The Cinderella Makeover
by Hope Tarr
Copyright © 2013 by Hope Tarr. 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.
Chapter One
Cloud Flyer Headquarters, Silicon Valley, Fourteen Months Earlier
“Mr. Knickerbocker, be reasonable. When you agreed to grant GQ an interview for their February feature, surely you must have known they’d want your photograph?”
British-born fashion photographer Francesca St. James paused for breath. For the past ten minutes, she’d been speaking not to a wall but to a broad—if somewhat thinly fleshed—set of shoulders.
“I agreed to be interviewed—period.” Cloud Flyer founder and CEO Gregory Knickerbocker sat at his computer with his back to her, body language so blatantly rude it set Francesca’s teeth on edge.
His tech start-up might be the hottest new social media community since Facebook and he the latest addition to that year’s list of top ten tech CEOs, his net worth in the vicinity of thirty billiondollars, but for the present he was her subject only, photographing him for GQ magazine her sole reason for flying out on a red-eye from New York. Beyond getting the cover shot, nothing else mattered—nothing.
Since she’d arrived, he’d done everything to thwart her, beginning with keeping her and her team waiting in the lobby despite their prearranged appointment. Jet-lagged and fed up, Francesca had bypassed the front desk, the flip-flop-wearing receptionist, and the party in progress and taken the stairs up to the suite of second-story offices. She’d spent the time since talking herself blue in the face.
Digging in her heels, she insisted, “No magazine will run a feature story without a photograph.”
Dubbed the “Media-Shy Mogul” and the “Camera-Shy CEO,” until now Gregory Knickerbocker had refused to give interviews or to appear on camera. His CFO, a pricey PR firm, and his personal entourage of programmers served as the collective face for Cloud Flyer’s corporate brand. But now that the company had reached the milestone of a hundred million users, he’d appeared to have a change of heart. This present profile piece for GQ, his media debut, was a huge coup, not only for the magazine but for Francesca—provided her photographs and byline were part of it.
“Why not?” he asked, still staring at the screen.
Did he really mean to go on fighting her on this? Choking back her frustration, Francesca dragged a hand through her hair, belatedly recalling that she’d pinned it back in preparation for working.
Fingers catching on a clip, she answered, “Because it’s…just not done.”
He swiveled in his office chair to face her. Progress? “So make an exception.”
She ran her gaze over him, wondering again what the bloody big deal was. He wasn’t the Elephant Man for Christ’s sake. Give the mop of thick black hair a good shearing and take away the thick-rimmed eyeglasses and baggy clothes topped off with the ubiquitous gray hoodie, and Mr. Knickerbocker had the makings of quite a good-looking man.
“That’s not in my purview, Mr. Knickerbocker. I’m a freelancer.”
A freelancer who always got her shot—always. That this impossible man might be the black mark on a decade’s career record of unbroken successes was not to be borne.
Softening her tone, she tried again. “Cloud Flyer is a global company now. Just this morning you, or rather your spokesperson, announced your intention to go public before the year’s end. Don’t you wish to celebrate your success?”
His even gaze met hers again. “I am celebrating.”
She glanced beyond him to the screen of Greek-to-her functions and variables. “By…coding?”
He unfolded his long-boned body from the chair and stood. Reaching his arms over his head in a stretch, he said, “By doing what I love, what took Cloud Flyer from a crazy idea I had in my head back in college to what it is today.”
Doing her best to ignore the sweatshirt rising above his navel, revealing a flat belly dusted with dark hair, Francesca said, “Yes well, I can see how busy you are, and I assure you I’ll be fast. You won’t even know I’m here.” She sent her camera case a sidelong glance, hands itching to take out the Nikon. Still zipped, it sat on a chair.
A groan greeted that promise. “Oh, believe me, I’ll know.”
Ignoring his sarcasm, she sallied forth. “We can shoot using natural light if you prefer.”
Dark brows lifted. Sending her a quizzical look, he lowered his arms to his sides. “You say that like it’s some sort of concession.”
“Sorry, I don’t follow.”
Planting his hands on his trim hips, he tilted his head to one side as she sometimes did when mentally mapping out the angle of a shot. “You’re offering me natural light to incentivize me into letting you take my picture, but the fact is sunlight, solar power, is one of the few free natural energy sources. It’s not really yours to give. The next thing I know, you’ll be offering me air, too.”
