Page 35 of His Choice

“Huh?”

Tyler pointed his hand toward my torso, then made a flicking motion. Maybe he assumed I was too stupid to follow verbal commands.

I stood and pulled the shirt over my head, and the woman with the crate of makeup came running over to retrieve it.

“Ah, you are flawless,” Tyler said. “Neary a freckle on your alabaster skin. Well-developed, lovely nipples, nice tummy. No question they’ll prefer the shirtless photos for the advertising, won’t they, Mira?”

The makeup lady who was apparently named Mira nodded. “He has the torso of a muscular, well-toned newborn.”

I couldn’t help but squint at her with a mix of surprise and disgust. I wondered if that case of hers also contained illicit drugs she’d taken for breakfast.

“Let’s go through all the same poses we did when you were wearing a shirt,” Tyler suggested. “Hands in pockets, please, and look at the camera with that wonderful expression that’s unique to you.”

“What expression is that?” I asked.

“The one you’ve been doing,” Tyler replied, as if I was an idiot. “Like I told you, innocent and almost frightened. Yet smoldering and sexy. You look like a young man who’s desiring a hard fuck, but afraid to ask for it.”

“Like a closet slut,” I muttered.

“Excuse me?” Tyler lowered the camera, waiting for me to repeat myself.

“Nothing,” I replied before letting him finish his shots.

Chapter Eleven

Cliff

The men had all finished having their photos taken for the television commercials, and now we were ready to begin the first challenge. We had all been escorted to my kitchen, which fortunately was large enough to accommodate the cast and crew.

“Boys,” Emilio called out, banging a spatula against the bottom of one of my pots. “We’re about to start the challenge…the first step as we help Cliff—on his journey to love.”

Barf. I wished Emilio would stop dropping that stupid tag line and saying it like the creepy investigative reporter from the television show Dateline. If he had been one of the contestants, I’d already have walked him out of the door.

“Uh, we’re not cooking, are we?” Ted asked, scanning the kitchen as if he had been thrown into a fantastical, scary world.

“Not quite,” Emilio replied. “Each of you will be given a baked, unfrosted sheet cake, along with a vat of buttercream icing, utensils and decorating tools, and various other treats to choose from to help you create your vision. You are free to do as you wish with the cake, but remember, whatever you produce for a final product, it should reflect a message that you want to send to our bachelor. You’ll have twenty minutes to finish, then you will each present your work to Cliff with an opportunity to express its meaning.”

I had been briefed on the challenge, and it seemed harmless enough, providing the men didn’t destroy my kitchen in the process of their task. I was to leave the room so the director and cameraman could focus on what each of the men were doing in my absence. First, I was supposed to address the group with a couple of prepared lines.

“I can’t wait to see what each of you comes up with,” I said. “This is a chance for you to show off your creativity and most importantly, tell me what I would have to look forward to if you become my choice.”

Double barf. I wondered why a reality show needed a writing staff at all. I had to believe the viewers cringed at the scripted words coming out of our mouths as much as I did.

I exited the room and made my way to my office where James sat chatting with my mother. They were sitting side-by-side on the sofa, but James rose when I entered. He was so formal and job-focused, despite my history of protests.

“Sit,” I offered in a soft tone so it would sound more like a request than a command. “I’d enjoy just spending the next twenty minutes talking to you both.”

James sat back down, and I took a chair opposite the pair. My mother passed an iPad to me.

“What’s this?” I asked. “We’re not supposed to have internet-enabled devices.”

“It’s not mine, and I haven’t gone on the web. It belongs to that bohemian photographer they hired. Tucker? Tyler? Tiger? Whatever. He told me he uploaded the photos of the contestants on this thing, so I flirted with him until he agreed to hand it over. I explained my role as coach to you…”

“You’re not my coach,” I reminded her.

“And that you’d value my assessment of each suitor’s physical attributes,” she continued. “James and I were just checking them out.”

I looked down at the screen and began to scroll through. I wished I could have done so in private, as I might have enjoyed some of the shirtless pictures more if I didn’t have my mother eyeing my reactions. “Um, these came out nice.”