Page 4 of The Charm Offensive
He wants to remind hersheis the one who soughthimout. She’s the one who pestered his publicist for months until he agreed to do the show. He says nothing.
“You need to relax,” she drawls, as if telling someone to relax has ever once in the history of human beings yielded that outcome. Maureen’s silver-gray bob swishes stylishly as she shoots him a threatening look. “All of our futures are riding on this. You need some personal rebranding, for obvious reasons. The show does too. Don’t fuck this up for everyone.”
He would like the record to show he does not fuck things up on purpose. He would very much like to be a not-fucking-things-up sort of person. If he were that sort of person, he wouldn’t be the new star of a reality dating show.
Maureen narrows shrewd eyes at him. “Stop looking so gloomy, darling. You get to date twenty beautiful women, and when it’s over, you will propose to whoever is left standing. What’s so awful about that?”
What’s so awful about dating on television when he has not gone on a real date in two years? What’s so awful about getting fake-engaged to an almost-stranger on the slim promise he might be able to work again when this is over?
Nothing. Nothing at all. He feels great about all of this.
In other news, he’s probably going to vomit.
“And who knows,” Maureen says cloyingly. “Maybe you’ll even find real love by the end.”
He won’t. That’s the one thing he knows for absolute certain.
The car comes to a smooth stop, and Maureen pockets her phone. “Now, when we get out, you’ll meet Dev, your new handler, and he’ll coach you through the entrance ceremony.”
Charlie wants to ask what was wrong with his old handler, but the driver turns off the engine, and without another word, Maureen gets out of the car and disappears into the night. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to follow her, or just sit in the car like a pretty puppet until someone shows up to pull his strings.
He chooses the former, refusing to relinquish every ounce of his free will as he embarks on this two-month journey through reality television hell. He dramatically throws his weight against the door… which gives with suspicious ease.
Because it turns out someone is opening the door at that exact moment. He’s thrown off balance. In one fluid motion, he lands facedown at someone’s feet.
“Shit. Are you okay?”
Suddenly, there are hands on him, hoisting him into a standing position exactly like a pretty puppet. The hands belong to a tall man with dark skin whose Adam’s apple is at Charlie’s eye line. There is something disconcerting about having to look up that drastically at another person. He looks up. Dramatic cheekbones and intense eyes behind plastic-framed glasses and an amused mouth. The man gripping the front of his tux (Dev?) slides his fingers into Charlie’s hair to adjust the crown, and it’s too much.
Too much touching.
Too mucheverything, too quickly.
The anxiety hijacks his brain, and in a panic, he throws himself backward against the car door to break contact. The new handler raises a single eyebrow in response. “So, no touching, then?” He flashes Charlie a crooked smile, like this is all a big joke.
Touching is never a joke to Charlie. He doesn’t hate it as a general rule, but he does prefer advance warning and for hand sanitizer to be involved. He knows he signed up for this show where touching is required, so he attempts to explain. “You can touch me anywhere you like,” he starts.
And he realizes he’s phrased this inelegantly when the man’s other eyebrow shoots up.
“Wait, no, what I meant was… I don’t mind being touched by you, but if you could just… uh… if you could wash your hands first? Not that I think you are unclean. I’m sure you are very clean. I mean, you smell clean, but I have a thing about germs, and if you could maybe warn me? Before you touch me?”
This is what he gets for attempting verbal communication with a stranger. At first, his handler simply stares at him in openmouthed silence. Then… “No!” he says firmly. “Get back in the car.”
Dev yanks the door back open and kicks at Charlie’s legs with the toe of his Converse. Charlie’s reentrance into the car is about as graceful as his exit two minutes before. He tries to scoot backward to make room for the very tall man who is now halfway sitting on top of him.
Dev asks the driver to get out. “I’m sorry,” Charlie blurts. Apologizing always seems like a good idea when he doesn’t understand a social situation, and he has absolutely no idea what’s happening right now.
“Pleasestop talking!” Dev plunges his hands into a gigantic shoulder bag and pulls out a tiny bottle of green hand sanitizer. He lathers his hands, and Charlie is weirdly moved by the gesture. Then, when he realizes the hand sanitizer means more touching, he is weirdly freaked out by the gesture.
“Lean forward,” Dev orders.
“Uh…”
“Hurry! Lean forward!”
Charlie leans and this total stranger reaches around his back and untucks his shirt, warm fingers sliding across his skin. And yes, in the past few days, he’s learned LA types are very weird about both personal space and naked bodies, but Charlie is not an LA type. He’s not accustomed to being groped in cars by men wearing truly hideous cargo shorts.
Dev’s fingers feel like pinpricks every time they make contact as he fondles the nude-colored mic belt wardrobe put on Charlie back at the studio. After fifteen excruciating seconds, which Charlie counts out one Mississippi at a time to stop himself from spiraling, Dev pulls away and slumps back against the seat. Charlie finally exhales.
