She wouldn’t be the success she was today with his support.
“Fine.” She dropped her hands to the counter and turned her head to meet Cutter’s gaze. “But here are the rules. Once you get the hang of it, I’m done. And no one can know I’m helping you. They have to believe that everything comes from you or the whole thing crumbles in a heap of shame. Maintaining the integrity of the event is my top priority.”
The expression on his face promised nothing. “I want to have my ‘Cuda done by the end of the month. That’s my priority.”
With a sense of victory and relief, Cutter pulled open the glass door and entered the small but elegant reception room of Perfect Pair Inc., pulling off his baseball cap and sunglasses. It had taken twenty minutes to shake the reporter trailing him since he’d left his house. A full week of media hype about the fundraiser had the worst of Miami’s parasitic paparazzi on a renewed quest to hunt Cutter Thompson down. He’d left North Carolina and moved back to Miami to avoid this kind of scrutiny.
Of course, his sudden aversion to interviews only made the press hungrier for tidbits of his activities, but he was determined to keep the facts about his memory loss private. Bad enough he’d regained consciousness in the ambulance in the worst agony of his life; no need for the world to rehash every gritty detail. He refused to tap dance his way around another grilling over what was next for Cutter Thompson. And he sure as hell wouldn’t field one more question about his reason for illegally bumping Chester Coon.
Hell, when—if—he ever figured out the answers, he’d take out a flippin’ full-page ad in the Times and let everyone know. Until then, every member of the press was persona non grata in Cutter’s book.
Even though he’d managed to lose the newshound tailing him, the encounter had left him with a foul mood he couldn’t shake. He’d been having a good day in the garage. The pain was tolerable, and the new camshaft went in like a dream.
But then he’d had to take a trip across town with a bloodsucker on his trail. And he owed his ramped-up publicity appeal to do-gooder Jessica Wilson—the lady who’d toppled his plans for seclusion with a barrage of sympathy-invoking photos.
Weak. He was well and truly weak.
His only option now was to get in and out as quickly as possible. Complete the first round of chatting with his contestants and get back to the peace of his garage. He needed to crawl back under the ‘Cuda. Solving problems there was simple. Things connected and made sense. Broken parts could be easily repaired or replaced.
Unlike his life.
With a frown, he scanned his surroundings. The small reception room off to the left was decorated like a cozy living area, complete with a collection of leather couches arranged in a circle, the walls lined with pictures of smiling couples mocking his black mood. Some looked candid, some were professionally done, and others were wedding photos of happy brides and grooms.
He grimaced at the marital bliss propaganda being displayed on the wall.
Jessica appeared in the hallway, her lovely long legs bare beneath a gray skirt that ended in a dainty ruffle. A gauzy pink blouse clung to gentle curves. She was an intriguing mix of sophisticated class, professionalism and soft femininity. But she believed in true love and things like ‘effective communication.’
“Thanks for coming here,” Jessica said. “I have to meet someone for dinner at eight, so I’m pressed for time.”
Yet, here she was, championing her cause. Helping him do his part. He was still trying to figure that one out. “Why is this fundraiser so important to you? Was your childhood so awful you feel obligated to fix it for others?”
Her expression was one of restraint, with a hint of annoyance. “No. My childhood consisted of two parents who loved and nurtured me. I’m a longtime supporter of the work the Brice Foundation does, and my ex-husband is chairman of the board. I promised him I’d recruit you for the benefit dinner.”
His eyebrows lifted. That she was divorced came as a surprise. That she was still on speaking terms with her ex was a shock. “Seems strange to hear the words help and ex-husband in the same sentence.”
“This is the twenty-first century, Mr. Thompson,” she said as she started down a hallway.
He followed beside her. “So you keep telling me.”
“Our marriage failed,” she said. “But our friendship didn’t. And I owe him.”
Owe?
Growing up in his world meant divorced parents who talked about each other with animosity and refused to speak to one another. Which had left a five-year-old Cutter carrying messages between them … because they couldn’t get along for the two minutes it took to discuss his visitations. By all reports, his parents had been head-over-heels in love until his mom had got knocked up with Cutter and they’d had to tie the knot. According to his mother, for the entire four years of her marriage, bliss had been a distant memory.
Who needed that kind of misery?
He hiked an eyebrow dryly. “What’s with the sense of obligation toward your ex? Did you treat him like crap during your marriage?”
She shot him a cutting look. “I owe him because he helped me start my online dating service after our divorce.”
Cutter came to a halt and watched her continue down the hall. “So your ex-husband helped you start a business finding love for other people?” It was hard enough comprehending how a woman so thoroughly indoctrinated in the happily-ever-after club could have joined the till-divorce-do-us-part league. But the irony of her profession was comical. “Shouldn’t a failed marriage disqualify you from the job?”
She stopped and turned to face him, a frown on her face, her voice firm. “A divorce doesn’t disqualify you from anything.”
He moved closer to her, puzzlement pulling his eyebrows higher. “Ruining your own life wasn’t good enough, you feel the need to make others miserable, too?”
She actually bit her lower lip. Cutter was sure it was to cut off a sharp retort, and he was amazed she managed to sound so civil. “When two people are compatible, marriage isn’t miserable.” She turned into an office clearly decorated for a woman, done in soft mauves and creams. “And despite my divorce, I still believe in romantic relationships.”
Cutter followed her inside, letting out an amused scoff. “I’m not divorced, and even I know they’re a crock.”
She rounded her leather-topped desk adorned with a vase of cheerful yellow lilies and took a seat at her computer, eyeing him warily. Her tone held more than a trace of concern. “Mr. Thompson,” she said. “Let’s try not to bring up your jaded views while discussing your ideal date online.” It seemed she’d concluded he was a hopeless cause.
Hell yeah. Count him up as one who had seen the light a long time ago.
“My views aren’t jaded,” he said. “They’re realistic.” And the sooner the two of them got started, the sooner he could be done with this fake flirt fest. “Okay. How do we start?”
“With a question for the contestants. Something to get the conversation going.”
“About dating, right?” He crossed to stop behind her chair and frowned at the waiting computer, feeling foolish for getting involved. Cutter hoped the sullen teenage Emmanuel wound up a friggin’ Supreme Court Justice. Nothing less would justify caving in to this absurd unreality show. “How about asking their favorite date destination?”
Jessica folded her arms across her chest. “You need something more open-ended. All someone has to say is the beach or a restaurant and the conversation dies.”
“At least I’d be done for the evening. And you’d have time for a pre-dinner drink.”
Jessica