Sparks Fly (15 page)

“That depends. How are you planning on finding thirty women that I would be interested in dating in the first place?”

Joe slid another piece of paper over. “Here’s a questionnaire we would like you to fill out. We will find women that fulfill as many of your requirements as possible.”

Brandon’s raised eyebrow gave away his skepticism. “What if none of the thirty work out?”

“The paragraph at the top of page eight has the answer you are looking for.”

Brandon flipped through the contract and scanned the legal speak. “You expect me to marry a stranger on the air July 1st?”

“We do.”

“And if July 1st comes and there is no wedding?”

Joe cleared his throat before speaking with a determined edge to his voice. “Brandon, I think you will find this contract more than reasonable. During the two weeks of taping we will treat you to five star accommodations, exotic destinations, and thirty gorgeous, accomplished women. This is an opportunity of a lifetime and we hope you will agree to join us in producing a truly excellent program.”

Brandon was about to say “No way,” when he was suddenly assailed with a heckling chorus of several ex-girlfriend’s last words to him.

“
You’ll never settle down!”

“Why won’t you open up?”

“No woman will ever be good enough for you!”

And then the worst one, which he hadn’t been able to get out of his head since his last break-up,

“You’re going to die alone and you deserve it!”

He knew he had applied for the TV show for all of the wrong reasons. Spite. Annoyance. To prove his exes wrong. But just because he didn’t want to marry any of them didn’t make him an

emotionally crippled commitment-phobe.

He certainly didn’t want to date and get married in front of millions of people. But now, sitting in the studio, he wondered if his exes were right. Could he ever let any woman get close enough to him to get married and have a family like the rest of his friends and co-workers?

If he were to sign a contract that made it so he
had
to get married, there would be no way out.

And since he didn’t believe in true love — the lie that there was actually one person out there for him that would complete him and give his life meaning — being “Mr. Right” would be the optimal way to check marriage off his list of life goals. He would put his criteria down for his perfect woman, and Joe’s staff would hunt her down.

It was the perfect, easy solution to his marriage problem. No long courtship. No games. Just a selection of thirty beautiful, available marriage-minded women to choose from.

He flipped to the last page of the contract and said, “You got a pen handy? Let’s get this ball rolling.”

...Excerpt from FALLING FAST by Lucy Kevin © 2011.

* * * * *

SEATTLE GIRL

(A young adult romance about love, dating...and my really big mouth)
The first time Georgia Fulton gets behind a microphone at her college radio station (because of a guy, of course...), she's hooked. (Who would have thought she'd ever find a potential job where a boss would appreciate her big mouth?) Unfortunately, being a smart-mouth doesn't necessarily keep her from getting hurt by one guy after another. With help from her friends - and loyal listeners - will Georgia finally figure out the real deal about sex, love...and maybe even herself?

Please enjoy the following excerpt for SEATTLE GIRL © 2011 Lucy Kevin...

The official biography that KSEA sends out reads:

Georgia Fulton, popular host of
Seattle Girl
, says she got into talk radio because, “I have a
really big mouth and I could never find any other job where my boss appreciated that skill.”

But while I’ll admit that I rarely do shut up and that I can’t keep an opinion to myself even if it’s gonna get me lynched, the simple truth is that I got started in talk radio because of a guy.

Six guys to be precise.

(Hey! Watch who you’re calling a slut. It’s not like that, I swear. Well, mostly not like that, anyway.)

And if I ever get the chance to write my biography, it’ll read more like this...

* * *

When I was a little girl my mother told me repeatedly, “Georgia, boys don’t like girls who talk too much.”

I think she got her greatest pleasure from making proclamations like this during breakfast.

Really, who wouldn’t?

Later, when I was living at home one summer in college, she announced, “Georgia, boys don’t pay for the cow when they are getting the milk for free.”

So much for the great strides of feminism.

And that was when I figured out that it’s not the establishment holding us down.

It’s not the Man holding us back.

It’s the Mom.

But after giving it some more thought, I can see that since my mother endured twenty hours of excruciating labor to push me out into the world, suffering the indignity of a ripped hoo-ha while she was at it, she very well might feel that giving me such charming motherly advice is only her due.

And that I should listen to it.

As if!

Thanks Mom, I’ll be sure to file that beefy black and white farm animal tip away. Pass the Fruit
Loops, would you?

I don’t mean to give you the wrong impression. It’s not that my childhood was particularly bad.

My parents certainly didn’t beat me or anything. We were comfortably middle-class in a nice suburban neighborhood and there was always enough food on the table and a trip to Disneyland every summer.

My childhood was sort of weird, that’s all.

Like we lived just down the block from normal.

To be fair, though, I think I’ve always been a bit of a freak. Take my brother, for instance.

Same parents, yet John is a perfectly normal high paid executive, white picket fence in the suburbs, great wife, two kids, and golden retriever kind of guy.

But me, I’m a whole different ball game. And the fact is that no matter what anyone ever said to try to get me to quiet down or button up—and kids and teachers and parents said a whole lot of stuff, like “Shut up,” and “Don’t be so loud all the time,” and “How many times do I need to tell you to settle down young lady?”—I was never the kind of girl who came in a neat little package.

You remember those neat, little, perfect girls from high school, don’t you?

No? You’ve spent thousands of dollars in therapy to block out the pain of your blissful school years? Lucky you. Well, I’m happy to refresh your memory.

They had perfect little bodies, they wore perfect little T-shirts tucked into perfect little jeans, and they walked around in perfectly white tennis shoes.

I was never one of those girls. Thank God.

Okay. Settle down, you. I can hear you giving me shit already. And yes, maybe I did envy them some, but I’d like to think that I’m the one that’s happier now.

I love, love, love bumping into fellow ex-geeks from high school so that we can trash on all of the Barbie cheerleaders from our past. So we can say things like, “Oh my god, have you seen Susan from high school lately? You’d die if you saw her—she’s really fat now and has three snotty kids!”

I like to think that girls like me are having the last laugh and that God’s big joke is that pretty girls from high school get uglier and fatter as the years go by, while the rest of us get infinitely more gorgeous.

Oh, who am I kidding? Certainly not you. You can see right through me.

We all know that I would have given my left arm to be one of those perfect girls.

Or even to have let one of them cheat off my math test from time to time.

But I ask you this: Who wouldn’t have wanted to be blonde and blue eyed and thin and cute and giggly, given that originality and uniqueness are completely over-rated from ages five to eighteen?

And for those of you who were perfect, I’m dying to know, was it as good as it seemed? And are you fat and ugly now with a bunch of brats driving you crazy? I sure hope so...

Just kidding. I’m happy for you, really I am.

...Excerpt from SEATTLE GIRL by Lucy Kevin © 2011.