Finding Mr. Right Now

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

About the Author

Discover more Entangled Select Contemporary titles…

12 Steps to Mr. Right

Hot for the Fireman

The Business of Love

The Negotiator

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Meg Benjamin. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Select Contemporary is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Latoya Smith

Cover design by Fiona Jayde

Cover art from iStock

ISBN 978-1-64063-327-8

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition June 2015

Rerelease August 2017

To my wonderful and supportive family, in particular my hubs, Bill, who puts up with me better than anyone. To my terrific critique partner, Teri Wilson. To my editor, Latoya Smith. And to Samhain Publishing for letting me wander from Texas to Colorado!

Chapter One

He’s really gone? You’re sure? You checked everywhere—hotel, limo service, makeup, wardrobe, all of it? Monica McKellar held onto her iPhone like it was glued to her palm. If she kept her voice low, maybe no one else would hear.

Most importantly, maybe Ronnie wouldn’t hear.

He’s definitely gone. Sid’s voice had an odd metallic ring that probably meant the cell phone signal was close to breaking up. And yes, I have checked everywhere. I found a note. On his pillow, no less. Trust me, he’s gone.

A note? What does it say?

"It says, and I’m reading now, ‘Gone home to my real girlfriend. Took the shirts. Sorry.’ It’s signed Pres."

Monica closed her eyes for a moment. Son of a bitch. He took the shirts too?

He did. There’s nothing left in the room except a couple of gum wrappers.

The shirts were Ralph Lauren. Granted, they’d bought them at a discount place. But still. Monica ran a quick mental tally and wondered which part of the budget she could hide them under. No way was she chasing Pres Jackson all the way back to Ohio or wherever the hell he lived to retrieve three polo shirts. The jerk could have them.

She blew out a breath. Okay, come on back to the office. We’ll figure out damage control once you get here.

Does she know yet?

No need to ask who she was. Monica could see Ronnie Valero sitting in the office down the hall. Fortunately, she was too far away to listen to phone calls. Even more fortunately, so was Glenn Donovan.

No, right now she’s busy. I’ll tell Glenn and he can tell Artie. Maybe Artie can talk to her. She’d never start crying in front of Artie. At least she never had. Ronnie was so scared of Artie Fairstein, executive producer of Finding Mr. Right and owner of Fairstein Productions, that all she usually did was smile brightly. On the other hand, the chance of Artie getting involved in something so far removed from him was probably zilch.

Okay, I’ll start back. Sid sighed. Maybe it’ll all be over before I get there.

Maybe, Monica murmured as she disconnected. Actually, she figured Sid would come back via Greenland, making sure that any tears Ronnie shed would be dampening somebody else’s shoulder. Monica only wished she could join him since her own shoulder was comfortably dry at the moment and she’d prefer to keep it that way.

She tried a sort of subtle wave in Glenn’s direction. Normally she would have headed straight for him since Glenn was the director and Finding Mr. Right was his baby. Also, of course, he was one of the few people she knew who could keep Ronnie calm. But if Glenn was talking to Artie Fairstein, the last thing he’d want to hear about would be difficulties over Ronnie’s suitors.

She studied Ronnie again. In a lot of ways she was absolutely perfect for the show. Very blonde, with creamy skin that had never known a tan. Her brown eyes were sort of a shock, given her coloring, but they gave her a dash of individuality. Her figure was nicely rounded without being too voluptuous. She wasn’t model thin, and women in the audience seemed to feel she was closer to reality than the average starlet. The outfit she wore today, which the show had purchased for her, was sexy without being trashy—bright turquoise top that was just tight enough, white linen slacks, platform sandals, gold hoops in her ears, a silk scarf knotted around her neck.

She was laughing now, probably at something Glenn had said, showing a flash of gleaming teeth made more so by a very professional bleaching job Fairstein Productions had fronted for her.

Perfect. Miss Right. Or as she was known to the crew, the Sweetheart Diva.

