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| THE SWEET SPOT |
June, 2006 An Avon Trade Paperback ISBN: 0-06-075399-4 |
 The Sweet Spot has nothing to do with football . . .
Just ask Kahari Brown, one of the NFL's sexiest stars. He knows how to handle a football, and always thought he had a way with the ladies. But his smooth moves off the field are only getting him into hot water these days.
And no one is hotter than Zoë Andrews. When she thrusts a mic in his face and asks him if he's the father of a crazy fan's baby, he's ready to tackle her and toss her out of the locker room on her shapely butt. But there's something about Zoë . . .
Zoë's Rule Number One: Never Date an Athlete!
Zoë will do anything to make it as a top sports reporter, even ask the controversial question that puts her toe to toe with Kahari. Still, she can't help noticing that the brother is mighty fine. Now, the heat is on, and Zoë is wondering if she should have fanned the flames, because she's falling for Kahari's charm-something she swore she'd never do. Yet it's hard to resist his smooth moves, making Zoë wonder, is he sweet-talking his way into her heart for love-or for something else? |
CHAPTER ONE
This is fast turning into the worst day of my life.
My friends will tell you I say that a lot-that whatever crappy day I'm going through is the worst day of my life-but this time I mean it. Reeeally mean it. I may as well find a hole and bury myself alive, that's how completely hopeless I feel right now.
I'm stuck in traffic just south of NoHo (aka North Hollywood), and horns blare as car after car whizzes by me. Like people actually think I chose to break down in a live lane in the middle of busy traffic. And not one person offers to help me.
"Okay," I begin, hoping my calm tone will appease my car. "You can do it, Betsy." I rub the dashboard lovingly, trying to coax my car into submission. "Now come on, engine. Turn over." I turn the key, but Betsy's engine only whines in protest. "Come on!"
The engine sputters and burps, then magically comes to life. Energy shoots through my veins, renewing my hope.
"Oh, thank you, Betsy. Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
Betsy's clock long ago stopped working, so I glance at my watch as I start to drive. Ten thirty-five. I have to get to the NBC studios by eleven if I want to have a shot in hell of changing my life for the better.
I've been trying not to be too excited about this opportunity, but I just can't help it. NBC is launching a new sports show, and I actually have an audition/interview for one of the three host positions. One of the hosts is the legendary quarterback, Lionel Griggs, and they're specifically hiring two new faces, probably a man and a woman.
This is the break I've been waiting for. No, the break I've been dying for. The reason I've worked for the past three years at a pathetically-low paying job, in the hopes of building up a decent video reel. Today's audition is the chance of a lifetime in this City of Angels where everyone has a dream, but only a small percentage will ever make it.
Something my mother, back home in Cleveland where I was born and raised, reminds me of every chance she gets.
But I'm not thinking about that now. You have to have faith if you're ever going to make it.
My heart pounds as I get closer to Burbank. I want this job so bad, I can practically taste it. Zoë Andrews reporting for INSIDE SPORTS! The Lakers will have some tough competition today . . .
A loud screech-thud sound jerks me from my daydream, just as Besty's sudden halting jerks me forward in the car. My stomach twists painfully. Oh, God. Not again.
And this time, no matter how much I try to get Betsy going, she just won't cooperate. No sputtering, no screaming engine. Nada.
There is, however, a burning smell, and I know that can't be good. Betsy's radiator busted four weeks ago. Two weeks before that, it was the transmission that started acting up. God only knows what it is today.
I try again to turn the engine over, and absolutely nothing happens.
"No, no!" I cry out in frustration. "Not now, Betsy! Please not now . . ." Groaning, I drop my head against the steering wheel, knowing that my situation is grim. What am I going to do? I will never make it to NBC on time now. And I know first-hand that showing up late for an audition is the kiss of death.
I grab my things and jump out of the car, feeling only a mild sense of guilt that I'm going to abandon Betsy here in the middle of the road. After all, she gave up on me. And after all we've been through together.
Just like most of the men in my life.
Of course, people protest my leaving Betsy with a barrage of horn-blowing, and one guy even gives me the finger. I ignore him as I dig my cell phone out of my purse. I've got more important things to worry about right now.
I call my boyfriend, Marvin. He was actually sick today and didn't head in to work on the set of Passion's Shore, a soap opera for which he's a production assistant. But like the first time I called him when Betsy began giving me trouble, Marvin doesn't pick up our home line. And he doesn't answer his cell, either.
"Answer the phone, Marvin," I say as I listen to it ring again. "It's not like you were dying when I left you less than an hour ago!"
