Who Wants To Marry a Heartthrob?. Stephanie Doyle

“Tomorrow is a work day.”

      “And this is work,” Bridget informed him. “I’m doing this for the show and for the client.”

      “It will be so much fun,” Raquel bubbled. “I know just the dress place we should hit first. They have the most marvelous things for women. Even for women without breasts!”

      “I have breasts,” Bridget grumbled.

      “If you insist.”

      “Sounds to me like a lot of effort for nothing.” This came from Jenna who had strolled over to their group during the conversation. “You don’t actually think a new dress is going to help you, do you dear?”

      Bridget had to hand it to the woman, she played the catty bitch better than anyone on daytime television she’d ever seen. As a reply, she merely held up her card. “Green.”

      Jenna smiled, displaying all of her white, perfectly formed teeth. “This week.”

      She turned to Richard and moved up against him, definitively invading his personal space. “It’s good to see you again, Richard. I never really got a chance to tell you how much I enjoyed dinner with you the other evening.”

      “Uh…” he stuttered. “Sure. Dinner. It was nice.”

      Bridget watched the scene in complete fascination. She wasn’t jealous. Richard had dated several women throughout the three years she’d known him, none of whom had ever exceeded his four-date limit. He had several goals in life, but as far as she knew establishing a long-term relationship wasn’t one of them. Which was really one more reason why any nebulous and burgeoning feelings she might have for him were ludicrous. She was the ultimate long-term relationship girl. At least, she’d always thought she would be. Those kinds of thoughts, however, were for another time.

      For now, Bridget needed to concentrate on Jenna. Maybe she could learn something from her. Currently, she was wielding seduction skills the way a samurai wielded a sword. Bridget watched how Jenna slid her hand up the front of Richard’s suit coat. The way she leaned into his body without actually touching him. The way she tilted her neck at just the right angle to give a man a few ideas. And Richard, Bridget did not doubt, was a man who could quickly get ideas.

      Jenna made it all seem so effortless.

      “We’ll have to do it again sometime,” she purred, then chuckled. “That is, if Brock doesn’t pick me to be his wife.”

      “Sure,” Richard concurred.

      “Ladies. Until next week.” She turned and sauntered away and again Bridget couldn’t help but be impressed by how she managed to walk on those heels. It was something Bridget was going to have to practice. Right after she bought a pair of shoes with heels.

      For effect however, she turned to glare at Richard. She wasn’t really angry with him, but there was no point in letting him off the hook that easy.

      “What?” he asked in reference to her glare. “I was interviewing her.”

      The glare continued.

      “Hey, that’s not fair,” he replied to her silent accusation.

      Her eyes only narrowed farther.

      “Okay, maybe it is fair, but nothing happened. She’s trying to mess with you. Don’t let her get to you.”

      “I don’t plan to,” Bridget assured him. “Now, I believe someone promised me ice cream.”

      “That was for when you lost,” he said. “You won, which means you treat.”

      Bridget scowled but figured that was only fair. “Want to come along, Raquel?”

      “And do what?”

      “Eat ice cream,” Bridget explained although she was pretty sure that had been obvious given the fact that they were going out for ice cream.

      “Ice cream? You mean that stuff with all the fat and sugar and calories in it?”

      “Yep, that about sums up ice cream.”

      “I couldn’t possibly.”

      But Bridget could see she was tempted. “When was the last time you had ice cream?”

      “I don’t remember,” Raquel whispered as if she were committing some sin by even considering it.

      “It’s really good.”

      “I suppose, maybe, they have a low-fat variety?”

      “Nope. Not this place. All fat and hot fudge.”

      “And sprinkles,” Richard added.

      “Sprinkles,” Raquel repeated as if she were saying diamonds instead.

      “My treat.”

      “Okay, but I want to state for the record that I agreed under stress,” Raquel proclaimed and marched off in search of her coat.

      Richard considered that. “I think she meant duress.”

      Bridget smiled. Her new friend might not be the brightest, but she was an artist, and Bridget was planning on putting her face, hair and body safely in this woman’s hands.

      She only hoped that Raquel was up to the challenge.

      3

      “YOU HAVE to come out,” Raquel explained patiently. “Or how can I possibly see what the dress looks like on you?”

      “Trust me. It’s no good,” Bridget said from behind the dressing-room curtain.

      “That’s what you’ve said about every one so far.”

      “Because they have all been no good.” Bridget looked in the mirror and winced. This dress was a clingy, strapless silk number done in a deep purple that fell to just below her butt. Every time she tried to pull it down to completely cover her bottom one of her breasts popped free.

      Suddenly, the curtain was thrust aside and Bridget tried to cover her exposed breast with her hands.

      “No,” Raquel determined. “That’s not right.”

      “Thank you,” Bridget sighed. “Let’s face it. It’s hopeless. We’re never going to agree. Why can’t I just find a nice, simple, black cocktail dress?”

      “Because the point of this game is to stand out. We have to be like the peacock and ruffle our feathers.”

      “What are you wearing?”

      “A black cocktail dress,” Raquel admitted. “But I am, by my very nature, a peacock.”

      Having no idea what that meant, Bridget instead glanced down at the one-billionth dress Raquel held in her hands.

      “Try this one.” Raquel shoved the dress at her, pushed her back into the dressing room and closed the curtain with a deft motion.

      Bridget stared down at the garment and sighed. It was time to face facts. A dress wasn’t going to turn her into a beauty. She looked into the mirror and took in her white skin, dark hair, which today she had pulled back into a ponytail, and her sticklike body.

      Okay, maybe not sticklike, she decided. She did, in fact, have breasts, just not that much of them. She knew that because they kept popping out of dresses at the most unexpected times.

      This dress was red. A vibrant red. A red so bright, she considered putting on sunglasses before trying it on. But she knew if she balked, Raquel would stomp her foot and pout, and for whatever reason, Bridget found herself slightly intimidated by the pout.

      So she removed the purple concoction and stepped into the red number. It circled her neck leaving her shoulders and arms bare. It fell to the top of her knees, for which she was truly grateful, and when she turned…

      “Something