Ronnie Valero had been a finalist on season three of Finding Miss Right. She had, in fact, been the popular favorite to be chosen by season three’s bachelor. One of Ronnie’s many charms was the fact that the camera loved her. She came across as a wholesome, down home girl who also happened to be lovely.

Ronnie didn’t create problems, unlike some of the bachelorettes. She never raised her voice, never cursed, never showed by word or deed that she was anything but delighted to be where she was.

She did have a tendency to become emotional when things weren’t going her way, though, like when the season three bachelor told her goodbye. Then her expression had been so heartbreaking that America had been ready to string the bachelor up from the nearest rose bush at the picturesque Santa Barbara resort where the conclusion had taken place. When season three, like seasons one and two, ended without a wedding or even an engagement, nobody was surprised. Obviously, the bachelor had chosen the wrong girl.

Ronnie’s popularity didn’t diminish over the months after the final show. When Fairstein Productions was still receiving letters and emails months later, demanding that something be done about Ronnie and her sad situation, Artie began to take note.

A few months after the season finale, Artie called the crew together with what he referred to as exciting news. The network had bought in on a new series, a spinoff of Finding Miss Right to be called, of course, Finding Mr. Right. And the very first bachelorette to take the plunge would be… And here Monica had felt the hand of fate itself closing on her throat. No, no, please no.

But of course it was. The very first bachelorette was none other than Ronnie. The viewers wanted it. The viewers demanded it, in fact. They had to find Ronnie a mate, and they had to do it on national TV.

Monica and Sid had managed to find a group of promising candidates for Mr. Right, ten in all. They had a pile of applications to choose from, along with calls from a number of agents around town who had clients they wanted to shop. Plus they always found a few possibilities by chance, guys who hadn’t applied but who looked like good candidates for the show.

Which, unfortunately, was how Pres Jackson had wandered onto the scene. Pres, short for Prescott, was a trainer at a gym where the head writer was a member. His application, while not sterling, wasn’t terrible. And his abs were first-rate.

From what Monica remembered, Pres hadn’t been all that sharp. She’d put him in the general category of Meat—somebody to fill out the list of contestants, but who’d probably be eliminated fairly quickly once the show started.

Only now Pres was gone. He’d lasted through the final set of interviews and through Ronnie’s viewing of his audition tape where he talked about why he wanted to be her Mr. Right. He’d made it into the final cut, and then he’d disappeared, taking three Ralph Lauren polo shirts with him.

With production starting next week, they were down by one bachelor. And Ronnie would have to be told that one of her suitors had headed for the hills without even trying to win her heart. Monica was pretty sure she wouldn’t take it well.

She sighed, rubbing her eyes. Houston, she muttered, we have one big, honking problem.

…

The writers’ meeting was degenerating into chaos, and not the kind of chaos Paul Dewitt considered productive. No, this was more the frat boy chaos that signaled the end of a particularly grueling season.

Fairstein had a small writing staff spread across several shows. Currently, there were only two writers on Finding Miss Right because there really wasn’t that much for a writer to do. They came up with the stunts, the activities that the bachelor and his potential dream girls undertook on their dates. And they helped assemble coherent story lines from the piles of videotape that were shot for each episode. Sometimes they wrote short segments for the cast to provide voiceovers for footage so that the action made sense.

Paul excelled at coming up with dialogue to make the filmed encounters look like real conversations even when they hadn’t been. His shining hour was a voiceover in which a bachelor talked about the moment when he’d known Tiffany was the one while the camera showed the bachelor and Tiffany glowing at one another in a conversation that had actually been about the relative merits of Chili’s versus the Olive Garden.

All in all, Miss Right was far from the worst gig at Fairstein Productions. Harriet, the head writer for Fairstein, was the administrative type, deciding when their stunts were okay and when they were either too expensive or too extreme to get by. She had a finely developed sense of just what they could get away with, and Paul trusted her judgment.

Darryl, the other writer, had one chief function so far as Paul could determine—to be a pain in the ass.