He was eccentric, Francesca got that, but then he wouldn’t be the first boy genius entrepreneur to have a touch of a Peter Pan complex. The environment he’d created all but screamed “bats in the belfry!” Searching for possible backdrops, she cast her gaze about the emptied room, not a private office but rather a huge communal workspace of whiteboards, desks, and meeting tables; the latter covered with craft paper, much of it doodled on. Bowls of crayons and colored markers were set about. A mural of a cloud-filled sky took up one large wall. More clouds were painted on the high ceiling and stenciled into the glass partitions—Neverland, indeed.
“Image—fashion—is part and parcel of Gentleman’s Quarterly’s mission. If you’ve ever picked up a copy from a newsstand or…” She paused, glancing at the glass-topped desk, devoid of a blotter or so much as a slip of paper, and amended, “Read it online, you know that’s true.”
He rolled his eyes. Even outlined by the ludicrous frames, they appeared lushly lashed—and deeply blue. “Do I look like I’m into fashion?”
Francesca hesitated. Striving for diplomacy, she admitted, “I have a stylist with me.”
She did, along with her assistant, both cooling their heels in the lobby on a ticking deadline clock. She’d asked them both to stay below, hoping Mr. Knickerbocker might see sense if she spoke to him in private.
“Good to know.”
Rounding the desk, he came toward her, closing the gap between them to mere inches. Francesca swallowed—hard. For the first time it occurred to her how utterly alone they were. Barring them, the room was deserted, everyone else having decamped downstairs. Blaring music, a cacophony of conversational chatter, and the occasional champagne cork popping suggested the party was nowhere near waning.
She forced her gaze back up to his. Impossibly clear cerulean-blue eyes pinned her. A moist mouth mocked her. More than six feet of tall, lean man towered over her. Like a dragonfly trapped in amber, she was caught in place.
He took another step, obliging her to back up—to the wall. “You get my picture, you leave, is that the deal?” Shaggy dark hair hung low over his high forehead, the ebony strands silken-looking and all but begging to be brushed back.
Resisting the bizarre impulse to do just that, Francesca marshaled her marauding senses. “Yes.”
She licked her lips, planning out the angles from which she would shoot him, how to make best use of the fading late afternoon light. She could already tell that, scruffy and unstyled as he was, the camera would love him. The cleft in his chin and the dark stubble blanketing his jaw added interest to a classically featured face.
He drew back suddenly, and she felt as though an invisible cord had been snapped. “Okay, you’ve got it.”
“I…do?”
He nodded. “Sure, just give me a second. I need to send something.”
“Y-yes, of course.”
He reached into his sweatshirt and pulled out his iPhone. Thumbs working, he tapped out a text message. Hitting send, he pocketed the phone and looked back up at her. “Okay, we’re done.”
“We are?”
He nodded, his flashing smile making her heart flutter. “Take out your phone.” It wasn’t a request but an order.
Only Francesca didn’t take orders. “Why?”
His square jaw firmed. “Just do it.”
Sidestepping him, she reached for the bag she’d set down on a nearby chair. Feeling around inside, she found her iPhone and took it out. Sure enough, she had a text message waiting from GKnickerbocker@CloudFlyer.com. Humoring him, she tapped on the photo link, and then waited a few seconds for the picture to load.
It did, and she jerked up her head to stare at him. “If this is some kind of joke…”
His face, oddly attractive and utterly slap-able, drew close to hers, his expression that of a kid who’d just said, Gotcha! “The magazine needs my photograph to run with the article? Well, this is me.”
“But it’s your—”
“Baby picture, yes, I know,” he said, backing way. “The deal we just struck was for a photo of me—you didn’t say anything about it being current. And just so you know, I’m also happy to provide my high school yearbook picture and oh, I have some great shots from sixth-grade computer camp—that was one hell of a wild summer. Feel free to shoot my assistant an e-mail if you want more.”
Rage ripped through Francesca, supplanting the sensual awareness of a moment ago. “This is outrageous!”
He turned toward the glass doors through which she’d entered and had the gall to grin back at her over his shoulder. “I’ve kept my end of our bargain, Francesca. Now I expect you to keep yours—and go.”
“With pleasure!”