But Marvin doesn't answer, and I've just wasted a few more minutes I should have used to try and hail a cab, or to even call one. Not that calling a cab would be much help. I have exactly one dollar and twenty-two cents in my wallet.
I start walking, somewhat aimlessly along this industrial stretch of road, not sure what to do. Should I hitchhike? I know I'm too far to make it to the studio on time, and I wonder if I should bother going if I know I'll be fifteen to thirty minutes late.
As I realize I'm fighting tears, I also realize that I can't give up. I have to keep going. I have to hope for the best. I have to believe that when I walk into the studio, some exec will see me and instantly realize that I'm the perfect person for the job. "You're hired," he'll say, in a corny Donald Trump-like imitation, which I'll laugh at, relieved that my pitiable life is finally going to take a turn for the better.
Damn it, why don't I have money in my purse?
Marvin always gets irritated with me because I hardly ever carry cash. "You need something in your wallet," he often tells me, "in case of an emergency."
I think this classifies as an emergency, but unfortunately, I'm shit out of luck.
Quickly assessing my options, I whirl around. My stomach sinks. There are none.
I could hitchhike, but I don't want the job so badly that I'm willing to get in a car with a possible serial killer for it.
With a sigh of resignation, I do the only thing I can do given the situation. I slip off my heels, secure them in my hand, and start to run.
I sense cars slowing and people staring at me, but I don't stop my stride. At five-foot-ten inches, with my thick, curly hair bouncing in the wind, I know I'm going to get attention. I probably look like some kind of Amazon warrior.
But I don't stop.
Soon, however, I'm out of breath and not sure I can take much more of this. And then my toe hits something hard. Faltering, I cry out in pain.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it!"
I double over, catching my breath as pain shoots through my leg. I hobble around, fighting tears of frustration at just how bad my luck can be.
And then I see some flowers a couple feet away from me. I raise my gaze, and there's a fruit stand as well. My heart rate picks up speed as I realize that I'm keeled over outside of a convenience store.
Oh, please . . .
Yes! I almost scream a hallelujah when I see the large sign: ATM.
#
Remarkably, I am only half an hour late when I arrive at the studio. Screw the mounds of sweat at my underarms, and screw my ruined makeup. Maybe the Amazon-warrior look will work for me in a career-field mostly filled by men.
There is a room full of people in the waiting area, mostly men in fact, as I step up to the receptionist to check in. I blow out a long breath and force a smile.
"Hello, I'm Zoë Andrews. I'm sorry I'm running a bit late-"
"Your audition was at eleven."
"I know, but my car broke down in NoHo, and I couldn't catch a cab for a while . . ." My voice trails off when I see that the woman's expression is as hard as a granite slab.
"I'm sorry." She shrugs in such a casual way that I know she isn't sorry. "You're late, and we can't fit you in."
No, no, no. Not after the morning I've had. "Please. I'll wait until everyone else has gone through, even if it takes four more hours. Just give me a chance, see how I read with Lionel Griggs."
The woman's eyes roam over me slowly, and I realize she's checking out my disheveled appearance. "I have makeup in my bag. I can fix myself up."
"Wish I could help. But we have a strict policy."
"Don't do this, please." I whimper. "I've had such an awful morning. If you only knew how hard I worked to get here."
But the receptionist is already looking beyond my shoulder, and I turn to see that another woman is standing behind me. This one is probably five-foot-eight, at least ten pounds lighter than I am, and blonde. And like the average bimbo in Hollywood, she's got a chest so huge there's no way it's God-given.
You're at the wrong studio for the porn audition, I think, and am almost tempted to say it. I mean, really. Brains must be part of the requirements for this gig, and this woman doesn't look like she's got much upstairs.
Okay, call me catty-and maybe I am. But if they're willing to give this woman a shot, shouldn't I have my opportunity to shine? Seriously, this bimbo can't be the type of person they want for the job . . . can it?
I quickly turn back to the receptionist, place both hands on the desk. "I will do anything."
"Sorry," she says again. Then, to the other woman, "Name, please."
"Candi Caldwell."
Jeez, she's even got a porn name.
Once again, I look toward the receptionist, but this time she won't even meet my gaze. Bitch. It's so obvious she's the kind who enjoys her position of power, the kind who loves stepping on others when they're down.
Am I supposed to suffer because she's only qualified to be a receptionist?
Cool it, Zoë. Who's being the bitch now?
I want to tell this woman that my father used to play football with Lionel Griggs, but I know that will be a futile attempt at gaining favor. It's over.
My chance at stardom blasted to hell.
Sometimes, I just want to shoot myself.
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