Reality TV Bites: A Novel

by Shane Bolks

Overview

Allison Holloway may be one of the last holdouts: a true reality TV junkie. (Hey, there's no shame in admitting you enjoy watching the Donald say "You're fired!" for the millionth time.) But when her boss signs up their interior design firm for Kamikaze Makeover, Allison knows things are never going to be the same again. Dozens of cameras are set to tape every embarrassing moment as two teams compete for $3 million by executing a bold design concept using unorthodox materials (sex toys, anyone?). As if that wasn't bad enough, a hunky producer tries to seduce Allison with fine champagne and limo rides, while an equally hunky Dave wants to introduce her to the finer things in his life like beer and basketball games, and a piranhalike press hounds her day and night — and let's not forget the vibrator wall art. Will Allison ever get her life back? Will she finally find her prince after kissing so many frogs? Join Allison as she fights back against the lies, the double-dealing, and the backstabbing to prove that she's a survivor even a gooey round of pudding wrestling can't defeat.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780060773113
Publisher:	HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date:	06/27/2006
Pages:	304
Product dimensions:	5.31(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.68(d)

About the Author

Shane Bolks is an award-winning writer who loves historical romance and its edgier cousin, chick-lit. Two very different worlds, but she’s as happy with a cosmo, the latest edition of "Vogue", and Brad Pitt as with a ratafia, a copy of "La Belle Assemble", and "Beau Brummell".

Read an Excerpt

Reality TV Bites

A Novel

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By Shane Bolks

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2006 Shane Bolks
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0060773111

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Chapter One

Between the Devil and
the Deep Blue Sea

I've heard it said that in order to find her prince, a girl has to kiss a lot of frogs.

Start calling me Wart Lips.

When I was a little girl I'd dress up in my pink leotard, ballet slippers, and tulle skirt, paint my nails Pretty Princess Pink, and set my rhinestone tiara high on my red pigtails. Then I'd line up my subjects -- Malibu Barbie, My Little Pony, Strawberry Shortcake, the Cabbage Patch Kids, the Monchhichis, and a stuffed white kitty -- and play princess.

The object of the game was simple. I ordered everyone around. If any of my vassals disobeyed -- Strawberry Shortcake in particular had a stubborn streak -- I'd threaten to banish her to Ick Land, i.e., the hallway where my older brother Grayson waited to pounce on her and pull off her head.

If my subjects were good and obeyed me, then they earned the privilege of sitting with me on my pink-canopied daybed and watching through the bedroom window for the noble prince's arrival.

I'm still watching.

Come to think of it, not much has changed in the twentysomething years that have passed. I still get dressed up, I still paint my nails, and I still have to deal with those stubbornStrawberry Shortcake types.

Only on days like today, I wonder why I even bother with the someday-my-prince-will-come routine.

I'm wearing a cream silk blouse and black wide-leg trousers, a la Katharine Hepburn in the early 1940s. I'm not into vintage footwear -- sixty-year-old foot odor is not -appealing -- so I've got on three-inch black satin slides by Anne Klein, and I'm sporting a matching bag. My nails are painted OPI's Chicago Champagne Toast, a nod to the city where I live, and my red hair is a perfectly straight, shiny cascade down my back (I checked earlier in my bathroom mirror).

I look like a princess -- a princess surrounded by a bunch of screaming, red-faced buffoons, a dozen sweaty guys in jerseys and shorts that are too big, and a toad I was hoping would turn out to be my prince.

Translation for those of you not living in Fairy Tale Land like me: It's the last game of the Bulls basketball season, I'm at the United Center, seated directly behind the players and next to Dave Tivoli, aka the toad.

A howl goes up from the crowd and the toad jolts me as he jumps out of his seat. "Go! Go! No, no, no! Damn!"

The referee makes some motions, and a deep bass voice booms, "Foul on Chicago number three, Tyson Chandler. Rockets number fifty-five Dikembe Mutombo to the free-throw line."

"That wasn't a foul. Come on!" Dave and half the auditorium scream. I stand and peer over the players' heads. Not that I care what's happening. I just need to stretch my legs. Dave's arm goes around my waist, and I glance at him. His eyes are still on the game, but his touch sends a tiny shiver through me anyway.

Pressed against me, Dave's body is tense and focused. I wonder how all that power would feel concentrated solely on me. Under me . . .

"No." Dave slaps his free hand to his forehead and I look back at the court. The Rockets player is still at the free-throw line.

"Dave?" I say quietly near his ear.

"Hmm?" He doesn't look at me, then suddenly he yells, "Yes! Yes! He missed. One more to go. Miss! Miss!" There's a split second of silence, and even I have to look. The ball sails toward the basket in a perfect arc -- and falls just short.

The crowd roars, and Dave pulls me hard against him and kisses me. It's not a long kiss, or even a particularly passionate one, but something about Dave always sends my senses spinning.

By the time I reel said senses in, we're sitting again, and I say, "What was that all about?"

"We're still ahead. Mutombo's got to be hating that he missed those free throws. He played for Chicago before we traded him to Houston."

"Hmm. Fascinating." I had meant what was the kiss about, of course.

"No way!" Dave jumps up again to watch the game, and I sit back and sigh.

I have no idea how I got here. I mean, I know how I got here -- in Dave's Land Rover -- but I don't know how it's come to this. How I -- Allison Lynn Holloway -- have come to be sitting in a sports stadium with a toad.

I look over at him: tall, football player build, spiky blond hair, nice butt . . . Okay, he's a hot toad. I'll give him that. I met Dave a few weeks ago. My best friend is dating his best friend, so we ended up hanging around together, then moved to hanging around on our own.

Dave isn't my type. At all. Not even his looks. Dave's all casual and rugged-looking. I like some refinement in a man. And Dave's a guy's guy -- "Hey, man, how's it hanging?" -- and all that macho bullshit. An advertising exec with

Dougall Marketing, Dave lives in an apartment in Wrigley-ville. My type owns a Porsche, a penthouse, and his own company.

Dave and I had been out five or six times when he called last week to ask me out again. I was having trouble getting a handle on Dave at that point. He seemed to like me, but he wasn't taking any of my cues to move things to the next level.

It isn't so much that I'm dying to sleep with Dave, though I'm not opposed to the idea, but I don't want to jump into bed if that's all it is. I've been there before, bought the requisite "I Had Sex and All I Got Is This Lousy T-shirt," and I'd rather use my frequent dating miles elsewhere, thank you.

Continues...

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Excerpted from Reality TV Bites by Shane Bolks Copyright © 2006 by Shane Bolks. Excerpted by permission.
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