Blind Date Disasters & Eat Your Heart Out

She didn’t waste her breath wondering why everyone always knew these things before she did. The gossip mill in show business was in a league all its own, and being five hundred miles away from Hollywood only made it worse.

Everyone looked to Dimi, as if being host made her their leader. “Well, that’s what happens when they pitch us against the Debbie Dee Show,” she said, bemused. “Yesterday her show was How My Brother Married My Sister and Gave Birth to Puppies. We can’t compete with that.”

“Yeah. And today it’s How Making Porn Videos Rejuvenated Our Marriage.” Suzie shook her head mournfully. “We’re going to lose to that for sure, unless…” She eyed Dimi speculatively. “Got any more exciting announcements?”

“No!”

From somewhere behind them came a roar like thunder, as if the heavens were agreeing with the dismal outlook of their beloved show.

But not a cloud marred the sky. Just bright, optimistic sunshine.

That’s when the Harley came into view, rounding the corner. The rider, leather-clad and broad-shouldered, cut the engine and coasted into a parking spot some distance away.

Silence fell again, and the staff stared morosely at each other.

“Maybe we can change the tone of the show,” Leo, their set designer, suggested. “You know, go with something more…” A small, unusually pretty man, he gestured with his hands as he spoke. “I don’t know. Adventurous.”

“No,” Dimi said quickly. “People depend on a serious cooking show from us.” And plus, she liked serious. She was serious.

“Come on,” Ted cajoled, warming to the cause. “How does this sound? Food Time goes new age! Cook with us in the nude today!” He grinned lecherously at Suzie, who rolled her eyes.

“Just don’t fry bacon. Not in the nude.” This from Leo, ever safety conscious. “Bad plan.”

“It’s not the tone of the show dropping our ratings,” Dimi protested. “It’s the brass forcing us to make those frothy, fattening, decadent meals that have only a total of four bites to them, when what our viewers really want to see are low-fat, healthy, simple but fabulous-tasting cuisine they can easily whip up after a long day at work.”

This was a huge pet peeve, and Dimi wondered when the powers that be would get a clue. Probably after the show was canceled. Damn them. Didn’t they know that since she’d given up men, all she had left was the show?

“Ritchie isn’t here yet.” Suzie lowered her voice, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one of importance could overhear her. “They say he’s been…fired.”

There was a collective gasp.

“They said,” Suzie continued, “that we’re getting a new producer.”

“Who?” everyone asked together, in the same reverent tone.

“Mitchell Knight.”

Everyone but Dimi, who hadn’t heard of him, groaned.

“Ooh, he’s wicked,” Grace whispered.

“He’s gorgeous,” Leo murmured, fanning himself.

“Gorgeous, but mean. Real mean.” Ted looked terrified. “He likes to fire people, man.”

“He’s a troubleshooter type,” Suzie explained to clueless Dimi. “Called in by our parent company when a show is on its last legs. He axes everyone, then starts from scratch.”

“Yeah.” Leo fanned his face. “He’s bad, baby. Bad to the bone.”

“He’s a holy terror, is what he is,” Suzie corrected. “And they say he’s coming here. Today.”

“That would be correct.”

The very male voice came from behind their huddled group, and when they all turned, there stood the Harley rider. He was built in a way that suggested maybe he beat up cooking show crews for a living, all big and rugged and edgy. His dark wind-mussed hair fell to his shoulders, and a diamond stud winked at them from his ear. His aviator sunglasses gleamed back their own startled reflections. Beneath his open leather bomber jacket he wore a black shirt and even blacker pants. As a package, and definitely as a producer-their producer-he seemed…dangerous.

Dimi couldn’t speak for the others, but looking at this man gave her a funny feeling deep down, like maybe she was sinking.

Fast.

At their utter lack of response, Mr. Harley Rider lifted a hand and waggled his fingers at them. “Anyone awake?”

Everyone but Dimi took several steps back, then separated, as if they’d never been talking to one another. Guilty expressions abounded.

The man nodded at Dimi, since she alone stood there, like Bambi caught in the headlights. Dimi wished she was wearing reflector sunglasses, because she felt the need to hide the fact that her eyes had all but devoured him. She couldn’t seem to help herself. His jacket spread across wide shoulders. His pants, dark and soft looking, covered what appeared to be very not-so-soft, powerful, long legs. Despite his motorcycle ride, there wasn’t a spec of dirt on that body, not anywhere.

She looked.

Everything about him screamed attitude. Confidence. Danger. Funny, but she’d never really gone for the I’m-a- rebel look, and yet she was going for it now.

Or at least her hormones were.

Bad timing, since she’d given up on the male species as a whole, but she consoled herself with Suzie’s mantra-most gorgeous men were poor lovers, anyway.

Then he slowly tugged off the sunglasses. Dark eyes stared right at her. His face was lean, tanned. Lived-in. Gorgeous.

And he didn’t so much as crack a smile.

“Mitch Knight,” he said. “Your new producer.” He glanced at Ted. “I liked the nude show idea. Probably wouldn’t fly with the FCC, though.”

Ted beamed.

Dimi fumed. This was not a joke!

“Keep trying,” Mitch suggested.

“What happened to Ritchie?” Dimi asked bluntly.

He cocked his head at her and still didn’t smile. “Do you really want to know?”

Probably not, she decided. Ritchie had yelled a lot and thrown his weight around- which at two hundred plus pounds on a five-foot frame had been considerable-but at least what you saw with Ritchie was what you got.

Her new producer slipped his sunglasses into his chest pocket. He stood there with legs spread wide, hands on his hips, looking like he owned the world.

And he did. Her world.

“I don’t suppose you’re interested in low-fat California cuisine?” she asked hopefully.

“I’m interested in ratings.” His voice was low and direct and full of authority. “What do you know about getting good ratings?”

“Apparently not much.” She sent daggers to her so-called staff, who were slinking off like worms, every last one of them.

“Well, then, we have a lot to discuss. The show needs some serious spicing up.”

She turned her attention back to Mr. Producer. “Spicing?”

“I thought we’d try humor, among other things.”

“I don’t do humor.”

“You did yesterday when you announced your impending shriveled-up-old-maid status.”

Dimi felt the blush creep up her face. “You said humor ‘among other things.’ What things?”

“Sex.”