Snatching up her camera case and storming out, Francesca allowed that she well and truly loathed Gregory Knickerbocker. Of all her subjects over the last decade, his was the one face she heartily hoped never to set eyes upon again.
On Top Magazine, Manhattan, February 14, Present Day
Francesca had never understood why so many women seemed to equate workout wear with an antidote to depression. How optimistic could one truly hope to feel whilst swimming in a shapeless jumper and baggy elastic-waistbanded trousers? So when she stepped off the elevator onto the eleventh floor of the McGraw-Hill Building quite alone on St. Valentine’s evening, she did so clothed in couture from head to foot. Her three-quarter-length belted trench was Carolina Herrera, the beaded champagne-colored chiffon sheath beneath Stella McCartney, and her evening bag Prada.
Compared to galas held atop Paris’s Eiffel Tower, Seattle’s Space Needle, and New York’s Top of the Rock, all of which she’d attended in the last year, On Top magazine’s annual Valentine’s cocktail party was a modest gathering. As a work function, it was also one of the few Valentine’s events she could go to alone without appearing pathetic. If she truly couldn’t bear the boredom, she needn’t stay beyond the requisite hour. Such was the beauty of an open house.
Handing off her coat and scarf to a waiting attendant, she darted a fast glance inside the double glass doors to the people-packed office reception area. Men and women wearing jeans and high-top sneakers mingled with those outfitted in tuxedos and floor-length gowns. Most guests were paired off, but then on this day of hearts and flowers, she’d hardly expected otherwise. For a fleeting few seconds, she regretted her Thanksgiving weekend breakup with her sous chef boy toy. Freddie, despite his myriad failings, had made a marvelous bit of arm candy.
Shoulders back, head high. Deep breath, then one foot after the other…
Francesca pulled back on the chrome door handle and entered, immediately engulfed by body heat and competing conversations. Perfumes ranging from designer to drugstore fought against a steaming garlicky dim sum cart, the cloying sweetness of wilting roses, and the sourness of perspiration. Dodging darting elbows and sloshing drinks, she made a quick circuit of the room, searching out familiar faces including a few she might wish to avoid. Spotting a chubby sixty-something man wearing a bad toupee and the modern-day equivalent of a leisure suit, an LA television producer for whom she’d once worked on a commercial, she cut a sharp left in the opposite direction.
A glimpse of upswept red hair and a bark of laughter drew her attention to the room’s center, where the magazine’s managing editor, Cynthia “Starr” Starling, held court. Or at least, Francesca thought the petite redhead must be Starr. The radiant creature joined at the hip to a tall, vaguely familiar chestnut-haired hunk hardly resembled the hard-bitten newswoman who’d been a pain in Francesca’s posterior on more than one project. Gone was the scowl and stressed-out demeanor. Instead Starr seemed to glow with a soft, undulating energy. Could this be the same woman whom everyone on staff addressed as “Boss Lady” to her face—and “Iron Woman” behind her back?
The man leaned forward and whispered something into Starr’s ear, lighting her porcelain skin a perfect candy-heart pink. Laughing, Starr reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. He caught her hand in his, turned it palm-up, and carried it to his lips.
Rapt with watching the loving exchange, Francesca felt a lump forming in her throat. Partnered or not, she’d always felt so dreadfully alone.
I need a new life plan. But most immediately, I need a bloody cocktail.
She began to forge forward to the bar when Starr spotted her and waved her over. Bollocks! Giving up on a proper drink for the time being, Francesca snagged a champagne flute from the tray of a circulating server and pushed a path toward her hostess.
“Happy Valentine’s, sweetie!” Starr exclaimed, hugging her as though they were best mates.
Stepping back, Francesca said, “Congratulations on the crush.” She gestured with her glass to indicate Starr’s black tulle and lace cocktail dress. “You look smashing. Dolce & Gabbana, isn’t it?”
Before now, Francesca had only ever seen the managing editor in shapeless sweaters, peasant skirts, and the ubiquitous boots and Birkenstocks. Who knew she even had legs, let alone nicely shaped ones, shown off to perfection by the sheer lace-patterned black hose and scarlet velvet and rhinestone shoes? The latter looked to be from the art deco era, although Francesca couldn’t yet identify the designer.
