Reality TV Bites Read Online Free PDF Page B

bar. “They crash their planes into aircraft carriers or something.”
    Josh rubs his bald black head, checking himself out in the mirror behind the bar. “I look good,” he says.
    â€œYes, your head is very shiny.”
    â€œIt’s a fashion statement, sweetie. Black lacquer, like this place.” And his shiny head does sort of remind me of the decor at the Lacquer Lounge. But the rest of him looks like Mekhi Phifer.
    Great. I’m sitting on a bar stool next to a bald Mekhi Phifer, admiring himself in the mirror behind the lacquer bar.
    â€œJosh, kamikazes?”
    â€œAllison, World War Two is so over. This is the twenty-first century.”
    â€œWell, fiddle-dee-dee,” I say in a pretty good Southern belle accent. “This corset squeezes all the air out of my head, and I simply cannot think. Why, I’m woozy at the very thought that a foreigner was in the same room as my very own self.” I sip my vodka martini.
    Josh glances behind him. It’s a little after six, but Nicolo has yet to make an appearance. “Frankly, Scarlett, I don’t think the man gives a damn.”
    I roll my eyes at the bad joke. “He wasn’t coming to see you anyway.”
    â€œThat’s what you think,” Josh says. “My gaydar went off the moment I saw him.”
    â€œYou should take it in for a tune-up.”
    â€œWe’ll see. I haven’t filled his spot on my team roster yet. I’m holding a place.” He leans close and whispers. “In the starting lineup.”
    â€œGet ready to trade him to me, coach. But before we start negotiations, tell me about this show. Is it like Trading Spaces? Queer Eye? Extreme Makeover? ”
    â€œNo, my reality show queen.” Josh samples his Cosmo. “Think Extreme Makeover meets The Iron Chef. ”
    I bolt forward in horror. “There’s cooking?”
    â€œNot unless you feel adventurous,” says a low male voice, tinged with an accent I don’t recognize right away. A warm hand slides over my shoulder as Nicolo materializes out of the ambience.
    â€œHow adventurous are we talking?” I say, looking into his stunning blue eyes.
    â€œThat is up to you,” he murmurs. He takes my hand and kisses all four fingers, slowly and deliberately. “Are youa—what is it you Americans say?—ah, daredevil. Are you a daredevil?”
    I raise a brow and reply in my Kathleen Turner voice, “I’ve been known to play a little Truth or Dare.”
    â€œHel- loh ? I’m standing right here,” Josh interrupts.
    â€œSorry, Josh.” I squeeze his arm.
    â€œNicolo Parma,” the hottie says, holding out a hand.
    â€œJosh Bryant.”
    â€œAllison Holloway.”
    Nicolo takes my hand again, turns it palm up, and kisses my wrist. My pulse jumps, and I imagine I can see the vein in my wrist throb. Oh, this guy is too perfect.
    â€œEnchanted, Miss Holloway. You smell divine.”
    â€œI am going to be ill,” Josh mutters.
    I’m going to faint. I swallow the rest of my martini, feeling its warmth mingle with the lingering heat of Nicolo’s lips on my skin. The vodka is strong, and that’s a good thing, especially now that my knees are weak.
    â€œSo, you are the American designers. I have studied your work. Impressive but conservative.” His eyes remain locked with mine. Is that a challenge?
    â€œThis is the American Midwest. We give the client what he or she wants,” I say. “We aim to please.”
    â€œI see.” He smiles, slow and sexy, then signals to the bartender hovering within eavesdropping distance and she dashes in front of us.
    â€œBrandy. And another vodka martini for Miss Holloway. Josh?”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œSo you’re from Roskilde?” I say. “Where is that?”
    Nicolo smiles. “Denmark, though my family has Italian roots. And you?”
    I hold up a lock of red hair.