The Swan and The Sergeant - Alana Albertson Page 0,26

already changed into my greeting outfit. Nothing fancy; the producers wanted to make it seem as if it was a casual meet and greet. I wore a peach-colored sweatsuit paired with Louboutin high heels and some gold hoop earrings. I left my chair, grabbed my purse, and hurried out to Bret’s truck for our journey up the hill to our celebrities.

As I approached the truck, Bret shifted on his feet. He hadn’t changed his clothes at all. I guessed that wardrobe wanted to portray him as a rough-and-tough Marine to keep him distinct from the other dancers.

Didn’t matter, though. He was still the sexiest man. He looked like he could be an action hero.

Upon closer inspection, I learned the truth. So much for the rough-and-tough theory; he’d been doused with foundation and gel. He must’ve been livid.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

Gorgeous? That was the nicest thing he had said to me since we had met again. Maybe we were turning a corner.

“Hello, handsome.” I climbed into the truck. “You know, pink is a great color on your lips. Maybe next time we could add some gloss for shine.”

“Very funny.”

The celebrities’ house was only minutes away, up the street. A van followed behind us, carrying camera equipment. We turned into the driveway. As if the gates were expecting us, they opened, and Bret drove through.

“Here we go,” Bret sighed.

Then reality kicked in. Christian Louboutin heels hurt. I hobbled along the paved driveway in my heels, praying that I didn’t face-plant and crash into the camera. Why did it always need to be an inch from my face?

“Okay, Bret,” the director said. “You need to pretend that you’re a huge fan of your celebrity. Act surprised!”

“What if I don’t know who she is?”

I rolled my eyes. He was impossible.

The director shook his head. “Well pretend!”

Bret rang the doorbell.

The beveled-wood door opened—and Latin guitar legend Xavier Quintana stood in front of us, his gorgeous television star wife, Robyn, beside him.

I took the lead. “¡Ay, Dios Mío! Xavier Quintana? I’m your biggest fan! I love dancing to your music. ‘Loteria Queen’ is my favorite cha-cha song ever.” I didn’t even have to pretend—I was thrilled.

Bret reached out and shook Xavier’s hand. He turned his attention to Robyn. “Nice to meet you, Robyn. My name is Bret Lord.”

“Cut!” the director yelled. He placed his hands on Bret’s shoulders. “Bret, this is a television show. Speak a little slower, seem a little more enthusiastic. Maybe give Robyn a hug.”

I stifled a laugh. Bret gave me a dirty look.

The door shut, and we made our way back down the staircase.

Bret rang the bell again, and immediately Xavier opened the door.

I once saw on MTV that this guy had some dude whose sole job in life was to hold his boss’s umbrella, yet El Rey opened his own door? So much for reality. Xavier wore his own brand Xavier Tomás white tracksuit with what looked like 4-carat diamond studs in each ear.

I repeated my same enthusiastic intro, and Bret stuck out his hand. “Hi, Robyn. I’m so excited to meet you.”

“Cut!” the director shouted. “Okay, let’s do it again. Xavier, go back inside.” The director grabbed Bret’s hand. “Bret, son, I want to hear you scream or shriek. Tell her you’re her number one fan.”

“I don’t scream or shriek. I’m a man.”

This would be a long night.

I rebalanced my oversized handbag and dance shoes, took a deep breath, and made my way down the stairs. Again. I knew Bret’s only hope to get through the shot was for me to project enough cheesiness for both of us.

Take three. Bret rang the bell, and Xavier opened the door.

“Oh my God!” I shrieked as brainlessly as I could. “I can’t believe I’m dancing with you! I love your music!” I leaned into hug Xavier. His breath reeked of tequila.

Xavier’s head cocked to the side, and he embraced me. “Thanks, girl,” he said, way too loud. “I hear you’re the best chica on the show. I need to win this. You game?”

“Hell, yeah—”

“Cut!” The director waved us back. “Selena, that was great. Bret, I need you to at least smile at Robyn. You look like you’re at a funeral. One more time, people.”

“How long is this gonna take?” Xavier yelled at the director. “I don’t have time for amateurs.”

I could see a vein in Bret’s biceps bulge. He had been right—celebrities in Marin were just as spoiled as they were in Los Angeles.

“Don’t worry, Xavier, I’ll take care of it.”

Xavier slammed the door in