Which was mainly what Darryl was doing at the moment. They were trying to come up with stunts for next season’s shows. If you asked a pizza-eating, Red-Bull-drinking film-school graduate like Darryl to come up with dating activities for one of the Mr. Muscle types who starred in Finding Miss Right, the result was always various forms of torture. Still, the kind of torture Darryl usually came up with was at least mild—he’d never suggested anything that was likely to constitute an actual danger to life and limb.

Darryl was now heading in that direction.

Bungee jumping. Harriet rubbed her eyes. You want them to go bungee jumping off a high bridge.

Darryl nodded enthusiastically. Great visuals. Chance for the guy to show off his pecs.

She sighed. What happens if the girl is afraid of heights? Hell, what happens if the guy’s afraid of heights?

It’s a test of their devotion. Are they willing to go the distance, to jump off a bridge for each other? Darryl’s voice sounded solemn, which was a bunch of crap. None of the writers felt solemn about the freakin’ show.

Okay, first of all, the insurance company and legal will probably veto this right off the bat. But even if they don’t, these stunts are supposed to be fun, things actual people might actually want to do on an actual date, assuming they had the time and the money. What’s fun about jumping off a bridge, for Christ’s sake? Harriet gave him the evil eye.

It’s fun. Darryl sounded hurt. Who says it’s not fun?

Paul was reasonably certain Darryl himself had never jumped off a bridge with a bungee cord attached to his ankles. Hell, he was reasonably certain Darryl never even jumped out of his Subaru if he could avoid it.

Paul, help me out here. Darryl turned his smirk in Paul’s direction.

Prick. Sorry, Darryl, I can’t see it. Even if legal doesn’t kill it, the bachelorettes will hate it because it’ll mess up their hair. Remember the custard pie incident? Throwing custard pies had been another of Darryl’s brainstorms. Two contestants had threatened to leave and the show had to furnish them with new hair extensions.

Harriet cleared her throat. We’re agreed then. No bungee jumping, Darryl.

Darryl’s eyes took on a mutinous gleam. But—

I said no. Harriet gave him a level look. It’s dangerous, it won’t be cleared by legal, and the contestants will hate it.

Darryl’s jaw firmed, but he subsided in his chair, glowering.

Okay, Harriet leaned forward again. You need to come up with two more stunts by tomorrow. And make them serious this time. We need to wrap this up.

Darryl gathered up his laptop and headed for the door, grinding his teeth. Paul pushed himself to his feet, moving after him. Maybe he could coax the asshole into a couple of hours of brainstorming before Darryl headed off for his weekly comedy club gig.

Paul?

Harriet’s eyebrow was raised. Always a bad sign.

Yes? He gave her a careful smile.

Sit down for a minute. She gestured toward the chair next to hers.

Paul slid into his seat, trying for nonchalance. He didn’t think he’d done anything that merited getting fired, but you could never tell. What’s up?

Harriet tapped her pencil lightly against the table. I assume you’ve heard the news by now?

The news. He did a quick mental survey. What news? I’ve heard a lot of news lately, he hedged. What are we talking about?

Harriet grimaced. "The news. The new show. Finding Mr. Right."

He blew out a breath. Oh. Sure. Is it a go?

She nodded. "Definitely. They’ve got their bachelorette, so now they’re signing up bachelors. That means we’ll need to get going on the stunts as soon as we wrap up Miss Right, hopefully by the end of the week."

Terrific. Paul wished profoundly that he could say no to writing Finding Mr. Right, but he didn’t have any other job locked in. Unless his script got picked up by El Capitan Productions. "So we’re both moving over from Miss Right to Mr. Right?"

Harriet shrugged. "You are. In fact, I’m going to have you take lead for the time being. I’ve got too much to do with Miss Right and Take This Job to get involved right now. The jury’s still out on Darryl."

He’s okay, Paul said quickly. Just a little combative. No way was he doing Finding Mr. Right on his own.

He’s a pain in the ass. Harriet shook her head. "I’ll put up with him for the time being. I need somebody over at Mr. Right, though. Now. They’re getting set up with the sweetheart diva."

Paul’s lips twitched, but he managed to keep from grinning. They hired Ronnie Valero? What do you want me to do?

