So easily did she read his meaning. Stories. They could get through this without revealing too many truths while still keeping things interesting, couldn’t they? It might even be fun. “Oh yeah,” Melody said, winking back. “Stories you won’t believe.”
“Cut!” Danielle squeaked. “Get it to the team,” she whispered to Joseph. “We’re going to get this up on all network socials immediately with a drop-in about the live stream starting Friday. That was our hook—and it was more like a harpoon.”
The cameraman lowered the piece of equipment from his shoulder and Beat and Melody got a look at the guy’s Gerard Butler look-alike face for the first time. Joseph gave Danielle a once-over, a succinct nod—and then he threw a fond grin at Melody.
Melody smiled back.
“One more condition,” Beat said, without thinking. “I want a different cameraman.”
Joseph laughed on his way out the door.
Danielle watched him go with a cross between hostility and reluctant interest. “Don’t worry, he’s professional to a fault. The best in the business if you disregard his cynical ogre vibe. He gets the work done and goes home, wherever that may be.”
Beat suspected Danielle might have an idea where Joseph lived, but he’d be keeping that theory to himself. Or so he thought. Melody subtly elbowed him in the ribs and gave him a tiny eyebrow waggle, to let him know she’d picked up on the romantic tension, too. How did they seem to be on the same page so easily?
What if the next thirteen days weren’t such a hassle after all?
What if he . . . enjoyed them because he was with Melody?
Just don’t enjoy them too much.
“So . . .” Melody started, blushing. Probably because he was staring at her like he was trying to count her eyelashes. Did she know how pretty she was? “What’s next?”
Danielle let the silence stretch until Beat managed to stop actually counting Melody’s eyelashes, the producer not quite managing to hide her amusement. “Go home and get some rest. Meet back here on Wednesday morning for your promotional confessionals. I’d planned to do them separately, but I’ve changed my mind. We’re going to do a joint interview. You’re incredible together.” Danielle didn’t break for air while Beat and Melody traded a fleeting, but heavy, look. “Due to simple geography, Beat, I think we should approach your mother about the reunion first.”
“Fuck.”
Melody giggled.
The producer picked up her phone and tapped a few times on the screen. “According to Octavia’s social media, she has a gala Friday evening to benefit her foundation.”
“Yeah,” Beat confirmed with a sigh. “I should know. I’m the one who organized it.”
“That’s where we’ll strike.” Danielle smiled, waved her hands innocently. “Or get the show on the road. However you’d like to term it.”
“Tempt death,” Beat suggested. “Inflict betrayal.”
“Wreck the halls?” This from Melody. “Too bad my mother isn’t a nudist anymore. There would have been nowhere to hide weaponry.”
A cough snuck out of him, then expanded into a full-on belly laugh. How was he laughing right now? He’d just agreed to his—and Melody’s—privacy being invaded straight through Christmas Eve.
“I wish I hadn’t sent the camera away,” Danielle mused.
“Why?” asked Melody quietly, wetting her lips.
And Beat watched it happen, because he couldn’t get his attention off her mouth.
Danielle hummed, her gaze ping-ponging between Beat and Melody. “No reason.” She tapped a finger to her mouth. “Wreck the halls. Is that what you said, Melody? Forget The Parents’ Trap. I think we have our new name.”
“I’ll accept all future royalties in beignets,” Melody said, seeming a little flummoxed over her offhand idea being deemed network-worthy. “Uh. There is one little problem with Friday’s plans.”
What was it? He’d fix it for her right now.
“I don’t have anything to wear to a gala.”
Danielle picked up her office phone and hit a button, her eyes twinkling with something that made Beat’s stomach churn. Mischief. Anticipation. Plans. “Oh, I think I can help with that.”
Chapter Six
December 13
Melody arrived in Manhattan too early Wednesday morning. She stood to the side of the subway exit, debating her options. Kill time by going into Duane Reade and buying eyeshadow palettes she would never wear, sit in a coffee shop and people watch . . . or text Beat. He lived in Midtown, right? Maybe he wanted to get coffee?
Again?
Boring!
She had this fantastic vision of them dashing through the city and committing spontaneous pranks, like Paul and Holly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but Melody was less Holly Golightly and more Holly Gohomeandstaythere.
Although maybe that wasn’t entirely true anymore. After all, she had signed on for a reality show with no idea what lay ahead. She’d taken the steps to stop depending on Trina for monetary support—even if the million dollars was contingent on a pipe dream. The decision was something and something was more than nothing.
Riding high on her burst of positivity, Melody took out her phone and texted Beat.
Melody: I’m early. Tell me where to get the best coffee.
Wow. She even impressed herself with that text message. It informed Beat she was in the city and looking for something to do, without asking him to commit to an activity.
Not too shabby, Gallard.
Beat: I’m at the gym. Come here? They have coffee.
Melody: Sounds like a trap.
Beat: Would I do that to you?
Melody: Someone might have stolen your phone. I could be speaking to a guy named Lance who wants to sell me a gym membership.
Beat: HAHA. It’s me, Peach. I’m dropping a pin.
Melody: OK. I’m coming, but I’m dubious.
Her phone dinged, adding a layer of warm shivers to the ones he’d set loose by calling her Peach. It was there in her phone forever now. She could look at it whenever she chose. Melody tapped the directions button, relieved to find she was only an avenue and one block south of Beat’s gym. Seven minutes later, she pushed cautiously through the revolving door with an expression that dared any Lances to try and sell her a Pilates package.
Not today, Satan.
But as predicted, a smiling jock in a purple polo shirt was already approaching her, straight off the finish line of an Ironman competition. Those weren’t even real calf muscles. They were veiny boulders shoved into skin-tone nylons. “Welcome to Core. Are you a member?”
Run while you can.
“Sorry, I have the wrong address—”
“Mel!” Amid the distant metal clanging and high-energy notes of an “All I Want for Christmas” remix, she heard Beat calling her name and turned.
There he was.
Running toward her through the reception area. In black athletic shorts and no shirt.
Sweating. Sweating all over the place.
Oh my God, she was looking at his nipples. Stop. Don’t look down, either. She had to stop herself from looking at those high cuts of muscle above his hips. Or the rivulet of perspiration dripping off the meatiest part of his left pec. Or that little peek of happy trail. Too late. She saw everything. She’d perused him like the specials menu.