Easy on the Eyes

by Jane Porter

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

From the New York Times bestselling author of Odd Mom Out and Flirting with Forty comes the story of a woman coping with loss and learning to love herself-and rediscovering love in the process. At 38, Tiana Tomlinson has made it. America adores her as one of the anchors of "America Tonight", a top-rated nightly entertainment and news program. But even with the trappings that come with her elite lifestyle, she feels empty. Tiana desperately misses her late husband Keith, who died several years before. And in a business that thrives on youth, Tiana is getting the message that her age is starting to show and certain measures must be taken if she wants to remain in the spotlight. It doesn't help that at every turn she has to deal with her adversary-the devilishly handsome, plastic surgeon to the stars, Michael Sullivan. But a trip away from the Hollywood madness is about to bring new problems-and a new man-into her life... and force Tiana to ask herself who she wants to be when the cameras are finally turned off.

Release date: July 2, 2009

Publisher: 5 Spot

Print pages: 356

Sample

Praise for the Novels of Jane Porter

EASY ON THE EYES

“Jane Porter writes endlessly entertaining and yet deeply thoughtful novels. EASY ON THE EYES is a perceptive, tender page-turner—a
joy to read.”


—Laura Caldwell, author of Red Hot Lies

“A page-turning novel about love, loss, friendship, aging, and beauty (not necessarily in that order). I couldn’t put it down.”

—Karen Quinn, author of Holly Would Dream and The Ivy Chronicles

“Jane Porter knows a woman’s heart as well as her mind. EASY ON THE EYES is a smart, sophisticated, fun read with characters
you’ll fall in love with. Another winning novel by Jane Porter.”


—Mia King, national bestselling author of Good Things and Sweet Life

“Witty and observant—Tiana’s search for love and meaning amidst shallow celebrity will stay with you long after you’ve finished
reading.”


—Berta Platas, author of Lucky Chica

“A fun, poignant story about searching for life and love on the other side of forty.”

—Beth Kendrick, author of The Pre-Nup

MRS. PERFECT

“Great warmth and wisdom… Jane Porter creates a richly emotional story.”

—Chicago Tribune

“Porter’s authentic character studies and meditations on what really matters make Mrs. Perfect a perfect… novel.”


—USA Today

“Thrills and laughs.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Porter scores another home run.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

“Fans will appreciate Ms. Porter’s strong look at what happens to relationships when the walls come tumbling down.”

—Midwest Book Review

“More poignant than the standard mommy-lit fare.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Jane Porter understands women. This is the kind of book you’ll want to share with your best friend.”

—Melanie Lynne Hauser, author of Confessions of a Super Mom and Super Mom Saves the World

“Jane Porter strikes a fine balance in the follow-up to her hit Odd Mom Out, Mrs. Perfect, a novel about losing ‘The Good Life’ only to discover what the good life really is—funny, thought-provoking, affecting…
and highly recommended.”


—Lauren Baratz-Logsted, author of Secrets of My Suburban Life and Vertigo

“Porter does a spectacular job of creating… characters that resonate in the hearts of moms everywhere.”

—South Jersey Mom

“Compulsively readable… a delicious treat.”

—
BookReporter.com

“Real life hits trophy wife right in the Botox, in Porter’s empowering page-turner!”

—Leslie Carroll, author of Choosing Sophie and Play Dates

ODD MOM OUT

“Jane Porter nails it poignantly and perfectly. This mommy-lit is far from fluff. Sensitive characters and a protagonist who
doesn’t cave in to the in-crowd give this novel its heft.”


—USA Today

“A poignant critique of mommy cliques and the plight of single parents.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Funny and poignant… delightful.”

—Stella Cameron

“Best of all is Porter’s take on mother-daughter dynamics.”

—Newport News Daily Press

“Odd Mom Out is an engaging tale that examines important issues of today’s world. Behind the entertaining, witty prose are insightful
observations about real life.”


—Woodbury Magazine

“Marta is an intriguing heroine.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Keenly emotional and truly uplifting.”

—Booklist

FLIRTING WITH FORTY

“A terrific read! A wonderful, life-and love-affirming story for women of all ages.”

—Jayne Ann Krentz, New York Times bestselling author

“Calorie-free accompaniment for a poolside daiquiri.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Strongly recommended. Porter’s thoughtful prose and strong characters make for an entertaining and thought-provoking summer
read.”


—Library Journal



Tiana, how do you feel about a co-host?”


