Page 81 of Pity Parade

My name is Tom Meranda. For the last seven years I have executive produced a television show called Midwestern Matchmaker. Unfortunately, we were canceled after our last season, but we have started an exciting new endeavor called Matched.

My assistant has been trying to get ahold of you at your office, but your assistant says you won’t be returning calls for several more weeks. Being that the new project I’m working on has some time constraints, I thought I might have more luck sending you my request in writing.

Unlike Midwestern Matchmaker, which paired several couples each season, my new show, Matched, will partner one bachelor or bachelorette with several esteemed eligible singles who are also looking for love.

Our premier season will feature Trina Rockwell, the host and namesake of Midwestern Matchmaker. Miss Rockwell is a beautiful and professional woman in her early thirties. We at Lovestruck Entertainment think she’d be a great fit for a man such as yourself.

We have already signed on one of the players from the Blackhawks, as well as one from the Chicago Bears. We’re also in negotiations with a well-known talk show host. We’re very eager to add you to our stable of highly sought after and successful single men in Chicago.

Please call me at your earliest convenience so we can set up a meeting to discuss partnering on this exciting venture. It’s our hope to start filming at the beginning of September, so we would like to finish casting by July 1st.

Thank you so much for your time and I look forward to hearing from you soon,

Tom Meranda

Stable? Well, that’s a disturbing description that evokes serious stud-for-hire vibes. It appears Trina’s production company is moving forward with their new venture. I wonder if she knows that. And while I’d normally go next door to tell her what I’ve found out, she’s currently upset with me, and I don’t want her to shoot the messenger.

Having said that, I am curious to find out what Tom Meranda has to say, so I pick up my phone and call him.

If Trina won’t talk to me on her own, she’ll be hard-pressed to ignore me if I’m one of the bachelors on her show.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

TRINA

Nick and I take off our shoes to walk along the edge of the lake. There’s nothing like cool water on your feet to bring down your body temperature after a hot day out. Even though it’s only June, the summer is in full swing in the Midwest.

I called Nick five days ago to see if he’d like to get together. It took him an unflattering four days to get back to me. Not what I’d call an auspicious start, but it’s like they say, beggars can’t be choosers. And since every other man I’ve met has been a resounding “no,” you take what you can get.

When Nick finally returned my call, I asked him over for dinner. I felt that a private setting would give me a better idea of how compatible we are. And being that we got along so well at Jamie’s house, it doesn’t feel like I’m moving too quickly.

After Nick and I engage in small talk about several things, including the origin of wearing white while playing tennis—yawn—he suggests, “We should go into the water.”

“I still have my swimsuit on from earlier today,” I tell him. “How about you?”

He nods his head. “I figured eating at your place might offer the occasion for a swim.”

I find a spot on the beach to call our own before lifting the hem of my dress and pulling it over my head. Underneath, I’m wearing my favorite high-waisted red bikini. It’s more vintage looking than revealing.

Once I’m ready to go, I turn around and look at Nick. My first reaction is fear for my eyesight. As in, I’m afraid I’m about to go blind. “That’s some suit,” I tell him while doing my best to look anywhere but directly at … him.

“Thank you,” he says proudly. “I work out a lot and I like to show off my body.”

He’s more than showing it off, he’s practically naked. His suit is less swimming wear than what some would call a banana hammock. I can see everything.

He mistakes my horror for appreciation. “I like your suit, too.”

Still doing my best to keep my line of vision above the waist, I mumble, “Thank you.”

Then he turns around to walk into the water. Holy. Crap. Not only is the front of his suit minimal at best, but the back is a full-on thong. Total butt floss, or cheese wire as my brother calls it.

I stand there with my mouth wide open before gathering enough courage to follow him into the water. There is no way Nick and I are going to see each other after today. I would date a guy with bad breath before going out with an exhibitionist of his caliber.

This feeling is cemented when he tells me, “I don’t normally wear a suit, but I figured you might think I was moving too fast if I suggested we go skinny dipping.”

Looking from side to side, I prudishly tell him, “This is a family lake.” I’m not only referencing his love of swimming in the nude either. If I were a mother, I’d cover my children’s eyes so they wouldn’t see his current lack of attire.

Nick shrugs. “I’m not ashamed of my God-given attributes.”

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