Liaise for now. They’ve got a deal pending with a resort. Most of the show’s going to be on location this time. Find out what kind of activities we’ll have available for stunts on the site and then let Darryl know.

Right. Tomorrow?

Harriet shook her head. Now. This afternoon. Artie and Glenn are ready to go, and Monica McKellar’s got the bachelors lined up. See if we’ve got anything interesting to work with.

Will do.

Harriet pushed herself up, gathering her laptop and BlackBerry. No bungee jumping. That’s my new motto. Absolutely no bungee jumping.

Right. Paul watched her turn back toward her office before he headed for the hall himself, sighing. He’d have to find out where Mr. Right would be shooting, and he’d have to talk to Glenn Donovan and his crew, far from his favorite people.

He paused, remembering Ronnie Valero. Miss Sweetheart Diva. Tears were almost guaranteed. In fact, given his memories of working with Ronnie Valero, he was likely to shed a few of his own before the season was over.

Paul sighed again. Chances were he had a lot of sighing in his future. He gathered up his laptop and began the long trudge toward the other side of the warehouse-sized building that housed Fairstein Productions.

Chapter Two

He’s gone? Ronnie’s lower lip was trembling and her eyes were beginning to take on that baby seal look. He’s really gone? Why? Why would he go? Was it me?

Monica and Ronnie were seated in what passed for a break room, currently the least populated room in the building since nobody wanted to be around when Ronnie got the news about Pres Jackson.

She leaned forward, her fingers pressed to her lips, her forehead scrunched in anguish. Why?

Monica suspected the answer to that question could well have something to do with the idea of paying court to Ronnie for a couple of months, but even hinting at that possibility would cause a lot of grief. Correction: a lot more grief.

I think he had someone back home, Ronnie, she murmured. Maybe he decided he just couldn’t give you the kind of attention you deserved.

Well, why did he try out for the show if he had someone else? Ronnie nibbled on her lower lip. Her voice began to sound more angry than heartbroken. Did they have a fight or something?

Maybe. He didn’t really explain the problem to anyone. But that seems like a good possibility, doesn’t it? Monica gave her what she hoped was an encouraging smile. She was trying to slide out of Ronnie’s presence as smoothly as she could. Ideally within the next five minutes.

But don’t you ask them about that when they apply for the show? I mean aren’t they supposed to tell you if they’ve got a girlfriend or something?

Monica rubbed her eyes, wishing mightily that she had a Ghirardelli bar. Stress eating always seemed to pick up at the beginning of the season as well as the end. Sometimes the middle if the bachelor was a real asshole. "Well, yes, we do interview them. You were interviewed yourself for Finding Miss Right, remember?"

So what happens now? Ronnie’s lower lip was jutting out into a pout, but Monica didn’t mind that. Sulking was easier to deal with than tears.

Now we’ll go back to the applications and the interviews that we did when we first called for contestants and see if we overlooked someone, she said brightly. I’m sure we’ll find somebody interesting, Ronnie. No problem. We had lots of applications. Of course, many of those applications came from guys who seemed to spend a lot of time pumping iron and popping steroids, but surely they had a few who weren’t totally bonkers.

Monica glanced back toward the other side of the room. Sid was standing in the doorway. He narrowed his eyes, shaking his head slightly.

Crap. You just concentrate on your magazine interviews today, she continued, pushing her lips into an even more insincere smile. We’ll take care of everything. It’ll all work out just fine.

Fortunately, one of the public relations people arrived at that moment to lead Ronnie back to her next interview, bringing the conversation to an end. Monica headed for Sid with a sinking heart. So?

"So nothing. Chuck Forrester is trying out for Survivor, which means he’s not interested in us anymore. The other two who were acceptable are both ‘unavailable,’ meaning they probably had some major second thoughts, not that any of us blame them. Plus they may have had other offers by now. All the other guys were like Foley. Remember Foley?"

Monica rubbed her eyes again. "Oh yeah, I remember Foley. The muscles and the ’roid rage. So not what we’re looking for. What about the applications? Anybody we didn’t pull in?"

