Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Malcolm stops some distance from the kitchen with a tablet pressed to his chest. “Mr. Harding,” he greets me with a smile.
I have a suspicion it might be his first genuine smile in a long time. “Hey there, Malckie,” I greet him back.
His smile drops away. “Really? You, too?”
“Sorry,” I say, wincing. “Samuel got me into the habit.”
“Forgiven. Now what are you doing over here chatting away with TJ? We have got an event itinerary to go over and half a morning left to do it in.”
With a glance behind him, I see a stiff-postured Dean with his arms crossed, and Anthony who appears to be picking something out of his teeth with his pinky nail.
All signs point to this being a wonderful and easygoing day.
“Sorry,” says TJ. “I pulled him aside. He’s all yours now.” Then he shoots me a grimace of apology and nudges me toward him.
Malcolm wastes no time as he whisks me away with the other men. “Needless to say,” Malcolm drones on as we head for the back doors to the pavilion, “there will be a lot of pressure on our shoulders to make this event as amazing as possible, so it is very important that you guys keep up and be the shining stars Nadine believes you can be.” He taps on his tablet. “Now are you guys free over the next few days? Tamika is going to interview each of you on video so we can create content for social media and to promote the live stream. Your homework is to brainstorm what you can do for the talent portion of the event and to think of what angle we can take for each of you. Y’know, like how we can package you up and sell your story. Dean, I think we can showcase you as the Mr. Hot Daddy type. I’d suggest Mr. Silver Fox, but you’re bald, so …”
Dean blinks. “Uh, hot … daddy …?”
“Trust me,” Malcolm goes on, moving a mile a minute, “you’ll have everyone drooling over you. ‘Daddy’ is a hundred percent the direction for you. As for you, Anthony, you can fit the role of Mr. Bad Boy. Oh, watch your step,” he says as we exit through the back doors and onto an enormous covered patio area. Steps lead down to a decorative stone path to the pavilion. “Not to be insensitive, but you’ve got an image around town—even you’re aware of it—so why not lean further into it and just pitch you that way? The ‘bad boy’ thing is hella hot. It sells.”
Anthony wrinkles up his face. “The fuck …?” he mutters under his breath.
Malcolm either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care. “Of course, my lovely friend Cole, you will fit the obvious image of Mr. Picture Perfect.”
“Picture Perfect …?”
“Don’t question it. You’re dashing, you’re young, and you’re a local hero. You’re total boyfriend-and-husband material. That’ll be the charm-icing on the charm-cake. By the way.” He stops in his tracks and faces me. “Can you sing well? Like, at all? Any singing talent at all in your perfect bones?”
I sputter. “I, uh …”
“Never mind.” He smiles. “I was just … curious. Appeasing a totally innocent, personal, irrelevant curiosity of mine. Don’t tell Samuel I asked that question.” He goes right back into walking, as if uninterrupted. “Between the trio of you, we are going to steal everyone’s hearts … and hopefully their big ol’ wallets, too, if we do this properly.”
I catch a look from both Anthony and Dean, who seem equally bewildered.
Until Dean’s face suddenly warms and he lets out a laugh. “I’m starting to think this might be a lot of fun. Sure, fine, yes, go right ahead with this ‘hot daddy’ thing for me. Make me feel ten years younger. I place my trust in your capable hands, Malcolm.”
Dean’s outpouring of positivity appears to annoy Anthony, who makes a face and says, “I’m not some leather-jacket-wearin’ ‘bad boy’. Why do you gotta go and pigeonhole me like that? I’m a good guy, Malcolm. I go to church. I help out around town. I was … hell, I was even almost a vet and a vet. The animal kind and the military kind.”
“And you didn’t make it into either the military or vet school, right?” says Malcolm with a lift of his eyebrow. Anthony sputters. “Hey, I’m not judging. I am the self-named bad boy of my own family with an overachiever sister whose similar love for animals got her a cushy life on the other side of the country.” He stops in front of the pavilion and faces Anthony. “But if you want to help us sell a lot of tickets to this thing and make some serious dough for Spruce, go with the ‘bad boy’ thing. Think of it like a role you’re playing. You will have ladies licking food out of your palms.”