Who Wants To Marry a Heartthrob?

скачать книгу бесплатно


“YOU HAVE to come out,” Raquel explained patiently. “Or how can I possibly see what the dress looks like on you?”

“Trust me. It’s no good,” Bridget said from behind the dressing-room curtain.

“That’s what you’ve said about every one so far.”

“Because they have all been no good.” Bridget looked in the mirror and winced. This dress was a clingy, strapless silk number done in a deep purple that fell to just below her butt. Every time she tried to pull it down to completely cover her bottom one of her breasts popped free.

Suddenly, the curtain was thrust aside and Bridget tried to cover her exposed breast with her hands.

“No,” Raquel determined. “That’s not right.”

“Thank you,” Bridget sighed. “Let’s face it. It’s hopeless. We’re never going to agree. Why can’t I just find a nice, simple, black cocktail dress?”

“Because the point of this game is to stand out. We have to be like the peacock and ruffle our feathers.”

“What are you wearing?”

“A black cocktail dress,” Raquel admitted. “But I am, by my very nature, a peacock.”

Having no idea what that meant, Bridget instead glanced down at the one-billionth dress Raquel held in her hands.

“Try this one.” Raquel shoved the dress at her, pushed her back into the dressing room and closed the curtain with a deft motion.

Bridget stared down at the garment and sighed. It was time to face facts. A dress wasn’t going to turn her into a beauty. She looked into the mirror and took in her white skin, dark hair, which today she had pulled back into a ponytail, and her sticklike body.

Okay, maybe not sticklike, she decided. She did, in fact, have breasts, just not that much of them. She knew that because they kept popping out of dresses at the most unexpected times.

This dress was red. A vibrant red. A red so bright, she considered putting on sunglasses before trying it on. But she knew if she balked, Raquel would stomp her foot and pout, and for whatever reason, Bridget found herself slightly intimidated by the pout.

So she removed the purple concoction and stepped into the red number. It circled her neck leaving her shoulders and arms bare. It fell to the top of her knees, for which she was truly grateful, and when she turned…

“Something is missing,” Bridget announced through the curtain.

Again, it slid open and Raquel stood in the doorway. “What?”

“It’s got no back. Go out there and find it for me will you?”

“Silly, it’s not supposed to have a back. Now turn around and let me see the front.”

Bridget did as instructed and Raquel oohed. “You’re oohing. Don’t ooh. This is not an ooh dress. It’s got no back.”

“Just look at yourself, will you?” Raquel moved out of the way and Bridget left the tiny dressing area. Three full-length mirrors stood at the end of the tiny dressing-room hallway and Bridget walked toward them, wondering the whole time who the girl in the red dress was. It shimmered as she moved. Instead of making her seem too pale, it made her skin glow. The neckline plunged, but the gathered material sort of left the contents of her chest a mystery and when she turned…

“Ooh,” Bridget moaned.

“See.”

The dress did scoop dramatically, barely covering the small of her back, but the effect was…not so bad. Who knew she had such a killer back?

“This one?” she asked Raquel, confirming what she already suspected.

“That one.”

Bridget turned and studied herself again. “I’ll take it.”

“Wonderful,” Raquel stated.

“Does this mean we’re done?” Bridget asked hopefully. She couldn’t remember a day when she’d worked harder, and all they had done so far was shop.

“Don’t be silly. Now we need shoes.”

Bridget groaned. Shoes. She was never going to make it.

LATER THAT DAY, she limped her way into Richard’s office. He looked up from his drafting table and grimaced. “What happened to you?”

“Shoe accident,” she muttered. She hung her dress, draped in black plastic, on his coat rack then hobbled her way to the stool positioned on the other side of his drawing table. She climbed up on it and sighed in blessed relief to be off her feet.

“Shoe accident?”

“Yeah, I fell off a pair. You would be amazed at how high those things can actually go.”

He chuckled and nodded his head toward the dress. “Is that it?”

“It is.”

“Can I see it?”

“No.” She wanted it to be a surprise. Raquel had big plans for her including the dress, the sandals they had picked out to go with it that were currently being dyed to match, a new hairstyle and makeup. When all was said and done, Bridget was going to be a new woman and she wanted the effect to be startling.

So startling Richard might feel compelled to walk up to her, proclaim to the world his hidden passion for her—which, in all honesty, she wasn’t sure she exactly wanted him to have, but it played much better in her fantasy—and then sweep her off her feet.

At least she hoped he would sweep her off her feet. She really didn’t walk so well in the shoes.

“What are you doing?” she wondered aloud, taking a peek at his drawing.

He glanced around to make sure no one was passing by his office door then answered, “Stuff.”