Only a couple minutes into the closed-door meeting with my boss, Glenn, the executive producer of America Tonight, and he drops that bombshell.


How can he be so casual about something so huge?

And something so bad?


“Co-host?” My voice doesn’t wobble, but I’m stunned. Horrified. For nearly six years I’ve been the sole host of the show.
It’s a show that debuted with me as the host, a show that’s earned me the nickname America’s Sweetheart. “Why would I do that,
when it’s my show?”


He hesitates, looks at me, thick sandy eyebrows shot with gray, before answering bluntly, “Your show’s in trouble.”

I silently count to five and speak only when I’m certain I’m perfectly in control. “You said it was a temporary blip. You
told me twice in the past few months not to worry.”


“Unfortunately, I was wrong. The downward cycle hasn’t reversed, and the network wants changes. They’ve brought in outside
consultants who’ve done extensive market studies. The consultants believe that the best approach is to bring in some young
blood.”


The words young blood chill me.


I think of myself as a warrior. I’ve been to hell and back with the death of my family and then my husband. I’ve battled to
build my career and sacrificed a personal life to be where I am today. But the one thing I can’t fight is time. I’m going
to age. And apparently I already am.


But none of this matters. Nothing matters but ratings, stats, and demographics.

“Do you have any young blood in mind?” I ask, crossing one leg over the other under the hem of my bronze St. John skirt. I’d
already changed for the Larry King Live interview and was just about to leave Horizon Broadcasting for the CNN studio in Hollywood when Glenn called me into his
office.


“Shelby Patterson,” he says.

“Shelby?” My voice comes out strangled. I not only trained Shelby, I helped develop the weekend show for her because I thought
she had so much promise. I was right. And they wonder why successful women are afraid to mentor younger women.


“Her weekend show has strong numbers,” he continues, “particularly with the younger viewers, demographics you desperately
need.”


Desperately.

Young blood.

He and I are both wordsmiths, and these are not good words. This is not a good conversation. I’m in trouble.

My heart races and I press a hand to my lower rib cage as if I could slow the mad beating. Max, my agent, should be here.
Max, my agent, should be defending me, protecting me. This is my career. My life. God knows I don’t have a life outside America Tonight. No husband, no kids, no hobbies or free time. Everything I have, everything I am, is invested in this show. “How good are
Shelby’s numbers compared to mine?”


“She’s outperforming you by nearly twenty percent.”

Oh. Stunned, I suck in a quick, sharp breath. Those are unforgivable numbers in any business, but here, in the delicate world
of television market share, that’s pretty much a catastrophe.


“We think the solution is to bring Shelby onto the weekday show and make Manuel the sole host for the weekend show. You and
Shelby would be co-anchors, like Mary Hart and Mark Steines on Entertainment Tonight.” Glenn gets up from behind his desk and walks around to sit in the gray chair next to me. “Nothing’s been done yet. I just
wanted to get a feel for your reaction before it became formal.”


I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I feel as if I’m on a plane that’s going down and I can’t stop it. Can’t
exit.


But I can escape this. I can survive. I just have to focus. Be calm, because I know how this goes. I’ve watched it happen
a hundred times. You add a co-anchor to boost ratings and eventually the new young talent replaces the mature talent. I’m
being phased out. He doesn’t need to say it, but if I’m not damn careful, this is the beginning of the end. “Have you considered
other correspondents for the position? Like Manuel, for example?”


“He’s thirty-four. Shelby’s twenty-eight. She’s youthful. High energy. She’d bring a new dynamic to the weekly show and pull
in some of those numbers we’ve lost.”


“You’re right, she’s great on camera, and she’s definitely high energy, but she doesn’t know how to write a story. She just
delivers— ”


“We have writers who can write. We need charisma. Beauty. Poise. Charm. Youth.”

Youth. There it is again. Young blood, desperation, youth.

“I’m too old?” I ask quietly.

He squirms ever so slightly. He can’t answer that directly because he’d be sued, but he knows what I’m asking. “Our decisions
are dictated by the viewing public,” he says after a moment. “American audiences don’t mind watching mature men on television,
but they object to mature women. And by adding Shelby, we can keep you on camera.”


“You’ve considered replacing me, haven’t you?”

His expression changes, grows sympathetic. “I haven’t, no, but I can’t tell you that the subject hasn’t been discussed. You
are up for contract renewal in March.” He hesitates for a moment before adding, “You’re also expensive compared to Shelby.”


“That’s because I’m good,” I say, smiling, and that’s to hide the fact that my eyes are burning and I’m horrifically close
to tears.


