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.
And he spoke with a throaty French accent. Because of fucking course he did.
“You do not ’ave a sweet tooth?” he asked as he approached—a reference to the cupcake she’d just refused.
“I’ve been known to indulge,” she murmured, “under the right circumstances.”
He took her hand as if to shake it, or kiss it, but instead he just held it, his thumb tracing deliberate circles inside her palm, turning her insides molten.
“Well, I am a chef,” he quipped, “so perhaps I will discover the sweetness you desire.”
“I think I might like that.” Her face warmed with a genuine smile, this dazzling man temporarily erasing her ability to feel self-conscious.
“Pardon me if I am forward, Bea.” He dropped his voice and looked directly at her. “But I think you should have everything you want.”
“What’s your name?” she asked, the words little more than breath escaping her body.
He smiled and finally raised her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips against it.
“I am Luc,” he answered. “
Enchanté
.”
The moment should have been cheesy, but it was the opposite, somehow—it felt almost too intimate to be shown on camera. The barest touch of Luc’s lips on her skin was pure sex, and in that moment, all Bea wanted in the world was to leave the set with him and make everyone else disappear.
“And that’s the ball game!” Johnny interjected, reminding Bea her fantasy was impossible—and probably unwise. “When we come back, we’ll find out what Bea thinks of these men—and what they think about her—so stick around!”
Bea reluctantly let go of Luc’s hand, and PAs descended upon the stage to organize a semicircle of
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.
And he spoke with a throaty French accent. Because of fucking course he did.
“You do not ’ave a sweet tooth?” he asked as he approached—a reference to the cupcake she’d just refused.
“I’ve been known to indulge,” she murmured, “under the right circumstances.”
He took her hand as if to shake it, or kiss it, but instead he just held it, his thumb tracing deliberate circles inside her palm, turning her insides molten.
“Well, I am a chef,” he quipped, “so perhaps I will discover the sweetness you desire.”
“I think I might like that.” Her face warmed with a genuine smile, this dazzling man temporarily erasing her ability to feel self-conscious.
“Pardon me if I am forward, Bea.” He dropped his voice and looked directly at her. “But I think you should have everything you want.”
“What’s your name?” she asked, the words little more than breath escaping her body.
He smiled and finally raised her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips against it.
“I am Luc,” he answered. “
Enchanté
.”
The moment should have been cheesy, but it was the opposite, somehow—it felt almost too intimate to be shown on camera. The barest touch of Luc’s lips on her skin was pure sex, and in that moment, all Bea wanted in the world was to leave the set with him and make everyone else disappear.
“And that’s the ball game!” Johnny interjected, reminding Bea her fantasy was impossible—and probably unwise. “When we come back, we’ll find out what Bea thinks of these men—and what they think about her—so stick around!”
Bea reluctantly let go of Luc’s hand, and PAs descended upon the stage to organize a semicircle of
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