Starr nodded, her color deepening ever so slightly, and it struck Francesca that perhaps the other woman wasn’t so much bitchy as shy. “Sample sale.” She reached out to her date, her hand coming to rest on his forearm. “Do you remember Matt?”
Francesca hesitated. Wearing a tweed blazer with suede elbow patches, jeans, and scuffed Western-style boots, Starr’s boyfriend struck her as being from the South or Midwest, definitely not a native New Yorker. Although they’d met before, she couldn’t recall the circumstances.
“Matt Landry. I signed on as art director last year. Glad you could make it tonight.” He stuck out his hand in the brash way of Americans.
Grateful that he’d saved her from fumbling, she took it briefly. “Lovely to see you again.”
They’d met for all of two minutes the previous fall but the encounter was a bit of a blur. Like everyone else, Francesca had been caught up in the drama of her ex-husband, Ross, and his love interest and now wife, Macie Graham, who walked off from her position as On Top’s features editor.
Matters had sorted themselves out—perhaps a bit too well. At her express wish, Francesca and Ross’s daughter, Sam, was staying on in DC with her dad and new stepmum—indefinitely. Though miserable with missing her, Francesca wasn’t about to pull Sam out of a situation where she was so obviously blossoming, particularly after the previous tumultuous year. Still, an empty nest felt just that—empty. Rattling about her posh Upper East Side prewar with its peerless river views, twelve-foot ceilings festooned with crown molding, and state-of-the-art chef’s kitchen, she sometimes felt on the brink of going stark raving.
Starr’s curious gaze slid over Francesca. “You’re usually bouncing between London, Paris, and Milan Fashion Weeks this time of year, aren’t you?”
Francesca forced a shrug. “I’m giving myself a mini-break this winter.”
What she was, in point, doing was taking time off to figure out how she might work less—and earn as much or more—in order to be present in her daughter’s life. Jetting from one exotic shoot locale to another might seem paradise to some, it might be paradise, but her lifestyle had cost her the one person in the world who mattered above all—and it wasn’t bloody worth it.
“Taking time off is important,” Matt said, casting a significant look at Starr, who rolled her aquamarine eyes.
Looking at Francesca, she said, “What do you say to us taking a load off in my office? I tucked away a top-shelf bottle of single-malt scotch in my desk earlier. It’s a helluva lot better than the crap we’re serving out here.” She winked and then turned back to Matt. “I’ll be back in twenty, sweetie.” She rose up on her toes and brushed a kiss over his jaw.
He wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her against him. “Not so fast. It’s Valentine’s, remember?”
He pulled her in for a kiss, a real one this time. Looking awkwardly on, Francesca would swear Starr’s scarlet shoes deepened in hue, giving off a softly shimmering…glow. But no, that was absurd. Clearly she needed to look into having the prescription on her contact lenses changed.
The couple broke apart with obvious mutual reluctance. Flush-faced, Starr gestured Francesca toward the hallway leading back to the staff offices. “C’mon, London, let’s go get snookered.”
Eschewing the pair of vintage modern office chairs, Francesca and Starr sat side-by-side on the glass-topped desk with legs swinging off the side and hands wrapped around plastic party cups of Macallan 25.
Starr took another sip of the single malt before continuing her story. “And so the next thing I know Matt’s pulling me back beneath the mistletoe—hanging mistletoe at a Matzo Ball supper, I mean who does that!—and asking me out on this totally romantic New Year’s Eve date, and we’ve been together ever since.”
Suppressing a sigh, Francesca looked up from tracing tiny invisible heart patterns on the veneer surface and took another sip of the scotch. It wasn’t like her to become sentimental about the holiday—or much of anything really. Other than the obvious—quite a bit of liquor—what had gotten into her?
Starr slid a bowl of candy hearts toward her. “It’s no biggie. We beat the crowds and celebrated last night.”
Francesca gave the sweets a glance, hesitated, and then tucked in. Her nose was numb and now she had the munchies. Could a hangover headache be far behind? “It sounds as though you’ve got everything figured out.” She hoped the envy she felt didn’t find its way into her voice.
“Getting there, I guess.” Starr’s smile dimmed. She swirled the scotch around her cup, staring into the honey-colored liquid as though it were a crystal ball. “So what gives with you? The last I heard you were seeing some hot chef.”