I love my job. I need my job. I can’t imagine what I’d do or who I’d be without the show.


“You are good. You’re very good. Which is why I don’t want to see you go.”

“When would she join the show?”

“If she joins the show, it’d be after the holidays.”

Silently I digest this. It’s hard to take in, and I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to feel, either, as I bounce
between anger and denial.


“I know it’s a lot to think about,” he adds, “and we’ll talk more about this later. I just wanted you to be aware of the discussions
we’re having here right now and some of the proposed changes for the New Year.” He stands, returns to his desk. “Now, if you’re
going to make it to CNN on time, you’d better go. With Thanksgiving just a week away, traffic could be a bitch.”


I drive in a state of shock.

They’ve discussed replacing me. They’re interested in promoting Shelby from weekend host to weekday co-host. My God. I had
no idea that for the past six months my future with HBC has been the subject of discussion. I know market studies are done
all the time. Consultants are always being hired, brought in to revamp a show, make some changes, try a new direction. But
until now, no one had had a problem with me.


Hands shaking, I call my agent. Max Orth is the reason I’m on a national syndicated TV show. My first job out of Stanford
was in Boulder, Colorado, and I would stand on mountaintops during snowstorms and report on road closures and freeway pileups.
I’d wait at the Boulder airport to interview family members reuniting after years of separation. I’d race to the outskirts
of town when a body was found. And as much as I wanted to be a serious journalist, hard news stories and I never really clicked.
Maybe I asked the wrong questions. Maybe I was too sympathetic. Inevitably my pieces came out soft, cozy, human interest.
Pieces editors and producers derisively termed fluff.


It didn’t help that I looked fluffy, too. Beauty queen, they called me at the station, beauty queen with pageant hair.

Three months into my job with KKPQ, I cut my hair into a sleek, studious chestnut brown pageboy, and that was when big hair
was fashionable. After six months, I overhauled my wardrobe and tossed out color. No bright blue blouses or greens. No red
coats or pink scarves. Brown and black with gray. But even then the camera loved me, loved my light hazel eyes that looked
gold in some light, greenish brown in others, my debutante high cheekbones, the dimples at the corner of my mouth.


Even though my pieces were fluff, the ratings went up at the station. We were just a little station, too, but KKPQ was a Fox
affiliate and some of my pieces were picked up by other Fox affiliates. And before I knew how or why, I was sitting at the
news desk as a weekend anchor, and then within a year I was hired away to co-host the morning news in Tucson.


It was in Tucson I met the two most influential men of my life: Keith, my future husband, who only ever saw the best in me.
And Max, my future agent. Keith, ten years my senior, was a weathered, world-traveled, award-winning reporter working for
CNN. We met on the scene of a devastating freeway accident—I still can’t stand to remember that one, as a mom and her two
children died that day.


And Max? Like everyone else, he saw the photo of me pressed to Keith’s casket after he was killed, and unlike everyone else,
he didn’t call or send flowers. He flew in to Tucson to meet me. He said I was going to be big. He said I had a huge future.


I expect to get Max’s voice mail, but he answers. “Hey, doll, I was wondering when I’d hear from you.”

“Did you know Glenn was going to talk to me this afternoon about adding Shelby to the show?”

“I knew there’s been talk about making changes to the show.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because there was nothing to tell you, and I didn’t want to upset you without cause.”

The lights on Santa Monica blur. Cars stream past. I feel unbearably sad. “You should have warned me. I should have been prepared.”

“What did he say?”

“That my numbers are really down and it’s hoped that Shelby will help bring them back up.” I brake as the traffic light turns
yellow and then red. “I don’t want to share the show with Shelby. It’s my show, and why Shelby of all people?”


“She’s twenty-eight, ten years younger than you, and she’s proactive. She’s already had her eyes done to look even fresher
on camera.”


The horrible sick, sinking feeling is back. “Is that what this is about? My age?”

“For the record, I told you a year ago that a little work wouldn’t hurt you.”

He did, too.

I rest my elbow on the door and press my fingers to my temple. For the record, I heard him, and I didn’t ignore his advice last year. I consulted a dermatologist, and she recommended laser light treatment
to stimulate the collagen in my face. She said it’d keep the skin around my eyes from growing too thin, and then I did a chemical
peel to get rid of some of the finer lines.


“You should have listened to me then, babe.”

“I’m not into cutting and stretching, Max. That’s not me.”

“Then kiss away your career.”

“No one can make me do it.”

