Judge Me, Abby Knox [i love reading txt] 📗

Chapter Two

Phillip

“Bloody Americans.”

Bloody everyone, if I’m honest. I switch off the news; I can’t take any more nonsense tonight.

Leaving the media room, I make my way down the stone hallway to my bedroom, thinking how nice it would be to have someone to talk to about current events.

It’s lonely being Phillip Wildwood. I’ve made sure of it.

I pause halfway to my room and rest my hand on a doorknob of the most sumptuous room in the castle, and it’s not the kitchen. This exquisite room, I’m saving for a special someone. Against my better judgment, I push the door open to have a look.

Sheets protect all the furniture, reminding me that I have no one in my life who I feel I can trust with the secrets of this room. The paddling room, I call it. Surveying the four-poster bed, the luxurious bedding, elegant furniture, state-of-the-art sound system, and of course the trunk full of toys, I wonder if I’ve put the cart before the horse.

Maybe I should have waited for the woman to show up before creating the one-of-a-kind room for us to play in.

About to head off to bed, a pinging sound from the library disrupts me. No surprise there, as I have a habit of leaving my phone to charge in there all day, much to the dismay of my assistant.

The bare stone floor chills my feet as I trudge grumpily down to the library. Why the hell would I, a working-class kid from Liverpool, buy an empty Warwickshire castle for myself alone? Because I could, first of all. Second, the location makes stunning pastoral visuals for my show, Britain’s Best Baker. Also, because I mistakenly thought I’d be wifed up by fourty, and this hollow space would be bursting with children by now. Once again, Phillip, your dreams are bigger than your reality.

I dash to the library, determined to get this digital exchange over with so I can go to bed. Alone. As always.

“Please check your email,” is the text that I read from my assistant, Jason. Harrumphing, I switch over to email and see a message from the executive producer.

“We’re going to produce a special American episode for the show.”

I don’t bother reading the rest.

I phone the executive producer, Harlow, not caring that the time is after midnight. She may hold the purse strings, but she can forget this appalling idea as of right now.

“I know why you’re calling, Phillip. But the idea was already focus-grouped. People responded positively, and we need something fresh. We’re losing viewers.”

I grumble, “Not my problem. I’ve been giving them exactly what they want since day one.”

“You’ve become grouchier over the years. The focus group said you’re a downer. We need a softer image.”

“Harlow, we’re friends, so I can say what I’m about to say. Phillip Wildwood has two settings: hungry and horny. Both make me the charming bloke everyone’s fallen in love with. Grouchy is my brand.”

Harlow sighs. “As much as I love it when you refer to yourself in the third person,” she says sarcastically, “the Wildwood brand is less charming than it used to be.”

She pauses for my reply, and I let the silence hang for a moment. Maybe she’s right.

“Fine,” I respond through gritted teeth. “I’ll go along with it. But I get the final say on who makes it through.”

“Of course,” Harlow chirps, a smile beaming at me through the phone. “Goodnight, Phillip.”

I hang up and march up to my waiting, empty king-sized bed.

Unfortunately, I can’t spank an American on worldwide television, but I take solace in the prospect of figuratively paddling a cocky colonist into submission.

Chapter Three

Chloe

My mom and all four of my younger sisters are utterly shocked that I’m going to be on TV.

I don’t know why they’re so surprised. I’ve been talking about nothing else since the age of seventeen. Now age twenty-three, I’ve watched every episode of that English baking show at least a hundred times in between improv classes and stand-up gigs. I’ve bought all of Phillip Wildwood’s cookbooks and memorized them. I subject my family to my terrible baking skills at least daily. And I even wrote a raunchy comedy bit about my crush, and it always kills at the Chuckle Bucket. Or, at least, I killed that one time there were fans of British television in the audience.

“But you don’t even know how to bake! How is this possible?” Mom asks, not believing the congratulatory email even as she reads it on my phone.

“I know how to bake!” I shout back, a little bit hurt. “It just…never turns out exactly as planned.”

I look forlornly at the plate of scones on the breakfast island. This is exhibit A. They’re the texture of hockey pucks. But nothing can spoil my mood. The universe has blessed me with an opportunity, and I’m going to go and get my man.

Dad, because he’s a wonderful man who will lie to protect my feelings, pipes up from behind his morning newspaper, “I loved that soft pretzel you made for my birthday, and don’t let anyone tell you you can’t do something.”

I curtsy. “Thank you, Dad.”

He beams at me and then looks at Mom. “See? She even knows how to curtsy for when she meets the queen.”

I giggle. “I’m not going to meet the queen. Especially not if she’s ever heard that one joke I made about Prince Andrew.”

Dad winks at me. “You never know.”

“Bill! Don’t encourage her. I’m trying to stop her from getting her hopes up; to save her from rejection and humiliation. In a foreign country, no less!”

I chirp, “No need to get my hopes up. I already know it’s meant to be.”

Mom turns to my dad, exasperated. “The only reason she wants to go is that she’s got this cockamamie idea of making that rude British judge fall in love with her.”

“That old guy? Huh.” Dad seems neutral. Maybe he feels that at twenty-three, he