Francesca didn’t need a mirror to know she grimaced. “Sous chef, actually, and we’ve been over since Thanksgiving.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Francesca popped another candy into her mouth—a terrible accompaniment to the scotch, but oh well. “Don’t be.”
Starr’s brows lifted. “That bad, huh?”
Francesca shrugged. “Not good, not bad, just…not enough. Don’t mistake me, it was a great lot of fun at first, and he did manage the most amazing late-night meals, but in the end it just didn’t feel…sufficient.” That Freddie had found someone else in a mere ten days confirmed she’d made the right choice.
Starr sent her a “been there, done that” look. “And now you want more, right?”
Pushing the bowl aside, Francesca sighed. “I don’t know what I want, that’s my bloody problem. But these last few months, I’ve gotten a lot better at knowing what I don’t want.” Pouting and immaturity led the list.
She glanced away and her gaze snagged yet again on Starr’s shoes. With more than three fingers of scotch beneath her belt, she could almost believe the rhinestones on the vamp winked at her.
“Those are lovely,” she said. “I didn’t know you fancied vintage.”
“These were a gift from…a friend,” Starr admitted, expression turning sheepish.
Francesca didn’t remember Starr having all that many friends—or friends at all. “Matthew gave them to you for St. Valentine’s?”
The question drew Starr’s chuckle. “God, no! Matt’s artistic eye turns blind when it comes to clothing and accessories. Tonight is as dressed up as he gets.”
Francesca thought a moment more. “Macie?”
Starr hesitated before admitting, “Yes. Does that bother you? I know Ross is your ex—and Sam’s father.”
Francesca felt her eyes welling. Since Sam’s leaving, it seemed her stiff upper lip was virtually nonexistent.
Wishing she might numb her heart along with her nose, she finished off the scotch in a last unladylike gulp. Setting the cup aside, she said, “Ross and I were over a long time ago. I’m happy he’s found someone—really.” Blinking back tears, she turned away, hoping Starr might miss seeing what a bloody basket case she’d become. “It’s just that…our daughter has decided to live with them full-time and the worst of it is…I can’t blame her!”
Starr handed her the box of tissues. “I’m not a mother except to a cat, so I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through, but it sounds pretty fucking tough.”
Francesca shook her head, amazed that she’d poured out her troubles to a colleague. Tomorrow she’d be frightfully embarrassed, but for now she pulled out a fistful of tissues and used them to dab at her running nose. “I focused so much of my time and energy on my career and my stupid bloody boyfriend that I neglected my child. That’s the real reason I’m taking time off—to figure out how to fix the mess I’ve made of my life.”
Starr hesitated and then laid a hand on Francesca’s shoulder. “I have an idea, something that might help.”
Francesca shook her head. “I have a therapist, thanks.” She did—and a fat lot of good “Dr. Freud” had done her.
“I was thinking more along the lines of retail therapy, only without the retail.”
Likely the booze was to blame but, regardless, Francesca was most definitely not following. She finished blowing her nose and looked up. “Sorry?”
Starr stretched out one slender leg, flexing one dainty, ruby-velvet-shod foot. “Take my shoes. Think of it as my way of saying Happy Valentine’s.”
“I couldn’t!” Good God, was Francesca really that pathetic? Between all the designer samples and her shopping addiction, her walk-in closet was crammed with clothing and accessories, many with the tags still attached. More mildly, she added, “You’re being terribly sweet, but I cannot take the shoes from your feet.”
Starr handed her one and started taking off the other. “Of course you can. They’ve already worked their magic for me. I’ve got the guy I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. Now it’s your turn.”
Francesca ran a hand across her damp cheek, for once forgetting to have a care for her cosmetics. Had she heard properly? The formerly flinty magazine editor was speaking of magical shoes as though they existed beyond the Cinderella fairy tale.
“Take the shoes, London. Trust me, you need these more than I do—a lot more.”
Apparently her loveless love life constituted an emergency. A shoe in either hand, Francesca bristled. “Thanks a bloody lot.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way, but these aren’t just any vintage shoes. I have it on good authority that they once belonged to Maddie Mulligan.”
Francesca had heard of the famous Irish-born film actress, of course, but her familiarity ended there. She wasn’t terribly keen on old films. It was yet another interest she and Ross hadn’t shared.