“No one can, no, but no one will renew your contract, either.” He sighs. “Come on, get real, you and I both know this industry.
If you don’t renew your contract, you’ll be reduced to a celebrity correspondent for some cable show for a year or two until
you’re too old for even that.”


“You’re saying I’d be washed up at forty if I don’t get work done.”

“I’m saying you’d definitely be washed up at forty if you don’t get work done. Because frankly, and this is coming as a friend
and as your agent, for your line of work, you’re looking old.”


Could he hit any harder? Could he hit any lower? My throat, already thick with emotion, threatens to swell closed. “Max, I’m
walking into CNN. I have to go.”


“Call me after the show.”

I hang up, blink. I can’t cry, it’d ruin my makeup and I’m about to go on live TV.

Besides, I’m not old. I’m only thirty-eight.

An LKL intern shows me to the green room, where I check my makeup in the bright lights to make sure it’s dark enough for the bright
lights on Larry’s set. I’m just applying a darker lip liner when the intern returns with another guest in tow. I look up,
into the mirror, as the intern and guest appear in the green room.


Dr. Hollywood.

My breath catches in my throat and my heart falls. Not him, not tonight. I can’t cope with him on a night like this. Gorgeous,
famous Michael O’Sullivan, plastic surgeon to the stars. And the hopefuls. And the has-beens.


Michael’s gaze meets mine in the mirror. He’s tall, dark, and handsome, which is such a waste of genetics, as I find him impossibly
shallow and superficial. He’s always being photographed at the big fund-raisers and parties and nearly always with a different
woman on his arm or at his side. I don’t like plastic surgeons, so you can imagine my loathing for a plastic surgeon who’s
also a player.


“Dr. O’Sullivan,” I say coolly.

“Tiana,” he answers with a mocking smile. “How are you?”

“Good.”

“I’m so glad.”

Theoretically he hasn’t said anything wrong, but I’m already gritting my teeth.

Why do I detest this man so much? Is it because he’s become a bigger celebrity than many of his celebrity patients? Or is
it the fact that last year he starred in his own reality show, appropriately named Dr. Hollywood? Or is it that he’s rich, ranked by Los Angeles magazine as one of the five wealthiest surgeons in Southern California, and I hate that he makes millions every year off
of women’s insecurities? Or more appalling, People magazine had the gall to make him one of their “50 Sexiest Bachelors” last year?


“And you look rested,” I said icily. “Is that Botox and self-tanner?”

Michael just laughs as though I’m an adorable child and heads to the refrigerator to retrieve a bottle of chilled water. He’s
wearing a dark, expensive suit, exquisitely tailored across the shoulders and through the chest. The man knows how to wear
a suit, and with his open-collared white shirt he looks effortlessly elegant, which I also resent.


He’s the only man I know who makes me feel emotional and impulsive. But then he’s also the only man I know who pokes fun at
me and my ambition.


Michael twists the cap off his water bottle. “One of my patients saw you on the Air France flight from Paris. Have a nice
trip?”


“I did, thank you.”

“What were you doing in Paris? Work or pleasure?”

“Pleasure. I went to see— ” I break off, stopping short of mentioning Trevor. I’ve been dating Scottish actor Trevor Campbell
for six months, and it’s not a secret, but I don’t want to talk about Trevor now, not with Dr. Hollywood, who is notorious
for dating skinny blondes with big boobs and cotton candy for brains.


“A friend?” Michael supplies, trying to keep a straight face. Why I amuse him is beyond me, but Michael thinks I’m hilarious,
and he has ever since our very first meeting nearly four years ago at a Christmas party somewhere. I don’t remember the party,
but I remember Michael. I thought he was gorgeous and funny, and then later someone told me he wasn’t Michael O’Sullivan but
Dr. O’Sullivan, and my heart sank. I loathe plastic surgeons, particularly plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills. They’re slick
doctors who like to position themselves as experts on aesthetics and the female form, using surgery to cut and sculpt an idealized
look that’s more Barbie doll than authentic beauty.


“Yes,” I answer, “he is a friend.” I don’t even realize I’ve lifted my chin until I catch my reflection in the mirror. Warm
brown hair, flushed cheeks, overly bright eyes. I look as excited as a gawky preteen talking to a cool boy.


I curse my transparency and head to the sink to wash my hands. “We must be on the same expert guest list,” I add crisply,
soaping my hands and rinsing them beneath hot water.


“How fortunate.” His lips twist. “We always have such great chemistry.”

