Blind Date Disasters & Eat Your Heart Out Read online

  “They said,” Suzie continued, “that we’re getting a new producer.”

  “Who?” everyone asked together, in the same reverent tone.

  “Mitchell Knight.”

  Everyone but Dimi, who hadn’t heard of him, groaned.

  “Ooh, he’s wicked,” Grace whispered.

  “He’s gorgeous,” Leo murmured, fanning himself.

  “Gorgeous, but mean. Real mean.” Ted looked terrified. “He likes to fire people, man.”

  “He’s a troubleshooter type,” Suzie explained to clueless Dimi. “Called in by our parent company when a show is on its last legs. He axes everyone, then starts from scratch.”

  “Yeah.” Leo fanned his face. “He’s bad, baby. Bad to the bone.”

  “He’s a holy terror, is what he is,” Suzie corrected. “And they say he’s coming here. Today.”

  “That would be correct.”

  The very male voice came from behind their huddled group, and when they all turned, there stood the Harley rider. He was built in a way that suggested maybe he beat up cooking show crews for a living, all big and rugged and edgy. His dark wind-mussed hair fell to his shoulders, and a diamond stud winked at them from his ear. His aviator sunglasses gleamed back their own startled reflections. Beneath his open leather bomber jacket he wore a black shirt and even blacker pants. As a package, and definitely as a producer—their producer—he seemed…dangerous.

  Dimi couldn’t speak for the others, but looking at this man gave her a funny feeling deep down, like maybe she was sinking.

  Fast.

  At their utter lack of response, Mr. Harley Rider lifted a hand and waggled his fingers at them. “Anyone awake?”

  Everyone but Dimi took several steps back, then separated, as if they’d never been talking to one another. Guilty expressions abounded.

  The man nodded at Dimi, since she alone stood there, like Bambi caught in the headlights. Dimi wished she was wearing reflector sunglasses, because she felt the need to hide the fact that her eyes had all but devoured him. She couldn’t seem to help herself. His jacket spread across wide shoulders. His pants, dark and soft looking, covered what appeared to be very not-so-soft, powerful, long legs. Despite his motorcycle ride, there wasn’t a spec of dirt on that body, not anywhere.

  She looked.

  Everything about him screamed attitude. Confidence. Danger. Funny, but she’d never really gone for the I’m-a-rebel look, and yet she was going for it now.

  Or at least her hormones were.

  Bad timing, since she’d given up on the male species as a whole, but she consoled herself with Suzie’s mantra—most gorgeous men were poor lovers, anyway.

  Then he slowly tugged off the sunglasses. Dark eyes stared right at her. His face was lean, tanned. Lived-in. Gorgeous.

  And he didn’t so much as crack a smile.

  “Mitch Knight,” he said. “Your new producer.” He glanced at Ted. “I liked the nude show idea. Probably wouldn’t fly with the FCC, though.”

  Ted beamed.

  Dimi fumed. This was not a joke!

  “Keep trying,” Mitch suggested.

  “What happened to Ritchie?” Dimi asked bluntly.

  He cocked his head at her and still didn’t smile. “Do you really want to know?”

  Probably not, she decided. Ritchie had yelled a lot and thrown his weight around—which at two hundred plus pounds on a five-foot frame had been considerable—but at least what you saw with Ritchie was what you got.

  Her new producer slipped his sunglasses into his chest pocket. He stood there with legs spread wide, hands on his hips, looking like he owned the world.

  And he did. Her world.

  “I don’t suppose you’re interested in low-fat California cuisine?” she asked hopefully.

  “I’m interested in ratings.” His voice was low and direct and full of authority. “What do you know about getting good ratings?”

  “Apparently not much.” She sent daggers to her so-called staff, who were slinking off like worms, every last one of them.

  “Well, then, we have a lot to discuss. The show needs some serious spicing up.”

  She turned her attention back to Mr. Producer. “Spicing?”

  “I thought we’d try humor, among other things.”

  “I don’t do humor.”

  “You did yesterday when you announced your impending shriveled-up-old-maid status.”

  Dimi felt the blush creep up her face. “You said humor ‘among other things.’ What things?”

  “Sex.”

  She felt her eyes bug out of her head. “Excuse me?”

  “Humor and sex. That’s what you need.”

  Dimi didn’t gape often, but she did now. “That’s what I need?”

  “On the show,” he clarified, his mouth quirking slightly.

  The bastard.

  He glanced at his watch. “See you in my office in, say, five?”

  As if he was really asking her! Nope, this was a definite demand. A subtle one, but a demand nevertheless. “Are you going to fire me?”

  He lifted a brow. “I don’t usually discuss business in the parking lot.”

  Oh, definitely. She was toast. Burnt toast.

  2

  MITCH WALKED down the hall of the busy television studio toward his newly assigned office, ignoring the stares he received from every corner high and low. He was familiar with being the outsider. His job called for it, as well as for instilling a good amount of fear in his subordinates.

  He knew that it wasn’t exactly politically correct, terrifying the people who worked for him, but he’d found fear an incredible motivator.

  He wasn’t going to make friends, that was a foregone conclusion, and quite honestly, no big deal. Friends had always been rare, given that he’d come from a military family who’d moved around at the drop of a hat. Besides, until two years ago he hadn’t needed friends. He’d had his brother.

  He didn’t have Daniel now. But friends were out of the question. He was temporary here. All he had to do was turn Food Time into the success the owners knew it could be. Once he did that, and accepted his large bonus for doing so, he could return to southern California.

  Or wherever suited him.

  “He’s scary,” he heard one clerk whisper to another as he strode down the hall.

  “Yeah, but so sexy.” The reply was hushed.

  Mitch bit back a grin. Scary and sexy. Not bad for his first day. He’d been called worse, much worse.

  Shame that he only had one minute before his scheduled meeting with Ms. Anderson, so he couldn’t loiter and scare some more people into actually doing their jobs. Because if he knew Dimi’s type— Ah, yes, there she was, standing in front of his office, staring at the door as if she were his sacrificial lamb, poor baby. Early, too. Being late would go against the grain for a serious workaholic such as her.

  So intense. Obviously she hadn’t learned what he had, to live each day—hell, each moment as if it were his last.

  Work wasn’t everything, not even close, and he’d learned that the hard way, after Daniel had died. As a result, he’d vowed to never work harder than he played, but he did play pretty hard. And yet, he believed in being the best, and that meant concentrating on Food Time, at least for now.

  Which also meant he needed to decide if he was going to fire the far-too-serious chef in order to get the direction for the show he wanted.

  Dimi still stood before his closed office door, hand raised as if to knock, staring at the wood. Her full bottom lip was being tortured by her teeth, indecision dancing across her beautiful face.

  And she was beautiful, stunningly so. Tall, blond and curvy. Serious pinup status. Most men would be rendered stupid by just looking at her, unless of course a man was one who’d spent much of his life surrounded by the Hollywood starlet type.

  But Dimi was no typical blond bombshell willing to sleep with him for a scrap of a part. Not even close. He’d caught her show. She had the basic looks, al