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Stu collapses into a chair beside the stage. Frankie hands him a bottle of water, which he guzzles down. “These contestants are getting bolder. They treat it like an audition for a reality show.”
It kind of is, but that is the unspoken phrase around here. Never, ever utter the R word.
When the director counts backward, signaling we are about to go live again, Stu stands and replaces his grumpiness with an award-winning smile that has garnered him two Emmy awards.
In his performance voice, Stu says, “Welcome back to…”
The Music City Match theme song blasts through the speakers while Stu maintains his on-screen smile.
“You might remember Vanessa and Doug from last week’s episode. They went on a date to Zanies Comedy Club. Let’s see some excerpts from their date and find out if they plan to have a second one. Audience? What do you think?”
A member of the audience wolf whistles. I’m sure he’ll be put on the blacklist and never be allowed back.
The video rolls. At first, the couple is chummy as they get seated, but once they are settled in and have a couple of drinks, Doug starts to heckle the comedian. It’s sort of funny, but at one point, the comedian stops the show, takes out a wad of cash from his pocket, and tosses it to Doug. “I’m trying to work here. Could you please leave? You’re ruining it for everyone else. I hope that covers the cost of the tickets.” I’m shocked this part didn’t end up on the cutting-room floor.
“You’ve embarrassed my date!” Doug shouts. “This is unacceptable.” Vanessa’s face turns bloodred.
While the bouncers drag Doug away, kicking and screaming, the film shuts off, leaving Stu slack-jawed. “Er, I’m sure that was probably part of the act. We’ll catch up with the couple at another time once things have been… edited. Until next time, Music City Match, find your match today.”
As the credits roll, the studio is silent. In a mad dash, the studio audience is hurried out of the building, leaving nothing but the crew standing there, motionless.
The stage manager looks around as he throws his hands in the air. “What just happened? Where’s the editing crew? Is that the best they could use for this couple?”
None of us makes a peep, but surely someone has an explanation about how this made it past the editing department. Between the whoo-hoo girl earlier and this, it’s been a crazy day on set, to say the least. I peek up to the control room to see Mr. Weber running his hands through his blond hair, his telltale sign he is on the verge of losing control. He blows out a breath and leaves the control room in a huff.
Frankie whispers in my ear, “Ruh-roh. I wouldn’t want to be him right now. The ratings keep getting worse, and word on the street is that his job is on the line if things don’t turn around soon. Maybe you should go check on him.” He nudges me with his shoulder.
“What? Me? No way. I know better than to interrupt when he’s in a mood. If he needs me, he’ll text.”
And as if on cue, my phone buzzes. SOS, the text reads.
“It’s from him, isn’t it?” Frankie’s eyebrows dance up and down.
I nibble on my bottom lip and wish my stupid, schoolgirl crush would go away, but every day, it gets worse.
“Maybe,” I mumble as heat rises up my neck.
Frankie chuckles. “See? He needs you.”
Trying to conceal my real feelings, I say with a straight face, “Of course he does. It’s my job to do the menial tasks he doesn’t want to do. I’m sure he’s ready for his second latte of the day.” I roll my eyes in hopes that Frankie thinks I’m annoyed.
“Surrrre.”
I give Frankie a hefty dose of stink eye, exit the studio, and racewalk down the hallway to Pryce’s office. Once I get to the door with PJ Weber, Associate Director One on a brass placard, I take a moment to slow my quick breathing, which was caused by my hurried steps. Yeah, sure.
I find it odd that PJ Weber is a stage name, but Mr. Weber doesn’t want his real identity listed on the credits where he could be linked to his father, Eddie Hatfield, Nashville music royalty, so it makes sense.
After two failed attempts, I finally muster up the courage to rap on the door with my knuckles.
“Come in,” he says from the other side of the door.
I open the door, doing my best to settle the butterflies flying around inside me. I freeze in the doorway at the sight before me.
My rapid breaths are no longer a problem because I can’t breathe at all when I find he’s without his suit jacket and business shirt. He has removed them and slung them over his desk chair. Wearing only dark-blue slacks and a white V-neck undershirt, he grunts as he pumps out some reps with the dumbbells he keeps in his office. He likes to “sling iron” while mulling over some ideas—especially when he’s frustrated. Today, I’m sure it’s a combination of reasons.
His gaze lands on me, then his scowl morphs into a smile, one that makes me audibly sigh. “Hey, Small Frye. I need your help.”
I am still processing his physique, which is even better than when I first met him eight years ago on move-in day during his and Will’s freshman year at college. The way his biceps bulge with every curl is mesmerizing. I don’t realize I’m gawking until he stops mid rep to quirk up an eyebrow. I force the butterflies to settle down and paint on a professional smile while I enter his office.
