One To Watch(26)

“I’m Bea,” she replied.

“No, but I mean, who are you, like, on this show?”

“I’m the woman you’re here to meet. That’s why you’re meeting me.”

“I don’t understand.”

She told him they’d talk more soon, then attempted to take deep, cleansing breaths during the commercial break.

The third group included a grungy blond surfer named Cooper, a thickly muscled trainer named Kumal, a chilled-out stockbroker named Trevor, and a political consultant named Marco who burst into a broad smile when he saw Bea.

“Gorgeous,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry?” Bea wasn’t sure how to react to being greeted this way at all, let alone on live TV by a man with dark hair and olive skin who looked like he ought to be lounging on a beach in Capri, his muscles glistening in the Mediterranean sunlight.

“No, I’m sorry.” He took her hand and grinned, showing off his blinding white smile. “It’s just—you’re so beautiful.”

“Okay, um, thanks? I guess?” She laughed uncomfortably. Bea didn’t know if Marco was putting on an act, but she doubted very much that she could figure it out during his allotted thirty seconds of airtime, so she made polite chitchat and sent him on his way.

She turned to greet the final man in the third group, who turned out to be the first man of the night who wasn’t trim and handsome: Jefferson Derting, a Missourian with a roundly protruding belly and bushy ginger beard. In dark jeans and a gray button-down topped with an orange tie and tweedy vest, he put Bea in mind of a hipster bartender who would insist on being called a mixologist. Physically, though, his body type was much closer to most of the men Bea had dated in the past—and to Bea herself—and she felt a sense of relief as he approached her.

“Salutations, little lady.” His smile seemed friendly enough, but Bea couldn’t tell whether this was his usual mode of greeting or a barb at her expense.

“Fancy meeting a gent like you in a place like this,” Bea replied in kind. If he was just doing a bit, she didn’t want to ruin it with undue paranoia.

“Seriously, though, I think it’s awesome that you’re going to be the star of the show this year. About damn time they cast a gal who looks like you.” He raised his hand for a high-five, which Bea awkwardly returned. “See you soon, I hope?”

Bea nodded and smiled. “Definitely.”

As Jefferson took a walk toward the riser and Johnny took them to commercial, Bea took a moment to steady herself: more than halfway through now. You can do this.

“Bea, we have a special surprise with your fourth group of suitors,” Johnny gushed when they came back on air.

“Are you sure I haven’t had quite enough surprises?” Bea joked weakly.

“In this next group”—Johnny lowered his voice dramatically—“every single one of the men …”

Is an astronaut? Is a nice, kind, normal dude? Is a time-traveling wizard possessed of the power to make this night be over?

“… is named Ben.”

“What?” Bea asked, unsure why this merited mention, let alone a grand pronouncement.

“Yes!” Johnny clapped his hands. “Meet the five Bens!”

And so she did: Ben G., a Birkenstock-clad kindergarten teacher who brought his guitar and forced Bea to join him in his class’s good-morning song (on. live. television.); Ben F., a personal trainer; Ben K., a personal fitness coach (“So, like a trainer?” Bea had asked, and apparently this was very much the wrong thing to say); Ben Q., a dental student; and finally, Ben Z., who, at six-foot-six, was known by the group as “Big Ben,” and whose occupation remained a mystery—there seemed to have been a collective decision that his height was information enough.

Once the parade of Bens ended, they cut to commercial and Alison rushed over—theoretically to check Bea’s wardrobe, but really to give her a quick hug.

“Just one more group,” Alison whispered in Bea’s ear. “You’re doing great.”

As Alison hurried away and Johnny announced the arrival of the final group, Bea finally started to relax—there was light at the end of the tunnel. It didn’t matter whether these men really liked her, didn’t matter that this last group seemed the most indifferent yet, didn’t even matter that the second-to-last man presented her with a cupcake that he’d scavenged from Craft Services upon hearing that Bea was, quote, “a larger lady.” As if Bea hadn’t endured thousands of judgmental stares eating sweets (or burgers, or fries) in regular old restaurants, let alone on television. As if her fatness were the essence of her personality, butter and sugar paving the pathways to her heart.

“Thanks,” she said curtly to the cupcake-bearer, a smarmy property broker named Nash who struck Bea as a locker-room bully, “but I think I’m going to leave this with you. A snack for the riser!”

She faked a smile as he walked away, then turned to meet her final man, taking a deep breath and insisting to herself once more that it didn’t matter who he was or how he reacted to her.

Which was a lot tougher to believe when she realized he was the most attractive man she’d ever seen in her life.

Plenty of the other men were conventionally handsome, but this man was absolutely devastating: dark hair long enough to brush his neck, crooked nose, full lips, crinkly brown eyes, incredibly strategic stubble, geometric tattoos peeking out beneath his shirtsleeves along his muscled forearms.