Starr continued, “The story goes that she wore these very shoes on the day she got the news that she was nominated for an Oscar. That night, her moneybags boyfriend, international financier Carlos Banks, proposed. Until then, she didn’t think he’d ever ask, seeing as how she’d been around the block three times already and he was forty and still a bachelor. But he asked and she said yes and they not only got married but stayed married for the rest of their lives. According to her memoir, he was the love of her life, her soul mate.”
Francesca had to admit it was an intriguing tale—even if it was rubbish. “I don’t believe in soul mates,” she said, wishing she didn’t feel so very bleak about that.
“You know,” Starr said quietly, “believing doesn’t cost anything. And neither does trying on these shoes.”
Examining the footwear at arm’s length, Francesca mentally measured their length and width. “My feet are easily a size larger than these. They shan’t fit. Besides, you have Matt waiting, and I…”
Have no one. Which served her bloody right. Last Valentine’s she’d trotted out the apartment door on the arm of a tuxedo-clad Freddie, leaving Sam sulking on the sofa. If she could travel back a year, she’d stay at home with Samantha. They’d order their favorite greasy takeout, whip up a pitcher of mock margaritas, and watch whatever sappy old films Sam fancied. Instead she’d ditched her daughter for a date.
A less-than-gentle nudge brought her back to the moment. “Put them on,” Starr commanded, bringing her Boss Lady voice to bear.
Francesca sighed. To humor her hostess, she set the vintage shoes on the desk and then reached down to unbuckle her Christian Louboutin T-strap heels. Handing those to Starr, she picked up one red shoe, the vintage velvet seeming to pulse against her palm. “If I force my foot to fit, it may stretch the leather,” she warned.
Starr held her gaze. “Go for it.”
Francesca steeled herself to squeeze into the vintage Saks—only no squeezing was required. Slipping her foot into the shoe, she flexed her toes against the buttery leather lining and reached down to fasten the bejeweled strap.
“Take them for a test drive,” Starr urged, handing her the mate.
She put it on as well and slid off the desk to stand. Footwear from the thirties was notorious for being torturous, but this pair was a happy exception.
Starr reached for the scotch bottle and refilled Francesca’s cup to the rim. “Keep them as long as you like,” Starr said with a grin. “And either send them back to me when you’re done or pass them on to an unlucky-in-love friend, up to you.”
Francesca hesitated. The moment before she’d been adamant, but now she found herself wavering. “Then you must take mine—I insist,” she added when Starr started looking stubborn. “They’ll go smashingly with your dress.”
“Okay, it’s a deal.” Starr raised her cup. “This calls for a toast. What should we drink to?”
Francesca picked up her refilled drink. “To new friendships.”
“And happily-ever-after beginnings,” Starr added, raising her cup as well.
Meeting her new friend’s shining gaze, Francesca hadn’t the heart to disagree. Instead she looked pointedly down at her ruby-colored shoes and playfully touched the heels together once, twice, thrice… “To happily ever after, fairy tales, one true loves, shooting stars, magic wands, brownies, elves, fairy godmothers, and the ruddy lot of romantic rubbish.”
…
Silicon Valley, California
“This is like…the weirdest Valentine’s Day ever,” Brian called out from across the in-home media room, pausing in setting up the video camera’s tabletop tripod to cast Greg a skeptical glance.
“Did you have plans?” Greg asked, knowing the answer.
Like him, his Android programmer was solidly single, a card-carrying member of the Lonely Hearts Club. Unlike him, Brian seemed happy to hang out playing Angry Birds on his iPhone and watching back-to-back movies on the Syfy channel. Then again, he was only twenty-two. At thirty-three, Greg wanted more—a lot more. Tonight’s video filming was his first big step toward getting it.
“No, but dude, are you sure you want to go through with this? Reality TV? You’re, like, totally putting it all out there,” Brian cautioned.
Impatient to get going, Greg shifted on the curved seventies sectional sofa. He soothed himself with watching the vintage lava lamp let loose another pea-green globule. “Actually, the contest entry videos don’t go public. The show’s producers set up a secure portal. Once we upload them, they’ll be the only ones with viewing privileges.”
Brian dragged a nail-bitten hand back through the swatch of long blond bangs. “That’s for now. But national TV, you’ll be, like…famous.”
“I already am famous,” Greg corrected, lifting his gaze from the lamp.
