Chapter 9
Pacing the cavernous living room, AKA my “dressing room,” in the luxurious villa in San Juan, I’m sweating bullets before the show even begins. I pull at the ridiculous bowtie on my black tux. Parker wanted it to appear as if I’ve jetted in from a fancy party or distant locale.
Apparently, no one wants to think of Easton Blake alone in a New York apartment eating cold chicken and broccoli from a glass container.
But, hell, if Parker wants to set the scene, I’m game. Monkey suit, orangutang suit, clown costume, or Magic Mike leather pants… Whatever it takes. I need this to work.
“Nervous?” Stone asks.
I look over at him with all the hostility that question evokes. Honestly, could we be more opposite? He’s calm, cool, and collected in his muted pink, slim-fit suit, while I’m fighting anger, annoyance, and regret.
“Why would I be nervous? Not like my entire career, reputation, and future control of my company depends on what will happen tonight.”
He snorts and puts down his phone. “You got this. This will be a boon for your reputation, your business, and everyone involved in this production, including the contestants.”
“Thanks, man. It’s the waiting that’s killing me. I have no idea what to expect out there.” I roll my head again. My neck muscles feel ready to snap. I haven’t been to San Juan in a dozen years. Wouldn’t be here now if Parker hadn’t chosen this location for the live show.
“Your blindness in the process is a great marketing scheme that will have everyone tuning in to see your honest reaction live on stage. Besides, it also demonstrates your innate fairness, since you didn’t press to have an advantage over anyone competing against you in The Last Stands.”
I cringe at the mention of The Last Stand, Parker’s addition to the show. “Still not sure I like the idea, but I trust you when you tell me to trust Parker.”
“Good. You made the only decision that really mattered when you handed the reins over to her six months ago.”
The door opens. The show’s production assistant, wearing a headset and holding a tablet, steps inside. “Two minutes, Mr. Blake. Will you please follow me?”
Thank God. I bounce on the balls of me feet. My heart rises in my chest. If I’m doing, I’m good. Waiting is my kryptonite.
Straightening one of the cufflinks on my sleeve, I walk to the doorway. “What’s your name?” I ask the production assistant as we exit.
He blinks bright brown eyes through dark-rimmed glasses. “Néstor Martinez.”
I breathe deeply. “Let’s make history, Néstor.”
“Sí, sir.” He grins a bit dreamily at me and leads me around the house. Looks like I won one person over already. Only a few million to go.
My first glimpse of the production taking up the massive back patio doesn’t disappoint. Thick wires are taped to the ground, and large black boxes, technical equipment, and multiple cameras dot the area.
Néstor points down. “When I signal you, follow the red duct tape dots around to the front of the cameras.”
I’m going to explode under this the pent-up energy, like a horse at the starting gate, waiting until I get to go kinetic. “Got it.”
From the patio, I hear the host. “Easton’s global philanthropic works and extreme fitness adventures have garnered millions of followers on social media and taken the U.S. by storm. But despite his expertise, he gave up all control of the show to our producers, so that he would know nothing about this competition.”
I shake out one leg then the other. Come on, come on.
The MC continues, “Right now, live on this show, is the first time he’ll be introduced to the people he’ll be coaching and challenging for the entirety of the season.”
With a smile, Néstor waves me to go.
And I’m off. The distant ocean pushing and pulling against the shore hits my ears, the salty air, my nostrils.
My shoulders go back, my breath releases, and my nervous system shouts, “Hallelujah!” Oh, hell yes, it feels good to move into the arena of action. Finally. A broad smile splits my face. I flow with the red dots, weaving past crew and equipment.
Lights. Camera. Action. I fucking love this. It’ll be better on competition nights, when we actually have a live audience here.
There’s cheering and clapping from the crew and the contestants as I finally make my way over to the MC. He holds out his hand.
I am flying as high as the moon over the ocean as I shake his hand, a little too hard. His eyebrows shoot up, but I’m so pumped I can only grin at him.
We turn as one to face the contestants. I’m instantly evaluating them as competitors, and, as Stone said, in a Willy Wonka kind of way. As people who could own one of my franchises, be an ambassador of the brand, someone I can partner with, someone I can?—
Holy shit. It slams into me like a lightning bolt chucked from Zeus. The blast goes straight to my groin. Zzzt. I’m sure my eyeballs pop out of my skull, and, disconcertingly, that’s not the only thing popping to attention.
I rein it all in, willing my eyes not to drop down over her cleavage again, willing my mind not to bring forth those sultry memories and tender moments.
Except… It was one of the hottest nights of my life with a woman I’ve longed to see again, though I could never bring myself to darken her doorstep. She deserved better. Her being here brings it all back, the good and the bad, the regret and the shame, so control isn’t coming easy.
I can’t believe this is happening.
Yolanda Vasquez is a contestant on my show.
What. The. Fuck.
My brain misfires, scrambles back, and makes a quick and blunt assessment. I’m going to be introduced to her.
Do I act like I don’t know her or admit to knowing her?
I could admit it. The rules say any connection going back further than ten years is fine—which is likely why she signed up, assuming she remembers me. Still, it’s not that simple for me.
If my board finds out a prior fling is on the show, their focus on me and the show will intensify. It’d jeopardize what I’m trying to do here.
I could pretend not to know her, then ask her to discreetly leave after the show airs?
Fuck.
No. She tried out and earned her way onto this show for a reason. Money, obviously.
I could buy her off?
That thought makes me want to puke. Not only do I know she’d never take money from me directly, the idea of presenting her with such a belittling offer… an offer that puts my fear for my own image over her accomplishment in being here…
Out of the question.
Okay. I play it honest. The truth can’t leak out later. The board and audience will learn about Yolanda from me.
Shit. I’m going to have to bring up our history.
Live.
On air.