Eight Weeks to Mr. Right Read online

  EIGHT WEEKS TO MR. RIGHT

  By

  Amy Archer

  Copyright © 2015 by Amy Archer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  WEEK 1

  I sat down in an open seat at the bar, willing my heart to slow down. It didn’t help: I felt like I was going to vomit. I was so excited and nervous, I could hardly stand it.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

  “Red wine,” I said, and he waited. But I couldn’t form the words in my mind for any particular kind of grapes. They were a jumble of French- or Italian-sounding names. All I could think was, Tonight. Tonight. It’s finally starting tonight.

  “Um, whatever’s cheap,” I fumbled, and blushed as he turned away.

  My eyes drifted up above the long, polished wood bar to where a car commercial played on a TV with the volume down low.

  And then, there it was. There I was. On TV.

  “Starting tonight, the newest reality dating show everyone’s been talking about,” I heard the announcer’s voice say as a shot from our promo footage flashed on the screen. I saw myself standing there alongside all the other women from the show, my arms crossed in the “confident posture” we’d been instructed to adopt. I swallowed hard, wanting the bartender to turn the sound up but not daring to ask. The shot panned over Andrew, looking as sexy as ever, as he stood a few feet away from all the women and looked us up and down appraisingly.

  That moment had taken hours to shoot. By the time we’d finally gotten it right, it had been the middle of the night, and Andrew had been as sick of staring at us as we were of being gawked at. Now, though, my stomach flipped in queasy somersaults at the sight of him.

  Then there we were dressed up and dancing, and there I was again, my dress sparkling in the light as Andrew twirled me and then dipped me down low. I tapped my fingers nervously against the bar and kept watching.

  The scene changed. “Will you help me zip up?” a coy Isabella asked Andrew, fluttering her fake eyelashes at him. A hard lump formed in my stomach. Isabella was the absolute worst. I hoped for what must’ve been the hundredth time that she hadn’t won. On the screen, Andrew moved forward and pulled the long zipper up Isabella’s back, and I tried to fight my jealousy.

  In the next shot, a group of the women had their heads together, clearly gossiping. “I don’t know what the hell she thinks she’s doing,” Brandi said fiercely. “But she shouldn’t be here.” I wondered idly who they were talking about. I hadn’t participated in any of the gossip on-set, knowing it would only cause problems.

  Then there was Abby, covered in flour. A few scenes I didn’t recognize, interspersed with shots of some of the locations.

  And then there was Andrew holding a paper heart, the symbol of the show. “I think you could be the one,” he told someone off-camera, and then the shot flashed on one of the girls rolling her eyes. She’d been cut the first night, so I’d never learned her name. These two moments clearly did not happen on the same day.

  The announcer’s voice again: “It’s all coming up on the first-ever season of Eight Weeks to Mr. Right…starting tonight at 8/7 Central, right here.”

  “You okay?” the bartender asked, setting a glass of red wine down in front of me, and I nearly jumped at his voice, returning to the real world with a start.

  “Yeah…yeah, fine,” I said. I couldn’t believe the show was about to air. I had only — I glanced at my phone — half an hour now before I’d make my reality TV debut. Still none of it felt real, and yet here it was, finally about to happen.

  I glanced around me, but no one was even looking at the TV. I sipped the wine tentatively. Yes, it tasted like exactly what I’d ordered: their cheapest glass of red wine.

  My thoughts drifted back to that first day on-set. So much had been different then. I wasn’t there for Andrew, I was there for what Andrew represented — the possibility of my dream job. But something had happened. Over the course of those eight weeks of filming, I’d gotten to know him, and I’d realized that I really liked him. Really liked him.

  I knew that part of it was the competition angle; placed in opposition with all these other women for Andrew’s affections, it was impossible not to start to want him to choose me, not to want to win.

  But there had been more to it than just that. There was that nagging feeling that had started up…when, exactly? I wasn’t sure. But it had grown over the course of taping until I was sure that Andrew and I were meant for each other, that we would be together forever. We were in the same professional field, after all, so we understood each other in a way that he just couldn’t have with the other women. And the way he’d looked at me as we’d gotten to know each other, the laughs we’d shared, the intimate moments…

  Until, I remembered with a painful pang, The Horrible Day. The worst day of my life. The day that had been so awful I couldn’t even think about it, even now, almost four months later, without feeling like I was about to cry.

  I tapped my fingers anxiously against the bar, willing myself to think about something else. It’s fine, I told myself. All is not lost. There’s still a chance of getting a job from him, I just have to get through the show first. And then, who knew. Maybe he’d still fall in love with me. But the job was the most important thing.

  Still twenty-five minutes until the show started. I was going over to a high school friend’s house to watch the episode, but had had some time to kill before heading there. I couldn’t stand to stay in the house, though — I was just too nervous. And my parents had been peppering me with questions all week about how I felt about it airing, and I just couldn’t do it anymore.