“Stuff” for Richard meant non-work-related comic-strip stuff. Bridget never understood why he got so anxious about people uncovering his big dark secret. The great mystery was that the creative force behind most of V.I.P.’s successful ad campaigns was also a truly gifted cartoonist.

Whenever she asked him when he’d begun drawing comics, he’d shrug and mumble something about being a kid. Then invariably he would try to pretend it meant nothing to him. He would demean it by calling it a hobby. Or recreational drawing. Her favorite was when he referred to it as his creative Drano. Whenever the ideas stopped flowing for a product, he invariably turned back to the strip to get the creative juices moving.

The first time she saw one of his strips, she had immediately fallen in love with his talent. For months afterward she had begged him to submit the strip to a paper, a magazine, someone who could render a professional judgment. But he refused. Every once in a while, she would broach the subject again, but invariably he would balk.

Comic strips weren’t serious; advertising was serious, he would tell her.

The last time he’d said that she’d pointed out that writing an ad for a company called Breathe Better Mouthwash was not exactly what she would call serious. But he hadn’t budged.

“Let me see this one,” Bridget said.

He pushed the white paper filled with the neatly arranged boxes over the top of the two-sided desk and let her study it.

“So what has Betty gotten herself into this time?” Betty was his latest cartoon character. She’d shown up over a year ago in a drawing and had been a constant in his work since then. Betty coincidentally bore a striking resemblance to…well, Bridget.

“Her boss has asked her for a favor and now she finds herself in a bit of trouble.”

“I don’t know where you get your ideas,” Bridget said sarcastically.

He smiled innocently. “They just come to me. Hey, can I use that shoe bit?”

“Sure. Mock my life. As long as it brings a chuckle to you, that’s all that matters.”

“Speaking of mocking, your mother called,” Richard told her, pulling his drawings back to his side of the desk. “She wants to know why you were on television trying to get a husband when you have such a wonderful man like me in your life.”

“Did you explain how you sold me into the servitude of Breathe Better Mouthwash?”

“I told her it was my fault. I begged her for forgiveness. She asked me if I was coming for Christmas, to which I said yes. There, you see? I’m not all bad.”

“Not all bad.”

Richard glanced again at the now mysterious dress. “So you’re all set for next week?”

“Hardly. I’ve got a facial, a pedicure and a manicure all scheduled for this weekend. This whole caving into society and trying to live up to impossible physical standards is exhausting work. I don’t know how women do it on a regular basis.”

“Practice,” Richard guessed. “Were you planning on spending any time here at the office?”

She shook her head. “After all that is done, Raquel is going to try and fit me in with Lars—”

“Lars?”

“Her hairstyling boyfriend.”

“You mean ex-boyfriend.”

“Right,” Bridget affirmed even as she was rolling her eyes. “She wants to get me in with him the day of the show to do my do.”

“Mountain Dew?”

“Hairdo,” she corrected, although she knew he knew what she meant. He was just being difficult. She was curious as to why. After all, putting her on the show had been his idea. Granted, he hadn’t expected her to make the first cut, but now that she had, he seemed almost surly about it and she didn’t think it was just about her missing work. “Anyway, then Raquel will do my makeup right before we go live.”

Richard scowled a little. “That’s an awful lot of effort for a guy you don’t even like.”

“How do I know if I don’t like him?” Bridget pointed out. “I haven’t really gotten to know him.”

“Trust me. With Brock, what you see is what you get. The man is as fake as his capped teeth and sunless tan.”

“That’s unfair. He might have hidden depths to him. Levels to his character that even he isn’t aware of. He is an actor. Surely he has to pull from some internal emotional wellspring. If not, then maybe I will bring something out in him that no other woman has.”

Richard’s scowl increased tenfold. “You’re not serious. You’re not actually interested in a soap opera actor?”

Hmm, Bridget mused. Was that jealousy she heard in the subtle undertones of his shouting?

“Like I said, I don’t know him well enough to know whether I like him or not. But he certainly deserves a chance. Let’s put aside the fact that he picked me over several other beautiful women—”

“You know,” he stated, cutting her off, very obviously irritated. “You’re not dog meat. Or horrifically disfigured in some way. It’s not the biggest shock in the world that you were selected.”

“You said before the show even began that there was no way he was going to pick me. Until the end you had me pegged as one of the losers.”

“Because of the sort of person he is and the type of woman I imagined he might be attracted to, not because of you,” Richard clarified. “You’re not ugly.”

“Thank you,” she beamed, tucking that little gem of a compliment away to savor the next time he ticked her off for some reason. “But let’s put that aside for now. The truth is I’m not getting any younger.”