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Chapter Two
Simon
I stare down at the desk in front of me, littered with discarded makeup. Powders and colorful odds and ends mock me, and I furrow my brow, dragging my gaze back up to the mirror, looking at the unfamiliar face staring back at me.
“Don’t frown. You’ll crease the powder,” my makeup artist, Jeanette, says. She clicks her tongue against the back of her teeth in frustration.
That’s the seventh time she’s said that exact phrase to me. I think back over how I got here, sitting in this very chair, having gobs of liquid stuff smeared over my face and being told not to frown, or smile, or talk, or blink. This is ridiculous. I fight the urge to take one hand and swipe it across the desk, scattering the glass and plastic bottles.
“There. Now, you won’t look so washed out on camera,” she says, stepping back to admire whatever she’s done to make me look like a completely different person.
“Great,” I say, the sarcastic tone evident in my voice, but Jeanette acts like I am in complete agreement with the way she claps her hands and jumps up on the balls of her feet a little.
“I can’t wait to see who you are matched with. This is all so exciting,” she continues talking, picking up another brush and lightly sweeping it across my forehead.
Looks like she wasn’t done after all.
“This is a farce,” I say gruffly and hear her gasp.
How can anyone watching this type of show see anything other than the highly scripted, silly program it is?
“Surely not,” she says quickly before stepping back, her critical gaze sweeping over me once more.
I want to say that I fully believe this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever been a part of, but I refrain, knowing the board wouldn’t like that particular sentence getting out in the media.
“I’m joking,” I lie, satisfied when she giggles and nods once, taking my explanation at face value.
“Well, I think it’s just so romantic. I’ll be rooting for you,” she says, zipping up her bag of cosmetics. With a smile, she walks away.
The door to my dressing room opens, and a woman wearing a headset peers at me, checks her clipboard, and then looks back up.
“Five minutes,” she says and then shuts the door.
I put my fingers to my temples before remembering my makeup and lower them.
How did I get myself into this?
Oh, right. Boris Greene. Still as slimy as he was in high school.
And unfortunately, he’s the son of my superior at the hospital. When Dr. Greene called me into his office, I didn’t know what to expect. But to be roped into this sham of a show wasn’t it.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and with a sigh, I pull it out and swipe.
“Vicky? Is everything okay?” I’m instantly alert and on edge.
“Everything is fine with Ivy, Dr. Morrow. I just wanted to let you know that I will be moving my trip for the extended stay with my family up to next week.”
“Next week, as in seven days from now?” I ask, incredulous.
Why would she call to tell me this right now?She knows where I am and what I’m doing.
“Yes, sir. Well, actually, five days—”
“Vicky, I understand your son and his wife are having a baby, right?”
“Yes—”
“But she’s not due for a month, correct?”