  I needed my own place, stat. Thank god for Megan, one of the few people I’d known in high school who still lived here in San Francisco. We’d only talked on the phone since I’d been back and I had no idea whether we’d still get along, but at least she wanted to watch with me. Imagining sitting in my parents’ living room with them watching the episode sounded miserable.

  I sipped at my wine and glanced around me again. The bar was buzzing with activity, but something caught my eye. I blinked. Ben?

  My high school boyfriend strode through the door and up to the bar, only feet from where I was sitting. I swiveled around in my seat to get a better look. Yes, it was definitely him.

  I couldn’t believe it. I had fond memories of Ben from the two years that we’d dated — practically an eternity for teenagers — but it had been a decade since we’d talked. I’d been so hurt when he’d dumped me without ever explaining why, and had avoided him for the rest of high school. But over time the hurt had faded, and when I’d thought of Ben over the years it was always with a warm fondness.

  I waited until he’d ordered to call his name. When I did, he looked around and seemed to take a moment to recognize me.

  Ben looked amazing. While he’d always been an attractive guy — medium-brown hair that always seemed to fall over his haunting green eyes, a smile that would make you forget your own name — in the years since I’d known him he’d turned into a man. He was tall with a well-sculpted body and a gentle but confident demeanor. Not bad, high-school me, I thought. Not bad.

  “Oh wow, January!” he said when
it hit, and a huge smile spread over his face. I smiled back and got up to give him a big hug. “You smell amazing,” he said when we broke apart.

  “Thanks!” I said with a grin. “I made the perfume myself. I can’t believe how long it’s been!” I was thrilled to see him, though if I was totally honest with myself I’m not sure how much of it was Ben and how much of it was the timing. I needed a distraction tonight, bad.

  “I know!” he said. “Are you living here again these days? I heard you’d moved to New York.”

  “I was there for a few years,” I said. “And…at least for the time being, I’m back. I just got back a couple months ago. I’m actually still looking for a place to live.”

  I could’ve kicked myself for that last part. Please don’t ask where I’m staying right now, I willed him silently. I didn’t want to tell him I’d been living with my parents. I was twenty-nine years old, for God’s sake.

  Luckily, he just nodded and said, “Not a lot available right now. So what have you been up to?”

  I hesitated. The show was all I could think about, and had been for months. I’d quit my job for it. I’d moved across the country for it. I’d put everything else in my life on hold for it — or at least, for what it might mean for my career. But now I found myself embarrassed to admit to my old boyfriend that I was about to go on reality TV. Instead, I just shrugged.

  “I’ve been working as a scent developer,” I said. “Or at least, that’s what I was doing in New York.”

  “Interesting,” he said. “So you make, what, perfume?”

  “Well,” I said, sighing, “that’s the goal. But there they had me developing something for, uh, deodorant. Not quite as exciting.”

  “Not quite,” he agreed with a smile.

  I opened my mouth to ask about his life, but at that moment a woman walked up to us and tapped me on the shoulder. Her bangs were cut straight across her forehead in a way that made her look much younger than her forty-five or so years. “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said timidly. “But aren’t you the girl from that new Mr. Right show?”

  My eyes flitted past Ben’s face toward her, and I saw his confusion. “Oh…” I said, simultaneously embarrassed at having this happen in front of Ben and proud to have been recognized before the show even started. “Yes, I am, actually.”

  “I knew it!” the woman said, clapping her hands together in distinctly Midwestern excitement. “I’ve seen you on the ad all week, and when I saw you here I just thought, ‘That has to be her.’”

  “You’re on what now?” Ben interjected, an amused look on his face.

  “I, um…I’m about to be on a reality TV show,” I told him.

  The woman broke in again. “Well, I don’t mean to keep you, but I just wanted to say hi and good luck. I’ll be rooting for you!”

  “Thank you,” I said, and the woman skittered back to her husband on the other side of the room.

  “What kind of show are you on?” Ben asked, that same amusement still filling his voice.

  I swatted at him playfully. “You can drop the tone. I know it’s silly. It’s a…it’s a dating show.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “All right then. I see you’ve gotten desperate since we broke up. And did you get the guy?”

  I laughed and looked down at the floor. “I can’t tell you that. You’ll just have to watch. It starts tonight. In fact…” I pulled my phone from my pocket to check the time. Fifteen till. Time to get moving. “I’m actually on my way to Megan’s house to watch with her. Remember Megan Fontinelli, from high school?”

  “Oh, yeah, I do,” he said. But as I started to put my phone back in my pocket and finish off my wine, my phone dinged a text message sound. It was Megan.

  “Have to work late tonight. I’m sorry! Maybe next episode?”

  I was stunned. “Are you kidding me?” I said out loud to the phone, then looked up at Ben. “She just canceled. Fifteen minutes before the show starts, and she cancels. Where am I supposed to watch now?” It was true that I hadn’t kept in touch with Megan much in the intervening years since high school, but this was important to me. It stung that she wouldn’t prioritize our plans, especially since I’d never be able to get back to my parents’ house on the south side of town in time for the start of the episode.

