Once Upon a Valentine (7 page)

He shrugged. “Then I’ll tell Charles we’ll pass.” He held up the phone to push the button, but Summer stilled his hand with hers.

“Wait.” She worried her lower lip. “Okay…I’ll do it.”

7

BETWEEN HER NERVOUSNESS over being the Mane Squeeze spokesperson in an impromptu stint on a home shopping channel and being in close quarters with Andrew in his sporty little car, Summer was sick to her stomach during the entire three-hour drive to Nashville the following day.

Valentine’s Day, to be precise.

And Andrew’s attitude didn’t exactly soothe her anxieties. When she asked him to help her come up with talking points for the fifteen-minute commercial, he was cooperative, but his enthusiasm was a little flat. In fact, from his body language and grudging comments, she got the distinct feeling that he was regretting setting up the commercial shoot in the first place.

Or did he simply find her company objectionable on a day reserved for sweethearts? All the radio stations seemed to be playing every love song ever recorded—he’d finally put in a CD of jazz music. She reasoned he was probably pining for a lover he’d left in New York, and not in a humor to be babysitting her and her case of hair conditioner. Maybe he and his girlfriend had had an argument over the fact that he was spending the night at a hotel with another woman.

Not that they’d be sharing a room, but Summer couldn’t help feeling an implied intimacy at their travel arrangements. She told herself it only made sense that they spend the night, since by the time the shoot ended and they tied up loose ends, it would likely be too late to drive back, especially if the predicted stormy weather materialized. It was her unrealized attraction to Andrew that made everything so…tangled.

She glanced at his profile, dismayed that the mere sight of him could send her pulse racing. Hadn’t he practically run out of her house the other night after their kiss? How much more proof did she need that he wasn’t into her?

She looked back to her note cards and silently reviewed the talking points, but kept stumbling over the order and forgetting the phrasing. The more she practiced, the more she panicked. Too soon, they were parking in the lot of the studio, a large nondescript warehouse on the outskirts of downtown Nashville. They were both quiet as Andrew pulled the case of product from the trunk and she removed her garment bag, but she could feel him bristling when her hips or hands came close to his. Knowing how much he didn’t want to be there made her feet grow heavy as they approached the entrance.

Once they were inside, though, Andrew was congenial and professional as he introduced her to his associate, Charles Basker. Then Summer was whisked away to hair and makeup and to change. Separated from Andrew, she was unnerved and uncertain. Suddenly, she questioned everything, from the label on the conditioner she’d designed to the red dress she’d brought to change into. As far as the talking points, she couldn’t remember a single one. By the time she was led to the set that was surrounded by cameras and illuminated with huge canister lights, she was almost paralyzed with fear. She stood off to the side watching the host interact with the current guest who was extolling the virtues of a mood lipstick that changed colors as a woman became more or less “interested” in her partner.

“Just in time for Valentine’s Day,” the woman said with a cunning smile. “The lipstick goes on pale red, but intensifies as she becomes…excited, shall we say?”

Summer watched the presentation intently, hoping to pick up a few pointers. But the guest seemed so poised and natural—a far cry from how she herself felt. She lifted her thumbnail for a nibble.

“Relax,” Andrew said in her ear.

She turned her head to see that he’d joined her. She lowered her hand, desperately wanting to act cool in front of him, but conceding defeat.

“What if I blow this?” she asked, feeling dangerously close to tears.

Suddenly, his face softened and the tension that had held his big body rigid all day seemed to drain out of him.

“There’s nothing to blow,” he said, his voice gentle. “This is simply an opportunity to test the market—either the audience will respond to the product, or they won’t. Either way, you’ll have an idea of whether Mane Squeeze could compete in the retail arena. That’s all we’re looking for today.”

His words calmed her. She smiled, then took a cleansing breath and exhaled. “Thank you, Andrew. And thank you for making this happen. Your father would be so happy.”

His light brown eyes clouded for an instant, then cleared, indicating he was back to business. He gestured toward the set, where an attractive middle-aged man bantered with the elegant representative of the mood lipstick. “The host will ask questions and encourage viewers to call in.” His gaze swept over her red dress and strappy high-heels. “Your primary job is to look good, and that’s not a stretch.”

Summer’s cheeks warmed under his compliment. “Viewers won’t be looking at me,” she murmured. “They’ll be looking at my hair.”

“That, too,” he agreed, nodding to the shiny length hanging over one shoulder. “Even if you freeze up and can’t say a word, your hair will speak for you.”

She bit into her lip.

“Not that you’re going to freeze up,” he added quickly. “You’ll be great. And it’ll be over before you know it.”

He stepped forward unexpectedly and gave her a bolstering squeeze. Summer turned her head in surprise, and suddenly his mouth was next to hers. She swallowed.

“How about a kiss for good luck?” she whispered.

His eyes became hooded, then he complied, capturing her lips with his in a smoldering kiss that conjured up sensations that ran deeper than platonic good wishes.

“All right, all right, break it up,” came a sarcastic voice behind them.

They parted and Summer took in the man who wore headphones and a sardonic smile.

“I know it’s Valentine’s Day and all, but you two lovebirds will have to wait until later to celebrate.”

Summer exchanged an awkward glance with Andrew and opened her mouth to protest, but was cut short when the man introduced himself as the producer and launched into what would happen during the fifteen-minute live taping. When the lights dimmed briefly, he frowned and spoke to someone through his headphones.

