Husband Hunters

Chapter 2-2

There was a sign in the lobby of the Westin, directing aspiring Husband Hunters TV hopefuls upstairs to the Elliott Bay ballroom, where auditions were being held.

Cody clutched his friend’s arm. “This is real.” Cody’s heart beat a little faster. “Let’s just go get a Bloody Mary up on the Hill instead. Come on, we’ll make fools of ourselves if we stay here.” Cody tugged Matt toward the revolving doors through which they had just arrived.

Matt jerked his arm away. “Mattie is with you. Don’t be scared.” And he walked away from Cody, toward the escalator. This left Cody a choice—to dash out the door and leave his friend behind or to follow. He chose the latter, in spite of the powerful beat of a whole army of butterflies that had spontaneously taken flight in his gut.

The ballroom was a hive of activity. Cody was surprised to see there were men of all different sizes, shapes, and colors milling about the room, each of them holding a piece of paper similar to what runners wear at a race. Each piece of paper bore a large red number.

Cody was stunned that there were older men (some looking septuagenarian), heavyset guys, even men in wheelchairs. He mentally chastised himself, wondering why, if he had imagined this scene at all, he had visualized a room full of gorgeous, young, muscular hunks—like a casting call for underwear models. Wishful thinking, maybe? Still, he felt a burn of shame for being surprised at the variety of men present. No matter what we look like or what life saddles us with, we all want to be loved, right? That guy in the wheelchair over there who bore an uneasy resemblance to scientific genius Stephen Hawking? He probably had the same hopes and dreams Cody did when it came to finding someone special. And, as he knew from his own experience, there were people out there for everyone here, regardless of how he perceived their attractiveness.

That wasn’t to say, though, that there were not a lot of very attractive guys here, by anyone’s standards. There were. And these came in every conceivable hair color, height, age, and ethnicity.

The prospect of all these gorgeous men was daunting. Cody clutched Matt’s arm. “Do you see how many of these guys here are model-worthy? We don’t stand a chance!” Cody whispered desperately.

Matt snatched his arm back. “Number one, don’t get a big head, but you are just as hunky as any guy here—and I’m not just saying that because you’re my pal. Number two, you haven’t watched the show. It’s not a runway. It’s not about the best-looking guy hooking up with some mirror image. Sure, there are lots of good-looking guys on the show, probably more than occur percentagewise in real life, but that’s just TV. But there are also lots of regular guys, like me. We need love too. And husbands! And the show reflects that. And three, and most important, I will tell you once again, false modesty is never cute. If I had half your good looks, I’d be contented.”

Matt stared at him, and Cody felt uncomfortable because the frank admiration in his friend’s eyes let Cody know he was being truthful. And that did not make him feel good; it made him kind of sad.

Matt had a lot to offer. In his own way, he was very sexy and had the advantage of probably getting more so as he aged, rather than the opposite, which was the case with most people.

“Let’s just get in line,” Matt said out of the corner of his mouth as a tall African American guy stepped in front of them to check in at the table set up at the ballroom’s entrance. He looked a bit like Jesse Williams of Grey’s Anatomy. He had the same warm skin tones and amazing eyes.

Reluctantly, Cody stepped in line with Matt. Mr.-Williams-Lookalike would be a tough act to follow. Perhaps the young woman at the check-in desk would simply giggle behind a manicured hand when she saw Cody and Matt, and they would turn around, red-faced, and run for the exit.

Cody thought it would be a relief.

But she didn’t bat an eye when the two of them reached their turn in line.

Matt did the talking. “My friend Cody and I here wanna be on the show!” Matt said, sounding a bit too girlish and excited for Cody’s taste, but hey, at least Matt was doing the talking.

The receptionist, or whatever her title was (talent scout? production assistant?), smiled at them. She looked barely out of college. Her hair was cut short in an asymmetrical bob and streaked fetchingly through with platinum. Her blue eyes sized the two of them up. “You two a couple? Because we don’t do that. The objective of the show is to—”

Matt cut her off. “God, no! We’re just buddies. I gave Cody here a lift.”

“More like he kidnapped me,” Cody joked.

Matt rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen to him. He really wanted to come. He really, really wants a husband.”

Marla, as the name tag on her jade green silk blouse told them, laughed. “Well, let’s see what we can do about that. See if we can get you one too.” She looked pointedly at Matt.

“I take something in a size eight—” Matt paused for a beat. “—inches.” He snorted at his own vulgarity.

If the comment registered on Marla, she didn’t show it. “Did you guys submit your application form?”

“Yes and yes,” Matt answered for the both of them.

Marla asked for each of their full names and then turned to a laptop at her right and stroked the keyboard, her brows furrowed in concentration. “Ah! Here you are! And—” She typed a bit more. “—here’s Cody Mook.” Her gaze moved across her screen as she rapidly manipulated the mouse. “Yeah…it looks like you filled out everything correctly.” She picked up two of the numbers Cody had seen the men carrying around and handed one to Cody and one to Matt. “You’re all checked in. These are your numbers. They’ll call you by those for your producer interviews, which is the first step. You can feel free to relax now. There’s coffee, tea, water, and sodas on the table over there.” Marla leaned to her left to peer pointedly at whoever was behind them, which was as effective as saying, “Next!” or “Dismissed.”

Cody glanced down at his number, which was a big red 113. “Dude, look at this. Bad luck. Thirteen.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “I know you want to get out of here, so if thirteen is bad luck, it probably means you’re as good as on the show.” Matt drifted over toward the refreshment table.

Cody asked, “What number did you get?”

Matt glanced down. “Twenty-four. There’s no rhyme or reason to this.”