Brian sent him an exasperated look. “Dude, you don’t even show up for your own press conferences or product launch parties.”
“Ever think maybe that adds to my mystique? Besides, I have people I pay for that.”
Too bad he couldn’t hire people to date for him by proxy, especially since he sucked at small talk—and parties. The lavish launches he threw to celebrate his new products tended to attract hangers-on. Given his status and money, getting women to go out with him was the easy part. It was the actual dates where he tanked. Whether on a casual coffee meet-up or out for an evening of drinks and dinner, he couldn’t seem to come up with anything to say, at least nothing that didn’t make him seem stiff or awkward or even pompous. Pulling out his phone and texting hadn’t won him any points, either.
Brian shook his head, sending bangs flying. “Sorry, it’s just the whole fairy-tale thing is freaking me out. Project Cinderella, seriously?”
“I believe it’s meant as a takeoff on Project Runway,” Greg answered, digging his bare toes into the kelly-green shag carpeting. He really wished the kid would just get on with it.
But Brian was obviously in no rush. Tinkering with the equipment, he said, “You sure instead of a style makeover it’s not really a…sex-over? Like where they drug you and cut off your cock and balls and give you, like, a man-gina?”
Greg stifled a laugh. Brian had cut his baby teeth on old Twilight Zone episodes. The paranormal influence on his formative years was one from which he’d never completely recovered.
“Thanks for the warning, but I think I’m probably pretty safe.” Not that he was doing anything especially interesting at the moment with his…cock, but he certainly planned to keep the possibility open. “Now stop stalling. You owe me, remember? You lost.”
Their bet had involved the speed of the first megahertz microprocessor. Brian had guessed one hundred. The correct answer, which Gregory had known all along, was one. It was, of course, a trick question, and he’d unabashedly set the kid up. Casting his gaze around the high-ceilinged room with its movie-theater-sized projection screen, collection of vintage pinball machines, and state-of-the-art sound system, he considered that being over thirty and a billionaire wasn’t so bad. If only he had someone with whom he could share his success, it could be a lot better than not so bad. It could be fucking fabulous.
“Okay, dude, but when you wake up with tits and a pussy, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Brian tended to forget that he was the employee and Greg the boss. A flat corporate structure had its pitfalls, but Cloud Flyer’s laid-back atmosphere also allowed him to get to know his programmers as people. Practically, that made it a lot easier to assess their strengths and weaknesses and to put their unique talents to the most productive and profitable use. Personally, the friendships he’d formed kept him from turning into a total workaholic.
Bypassing the karaoke stand, Brian crossed the carpet and handed Greg the audio. “How’d you find out about this…Project Cinderella, anyway?”
Clipping the mini microphone to his shirt collar, Greg hesitated. It had been January 24, just after Michelle, the dental hygienist, had ditched him on his birthday. The birthday blow-off had felt like a wake-up call, or better yet a call to action. Sleepless, he’d knocked back a few beers, inhaled a bag of chips, and sat up surfing the Internet. Several hours later, he’d come across the reality show’s website with its call for contestants. He’d swallowed his pride along with the last chip and submitted the online application, including completing the optional essay question. The topic, “What Does Happily Ever Mean to You?” wasn’t one he would have chosen—maybe Brian had a point about his balls being cut off—but he’d answered it anyway, knowing that doing so would increase his chances of being a finalist.
He’d as good as forgotten all about Project Cinderella until a few days ago when the e-mail had hit his in-box inviting him to submit a short video of up to three minutes for the final contestant pick.
But that was a lot of shit to explain to Brian even if he’d felt like it, which he didn’t.
“Just messing around online, I guess. Let’s get going, okay? I have a crapload of code to hack before tomorrow.”
Brian walked back to the camera and took up position behind it. “If you want to pack pussy, I guess that’s your call.” He picked up the handheld. “One, two, three…action!”
Greg looked ahead into the camera and did his best to forget that he wasn’t, in fact, alone. “Hey, my name’s Gregory Knickerbocker, but you can call me Greg. Some of you may know me as the Camera-Shy CEO. Some of you who don’t follow the tech scene may not know me at all. Either way, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is I’ve just been ditched by my one hundredth woman, and I’m starting to feel like happily ever after may not happen for me unless I do something pretty drastic…”
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