The Dating Game

“Let’s begin.” Larissa moved to the center of the room, a wide, excited smile on her face.

“Already?” Mattie’s voice came out like a squeak.

“Don’t be nervous. You’re perfect. The quintessential Average Jill. So much better than the former Miss Indiana.” Larissa cupped a hand around her mouth and leaned toward Mattie’s ear. “Who was about as average as a hibiscus.”

Mattie wasn’t exactly sure that was a compliment. After all, if the other woman was a hibiscus, what did that make her? A weed? “What do I have to do?”

“Enjoy yourself. The cameramen will follow you around all day but we only show an hour of the day’s highlights each night and broadcast the elimination part live.” Larissa gave her a wide smile. “Stick it out for a week. That’s it.”

“No strings?”

“No, none at all.”

Mattie bit her lip. She glanced at David across the room, now talking to the producer. David hadn’t seemed so bad. If he was the type of guy she had to deal with for the next seven days, she could make it through.

Heck, she could start a fire without a match and concoct a meal out of wild vegetables. How hard could this dating game be?

If she had known they’d be sticking her in a chair and putting makeup on her, she’d have backed out. Two hours later, Mattie found herself surrounded by the show’s dream team—a hairdresser, makeup artist and clothing consultant, all assembled from the show’s “headquarters” in the pool house behind the mansion to take her from average to…

Well, not average.

“Ouch! Don’t do that,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Tweezing,” the hairdresser, Pepper, said. He hovered over her with the torture implement, his bright-turquoise shirt and floral-pattern jeans a blinding combination. “Most men prefer a woman with two brows, you know.”

“I’m not that bad.”

Pepper took a step back, tweezers at the ready between his fingers, and analyzed her. “Not anymore, honey.”

“Isn’t this supposed to be about an average woman?” she said to Steve. He’d hovered in the corner the entire time, chomping on fast food and offering his input on everything from lipstick colors to heel height. “I’m not average if I’m all made up like this. Besides, this isn’t even me.”

And it hadn’t been, not for a long time. At eighteen, when she’d walked away from the life of Chanel suits and Lancôme makeup, she’d vowed never to return. And now, here she was, starring in a bad sequel of her own past.

“This is TV. No one wants to see the real you.”

“But—” Then she was cut off by Salt, the makeup artist and Pepper’s partner in business, who had honed in on her with eyeliner. “Isn’t this making me the exact opposite?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Mattie, do you think anyone is going to tune in every night over the next week to see some soccer player get hooked up with Adonis? You may be cute in your cleats, but that’s not what builds Neilsens.”

She started to add to her argument, but Salt was coming at her with an eyelash curler, clamping it onto Mattie’s eyelashes and warning her not to move.

She hadn’t bought this many cosmetics in her lifetime, never mind worn them. And the clothes…

She cast a glance at the wardrobe hanging on the silver rod to her right. Some minion of Steve’s had been sent scurrying to the Lawford Mall to come up with a bunch of suitable evening gowns when the producer had realized all Mattie had in her backpack was two pairs of denim shorts, a couple of T-shirts and a plain blue Speedo.

Apparently bachelors didn’t go for women in Speedos. They wanted hot pink bikinis. Strappy gowns. Glittery tops and silky pants.

In other words, everything in Marshall Fields that made Mattie recoil in horror.

She endured Salt’s eye makeover and told herself she could last through this. It was only a week. If she could stick it out until the end of this ridiculous dress-the-Barbie game, she’d get her money and she could finally take care of the people who needed her.

Then her mind went back to David Simpson. He seemed nice. Actually interested in her. As if he might want something more than simply winning the title of best bachelor and half the hundred grand.

Either way, if he, or any of the other guys, got any ideas about rounding any sexual bases, she had a way of taking care of that. When the men came on too strong—

She had a hell of a soccer kick to take them down.

Chapter Three

David Bennett stood in a semicircle on the back lawn of the mansion with the other fourteen bachelors and asked himself for the hundredth time why he was here. And more than that, why he stayed.

It was crazy to think he could come on this show and in a week pull his career out of the gutter. It had seemed like an awfully sane idea when he’d sent in the fake application. He’d put down a friend’s name, not really thinking he’d get picked. His friend from college, David Simpson, was conveniently vacationing with his girlfriend and enough of a practical jokester himself that he found David’s idea of borrowing the Simpson last name hilarious.

And then the letter telling him he was a contestant had arrived and David had left his real name at home to find out the true story of these shows and blare it on the front page of the Lawford Sun. He had little worry about being recognized on camera. The one beauty of his job as a reporter was the visual anonymity. So he’d taken the monumental risk and gone on the show.

He needed to do something, especially after his byline had been attached to that toilet of a story about the mayor’s campaign contributions. His main source had turned out to be a pathological liar who thought he was the long-lost conjoined twin of Michael Jackson. That particular episode had been hard to live down at the paper. In fact, David was pretty damned sure they were still yukking it up at his expense over the Krispy Kremes in the break room.

So he’d taken on another man’s name and filled out the application with enough dating buzzwords to convince the producers he was a lovelorn bachelor.

Albeit, after getting a look at Mattie earlier today, he would have to say this was one of the most attractive assignments he’d ever had. That in and of itself added a complication David hadn’t counted on…but could handle.

With both hands tied behind his back.

“Hey, think she’ll be hot?” One of the other bachelors, Kenny Wilson, said to David, elbowing him. “They always say they’re throwing average girls on these shows, but come on, that doesn’t make for good TV. Who wants to see an ugly girl fall in love?”

“Aren’t we here to be matched with a girl for her personality, not her looks?” David said, repeating the show’s tag line. He was acutely aware of the wireless microphone attached to his lapel, the battery pack clipped to his belt.

Kenny snorted. “Yeah, right. Since when did personality matter? I want someone so hot she’s going to make me forget she even has a personality.”

He couldn’t stay here with a bunch of men like this—no, not men, Neanderthals—and last seven days. Plus, in order to make it to the end, he had to convince Mattie Grant he was the one for her.

It would be easier to convince his editor the Michael Jackson pseudo twin wasn’t a complete fruitcake.

Larry Herman, another man who looked as if he was auditioning for Cosmo’s bachelor of the month, sidled up to them. “You’re a hound, Kenny. Don’t be drooling on her.”

“I don’t drool.”

“You do, too. I saw you watching the beach volleyball competitions on MTV earlier and you were definitely drooling. I’m sure she’s here looking for substance, not cream filling.”

“Oh, and I suppose you have that?”

Larry puffed out his chest. “Sure I do. And a lot of it.” He gave the other two men a wink.

“Gentlemen.” Larissa, the hostess, glided onto the back patio in her second fancy dress of the day, her auburn hair back in a gold clip. She got their attention with a clap of her hands. “It’s time.”

“Man, I’m so nervous. I hope my deodorant works,” said one of the guys on the far end.

“I’m sure she’ll like all of you. This is your first meeting, so try not to be too nervous. This is a simple, getting-to-know-you cocktail hour. Mattie will be nervous, too, so be easy on her.” Larissa gifted them with a smile.