“Looks like we’re getting a storm,” he told them, gesturing to the ceiling of the insulated room. “But don’t worry. If the electricity blows, the backup generator will kick on in ten seconds. The host will know what to do.” He winked at Summer. “You’re on in two minutes, little lady. Are you ready?”

She glanced at Andrew, who gave her an encouraging nod. She looked back to the producer. “Yes.”

He ushered her forward to introduce her to the host, who was scanning the product sheet for Mane Squeeze as the lipstick was whisked away from the presentation pedestal and replaced with bottles of the conditioner. The host looked up and his eyes shone in appreciation as he shook her hand.

“The camera is going to love you,” he said. “And what marvelous hair.”

She didn’t have time to blush because the producer was counting down from thirty. As the count dipped below ten, she sought out Andrew and found him, standing in the back of the studio next to a monitor. He gave her a thumbs-up, and she tried to smile.

“Three…two…one,” the producer said, then pointed to the host.

The man was a seasoned professional. He introduced Summer, then oohed and aahed over her hair and picked up a bottle of Mane Squeeze to let viewers know the exclusive hair conditioner that Summer used was being made available for the first time to a nationwide audience right here on this stage. After a split second of stage fright, Summer recalled her talking points. She explained how a veterinarian had developed the formula to groom the manes and tails of the horses, then added that the net proceeds from the sale of the conditioner would fund a horse-rescue center. She smiled into the camera, but from the rear of the studio she felt Andrew’s disapproving gaze on her.

Technically, he owned his father’s formula and the distribution of the net proceeds would be his decision. But how could he refuse after she’d made a pledge on live television?

They were about five minutes into the commercial when Summer realized something was wrong. The host referred to a monitor that tracked phone orders so he could incite viewers to call by telling them how many fellow shoppers were jumping on the deal. When he glanced at the monitor, though, he looked concerned, then laughed. “I can see that some of you are skeptical about this organic formula. Can I ask you, Summer, how long have you used Mane Squeeze?”

She told him, avoiding claims that the conditioner stimulated hair growth, emphasizing instead that it made her hair stronger to withstand the wear and tear of the elements. And she assured him she wasn’t wearing extensions, that what he saw was all her natural hair.

“Folks, look at this gorgeous mane,” the host said. “We have a regular Rapunzel here in the studio.” He picked up a lock of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “And you can’t believe how soft and luxurious her hair feels. I’m sure those of you watching are eager to see what Mane Squeeze can do for your hair.” He repeated the phone number and the item number over and over, and his sales pitch grew more exuberant—or desperate—as the time wound down. When the producer cued him with a “1 minute” card, the host was practically begging viewers to call in. “It’s a small investment—less than the cost of a haircut. What do you have to lose?”

The producer was mouthing and fingering “three, two, one,” as the host wrapped up. “And we’re out.” The producer clapped his hands. “Okay, clear the set.”

The host winced at Summer. “Sorry that sales weren’t better. It happens sometimes. Here, have a lipstick.” He pressed a tube of the mood lipstick into her hand.

With a sinking heart, she thanked him and slipped the lipstick into her pocket, then took the box of conditioner a crew member handed to her and moved in Andrew’s direction. He relieved her of the box, gave her a wink, then shepherded her out of the studio and into a small adjacent office where his friend Charles Basker studied a computer screen. The man hit a button on the keyboard, then turned to a nearby printer and pulled off a couple of sheets. He looked up and motioned them forward, but Summer knew from his expression that the news wasn’t good.

“Well, we can’t always have a homerun,” Charles said with forced good humor.

“How many units were sold?” Andrew asked.

Charles extended the report. “About fifty.”

Summer’s stomach dropped. She’d hoped to sell ten times that much. She could sell fifty bottles around Tiny, without advertising.

“It’s okay, Charles,” Andrew said. “It tells us what we need to know.” He glanced at Summer. “Doesn’t it?”

Feeling like a chastised child, she nodded and thanked Charles for the opportunity. The men made more small talk, then shook hands and said goodbye. Summer’s heart dragged as she and Andrew backtracked to the entrance. She’d hoped to introduce Barber’s formula to the world.

Outside, it was storming, with rain coming down in sheets. Andrew told her to stay in the lobby while he went to get the car, then he ran out to brave the weather. Summer surveyed the sky, lit up with neon lightning strikes, thinking it was good they were spending the night after all instead of trying to drive back in this soup.

Andrew pulled the car alongside the curb, then emerged with an umbrella that he held over her head when she walked out until she was settled into the passenger seat. When he climbed in the driver’s seat and closed the door, he was soaked through. His sport coat drooped and his dark hair dripped down his back. He gave a harsh laugh. “Just another reason to dislike Valentine’s Day.”

Summer gave him a little smile, but inside she was shrinking. He was so handsome, he took her breath away. That kiss…she was sure he’d enjoyed it, had sensed his desire for her. But he seemed intent on avoiding all intimate contact with her. “Is the hotel far away?”

“Thankfully, no. I’ll be happy to get out of these clothes.”

His words conjured up images in her brain of him doing just that.

“Into something dry,” he added, as if he’d read her dirty mind. “The hotel restaurant is supposed to be nice. We could have dinner there if you like.”

“Yes, I’d like that,” she murmured.

On the drive to the hotel, she remained quiet to allow him to concentrate on the road in the driving rain. The steamy interior of the car seemed more intimate than before. She felt as if the heat from her body was fueling the fogged windows. He kept adjusting the defroster to keep the windshield clear. She was relieved when they pulled underneath the valet canopy of their hotel.