  It was a lonely feeling, realizing that I knew so few people in San Francisco anymore.

  “You could come to my place if you want,” Ben offered. “I’m only a few minutes from here.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, peering at him doubtfully. I’d known Ben well once upon a time, but it had been years. And I wouldn’t exactly be making an ideal impression by making my reality TV debut the first night we see each other again. “Don’t you have stuff to do? Are you meeting someone here?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Happy hour with my coworkers. They’ll understand. It’s not every day you get to watch your ex-girlfriend make a fool of herself on national TV.”

  I laughed. “I was very careful not to make a fool of myself,” I assured him, but I was still doubtful. “But do you really want to watch reality TV? You seem like someone who would just hate it.”

  “Oh, I do,” he said. “It’s so fake. It’s ridiculous. And it glorifies idiotic drama. But I can’t miss this.”

  I felt myself giving in, despite my embarrassment. Besides, what other options did I have at this point? I didn’t want to miss the very first episode.

  “Okay,” I said. “If you really don’t mind, that would be great. But,” I couldn’t resist adding, “it’s not fake. I thought so too before I was on it, but now I know how much goes on off-camera that doesn’t make it into the show.” I knew I should stop there, but I didn’t. “There’s real stuff that happens, they just can’t show it all. It may look like people are faking emotions, but that’s only because you miss the hour of heartfelt conversation and only see the crying at the end.”

  Like falling for Andrew, I thought, though I didn’t say that part out loud.

  Ben raised his eyebrow at me again. “And you’re not worried about being portrayed that way?”

  “Nope,” I said. “I know it’ll all get edited into a dumbed-down version, but I didn’t do anything I’m not proud of.”

  He just nodded, and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “What’s the show called?” he asked instead of responding.

  “Eight Weeks to Mr. Right.”

  “Eight weeks? Why so short?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “It’s a summer show. I think they just wanted to create something that would wrap up in the right amount of time.

  “Hmm,” he said. “That’s not nearly long enough to fall in love.”

  Now it was my turn not to respond. Instead, we signaled for the bartender and we paid our tabs to head out.

  I followed Ben up the stairs to his apartment, the smell of cured ham from a deli down the street following us as he unlocked the front door and led me into the living room.

  “Nice,” I said, looking around at the clean, comfortable-looking room. “Do you live alone here?”

  “At the moment,” he said, heading into the kitchen. “Can I get you a drink? Beer? Wine? Orange juice?”

  I didn’t usually drink much, but I was so nervous tonight that I knew I’d need a bit of liquid courage. “A glass of wine would be great.”

  Ben reappeared with a bottle of red and poured us each a glass. “Yeah, my roommate moved out at the end of last month,” he said. “It’s been really nice to have the place to myself, but pretty soon I need to start looking for someone to take his place.”

  I picked up the remote from the coffee table and switched the TV on, kicking off my shoes and settling into the couch with my wine. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude,” I said, suddenly realizing how quickly I’d made myself at home. “I just don’t want to miss it.”

  “Of course,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Neither do I.”

  There were a couple of minutes of ads, and then my heart le
apt to my throat when the show’s intro came on. A few of the scenes from the preview ad flickered across the screen, and then the announcer’s voice: “It’s all starting now, right here on Eight Weeks to Mr. Right.”

  “Oh god,” I moaned, and took a few more gulps from my glass.

  The scene shifted to Andrew swimming underwater through a shimmering pool, shirtless, then coming up for air with water streaming off his tanned skin. He was muscular, fit, and handsome, and the way he smiled at the camera you could tell he knew it. My chest tightened. “By day, Andrew Audrave is the CEO of La Joie Parfumerie, which is quickly becoming one of the biggest names in perfume,” the voiceover said. His stats flashed across the screen: Age: 35. Location: Los Angeles. Occupation: CEO. “But the demands of his high-powered job leave little time for finding love.”

  Carson Carmichael, the show’s host, strode into the scene in a dapper dark blue suit. “That’s where we come in,” he said. “Over the next eight weeks, Andrew and twenty women will go through all the most important aspects of getting to know one another to see who has chemistry and will go on to the next round, and who’s just plain incompatible. Each week they’ll explore a different aspect of relationship bliss. They’ll go out on the town, cook a meal together, meet each other’s families…and maybe” — he lowered his voice intimately — “even engage in some extracurricular activities, if you know what I mean. It’s all designed to help Mr. Right figure out which of these women — if any — could be his happily-ever-after.”

  The scene shifted to Andrew being interviewed in a darkened room lit with candles — the one-on-one confessional. He was wearing a low V-neck shirt that revealed a fair amount of his bulky chest. “I’m not just looking for a woman to spend time with, I’m here looking for a wife,” Andrew said, running his fingers through his wavy blond hair, a gesture I knew well. “I’ve been very fortunate to have a lot of success in my professional life, but behind every great man is a great woman. I believe that woman, for me, is here tonight.”