattered if they were.

“Okay, Bea, one last question, and I know all of America is waiting for the answer to this one: Of all the men you met tonight, who did you like the best?”

Luc sprang instantly to mind—Bea hadn’t been that attracted to any man since Ray. But she knew that wasn’t the right answer to give in this moment; Luc was too sexy, too volatile, definitely not the choice of a woman earnestly seeking her soulmate. She considered picking Jefferson, but something inside her rebelled against the idea of admitting so publicly what she privately feared: that he was the only man here who might honestly find Bea attractive. She thought back to Lauren’s advice—her job was to sell a fairy tale. It was her duty to find a Prince Charming, handsome and noble and, most important of all, capable of graciously sitting by her side for interviews for the duration of their pretend engagement. If those were the criteria, Bea knew exactly who she’d choose.

“Wyatt,” she said with a confident voice. “The way he comforted me when I was feeling down? If that’s not husband material, I don’t know what is.”

The audience applauded appreciatively, Johnny thanked Bea for her time, and they broke for commercial. Mack came to fit Bea with her giant headphones, a sad smile on his face.

“Sorry about this,” he groused as he got the earphones nice and snug.

“Come on, Mack. We’ve all got jobs to do.”

His smile faded a bit, and he clicked the headphones into noise-canceling mode. As the lights got hot and the men all around her started talking, the sounds of the set dissolved, and Bea felt the stress of the night fade into a nocturne by Chopin.