Sid shook his head. We brought in everybody who was even minimally acceptable. Some of the other applicants had trouble spelling their own names.

We won’t be asking them to take a written exam, she snapped, then shook her head. Sorry, sorry. Not your fault. Who knew it would be so damned hard to find someone to take Ronnie off our hands?

Sid shrugged. Her parents, probably. My guess is they’ve probably been looking for a guy to do that for years.

Monica fought back a grin. This was no laughing matter. Maybe we can go with nine bachelors rather than ten.

Glenn Donovan, the producer/director, peeked around the door, raising his eyebrows. Did you tell her?

Monica sighed. Yes, Mr. Donovan, sir, I told her. She’s not happy.

He glanced toward the hall where Ronnie had just disappeared. Tears and sobbing unhappy or snarling unhappy?

More like snarling.

Glenn’s expression relaxed. So offer her a new outfit or something. Buy her some shoes. No problem.

Monica closed her eyes for a moment. Glenn wasn’t exactly a monument to sensitivity. We’ve also got problems finding a replacement. All the acceptable guys who were left have moved on to other stuff.

He shrugged. Put out another call.

Yes Glenn, we can do that. She took a quick breath. Of course, if we put out another call, the news might make it into the tabloids. People might wonder what’s wrong with Ronnie that she can’t attract ten guys.

Well, deal with it, he snapped. We start shooting in another week. Get somebody on board. Along with his shaky sensitivity, Glenn also had definite problems with patience.

Mr. Donovan?

Monica half turned to see one of the writers standing in the hall. She sort of knew him in the way she sort of knew most of the people on the crew. His dark brown hair was a little long by corporate standards, brushing the tops of his ears. His eyes were the color of melted chocolate. He always looked very…yummy. Yummy? Good grief, Monica, get a grip.

Glenn glanced at him. Where’s Harriet? I told her to meet me here.

The writer shrugged. She sent me over. I’m supposed to get started on figuring out the stunts. Can somebody fill me in on the locations?

Glenn checked his Rolex. Talk to Monica. She’ll take care of it.

Monica blinked. Me? What about the, you know, crisis?

What about it? Sid can take care of that. You talk to what’s his name here.

The writer looked like he was gritting his teeth. Paul Dewitt.

Paul. Right. She should have remembered. Now at least she wouldn’t have to call him Mr. Yummy. Okay, hang on. I’ll get you the promotional stuff the resort sent us.

The writer, Paul, walked beside her as she headed for her cubicle. His shoulders seemed a little broad for a writer. She wondered vaguely if he worked out—beneath the fine knit of his sweater, she could see the outline of what looked like well-developed pecs. What’s the matter with you? You’re acting like a sex-crazed teenager.

He raised an eyebrow. What crisis?

She grimaced. We’re down by a bachelor. One of them took off without notice. Now we have to come up with a replacement.

That’s a crisis?

Sure it is. Her eyes narrowed. Why wouldn’t it be?

Because these guys all seem sort of interchangeable. I mean you could just pick another one off the rack. Like the bachelorettes.

Monica’s jaw tightened. She hated it when somebody dissed the show. Maybe especially when it was true since she hated to admit that. You know they’re not interchangeable. You write the stunts.

He shrugged. Well, the stunts are always pretty generic. We usually don’t write for anyone in particular since they might be gone in a couple of weeks. I mean, other than the lead and one or two bachelorettes who look interesting.

Her jaw stayed tight. Yummy is as yummy does. She grabbed a file folder from her desktop, handing it to him. This is the information we’ve got on the resort. We’ll start off here in town as usual and then move there for the episodes when we get down to the final five or six bachelors.

Paul’s forehead furrowed as he looked at the glossy brochure cover. Where is it?

The resort? Colorado. A place called Elkhorn Run.

His eyebrows went up again. Colorado?

Yeah, it’s a ski resort. Except they’re trying to attract more tourists in the summer.

He nodded. I know. I’m from Colorado. I grew up northwest of Denver.

Oh. She tried to think of