There’s always a risk of misinterpreting something when hearing the tail end of a conversation, but in this case, there’s no room for a mistake.
… find someone female shaped and willing, and just get through this.
I’d returned for a parking validation, but I immediately forget again as three simultaneous explosions take place inside my skull. The first is over the wording, which is so terrible that Hot Brit immediately stops being a hero in any form and is now only a villain over whom I must triumph. The second realization is that he’s going to make this show no matter what I do. He will use River’s app to spread this garbage, and he will happily paint the central woman as desperate to find her soulmate like she isn’t completely fine all on her own, because reality television executives have not updated their view of women in forty years.
The third explosion is the most powerful. For as much as I now dislike this man, I cannot ignore that he’s offered to hand me the mic. How many times have I idly wondered why, if men want to know what women want, they don’t just—oh, I don’t know—ask women directly? Hot Brit has given me the chance to ensure this show isn’t a disaster for every woman who hits Play on episode one. I can choose the vocabulary and the format and the discussion around what it means to date and fall in love.
I walk right up to the producer’s door, push it the rest of the way open, and witness his expression morph from irritation to horror as he registers that I’ve just heard him.
“How badly do you want me for this?” I ask bluntly.
He swallows, glancing to the other man in the room, who seems to want to be absorbed into the wall. Hot Brit considers his words carefully. “I suspect you are the only person who could make this project worthwhile.”
I can’t tell if that’s ignorant or thoughtful. “It occurred to me in the elevator that perhaps my answer was too hasty.”
He stares at me, not understanding.
“I’ll do this show, but only on my terms.”
“Terms?” he repeats. “Such as?”
I work to not break eye contact. I… have no idea what my terms are. “I’ll send my ideas to you through my agent. If you want me for this, you’ll agree to incorporate what she sends over.”
He wears silence easily, doesn’t rush to speak, and I begrudgingly acknowledge that I respect this about him because it’s something I’ve never mastered.
“Can I trust that you’ll choose these terms in good faith?” he asks at last. “You’ll keep the audience in mind?”
Holy shit, this condescension. “Literally the only thing I care about is this audience.” The edge to my voice is so sharp it could draw blood. “I don’t think you have the same priority. Other than some of them being ‘female shaped’—whatever the fuck that means—I don’t think you even know who this audience is.”
“Felicity, what you heard—”
I hold up a hand. I don’t need to hear his excuse; I’m not doing this for him anyway. “It’s a yes or a no, Corey. Your call.”
He blinks away, giving me a view of the defined jawline, the long neck. Finally, he turns back to me. “Yes, then.”
I reach out for him to shake on it. “Good.” With understandable hesitation, he reaches out and wraps his hand around mine, giving me a very perfunctory British handshake.
Shifting my purse on my shoulder, I turn to leave, but he speaks again. “One more thing, if I might.”
I turn back around.
“My name is Connor.” He doesn’t smile this time when our eyes meet. “Not Ted, or Colin, or Corey. Connor.”
This jerk has just passed me the baton. He doesn’t have any fucking clue what he’s agreed to. I’ll call the poor guy anything he wants.
After all, his name is the least of my concerns. Because now I must figure out what my terms actually are, how I’m going to make time for this reality TV circus when I’m already three months late on my manuscript deadline, and how on earth I’ll reconcile the way his solid, warm grip and steady, attentive gaze didn’t feel at all like those of a villain.