I’ve faced Dr. O’Sullivan twice before on Larry King Live, and what we have is tension and dissension, not chemistry, great or otherwise. But for some reason, the LKL producers love to square us off, pitch one against the other, and even if an army of guests and experts has been booked,
the show’s fireworks always come down to Michael and me.


I reach for a paper towel. “At least we know each other’s positions.” My eyes meet his in the mirror. “You’ll talk about the
pressure doctors feel to make miracles and I’ll talk about the pressure celebrities feel to be young and beautiful.”


“And then you’ll get personal,” Michael adds, his voice dropping. “You always do.”

The suddenly husky note in his voice makes my stomach do a little flip. I’m rattled despite myself, and my cheeks burn hotter.
I hate how he throws me off balance. “Because you always defend the greedy doctors— ”


“That’s exactly what I mean. Why must doctors be greedy? Why can’t they be compassionate?”

My gut clenches even as my shoulders tighten. “Was Jenna Meadows’s surgeon compassionate? He performed the surgery out of
greed, and he subsequently destroyed her body.”


Michael folds his arms across his broad chest. “He advised her not to increase the size again.”

My eyebrow lifts. “So it’s her fault that the implant displaced?”

He doesn’t take the bait. “Jenna knew the risks. She had complications with her first augmentation, experiencing early capsular
contracture. There was additional surgery to remove scar tissue. She never was a good candidate for increasing to 650 mL.”


“Then the surgeon should have said no. He can say no, right? Or must the doctor dance every time a patient speaks?”

“We say no more often than you realize.”

“So why didn’t her doctor refuse?”

“Why did Jenna insist?” He looks down at me, dark lashes concealing his expression.

Impatiently, I crumple the paper towel and toss it away. I so wish I weren’t here. I so wish I were home in my sweats eating
a bowl of cereal. “But still, you have to admit your industry thrives on insecure people.”


“And your industry glorifies celebrities to a point that ordinary men and women feel ugly in comparison.”

“Well, thanks to Jenna’s botched surgeries she’ll never work again. Her breasts are completely disfigured.”

“No surgery is one hundred percent safe.”

“Ahem, kids, be nice,” Allie, the segment producer, admonishes as she sticks her head into the green room. “Are you two at
it already? You’re supposed to save it for the show, and it’s going to be a great show, too. Jenna’s on live feed from New
York, and one of the guys will grab you in five to get you miked. See you soon.”


She disappears, and Michael and I look at each other for a long moment before I reapply my lipstick. My hand shakes as I run
the color across my lips.


“Want some water?” he asks me. “It’ll help cool you down.”

I shoot him a sharp glance. “I’m not hot.”

“No need for false modesty, Tiana. You’re America’s Sweetheart. Queen of tabloid news.”

For a moment, I can think of absolutely nothing to say. Is he paying me a compliment? Even if in a roundabout way?

Then I see his expression. Michael’s making fun of me.

Embarrassed, I snap the cap on the tube of lipstick, toss it into my makeup bag, and zip it closed.

What a jerk. He’s such a jerk. Michael O’Sullivan personifies everything I despise.

One of the LKL production assistants retrieves us from the green room and escorts us to the studio’s soundstage. As we walk, I smooth my
skirt and tug down the fitted knit jacket. Bronze is supposed to be a good color for me— brings out the gold in my eyes— but
only now do I remember it’s not a great color for the LKL set.


Oh, hell.

Suddenly I’m exhausted. The twelve-hour flight has caught up with me. I should be home showering and getting ready for bed.
I should be anywhere but here, getting ready to spar with Michael O’Sullivan on Larry King Live.


On the set, the sound technician runs the microphone cords up beneath our jackets and clips the head to our lapels. Larry
had been going over some notes, but seeing us, he walks over to shake Michael’s hand and give me a kiss on the cheek.


“We just got word that Jenna’s not going to be on tonight,” he says. “Her lawyer advised her not to do it, so it’s going to
be just the three of us and then we’ll open the phone lines.”


“Great.” I muster a smile. “We’ll still have a good show.”

Larry wags a finger at me. “Working too hard again? You’re looking tired.”

Ouch. Two hits tonight. I’m aging and I look tired. My God, these men are brutal.

“Too much fun in Paris,” I say, fighting for a cheeky smile, projecting as much youthful zest as I can. “Probably should have
slept on the way home instead of working all through the flight.”


“Good trip, though?” Larry asks as we take our seats on the stools around the set table.

“It was great.” I catch Michael’s arched eyebrow and turn my head away. His picture should be next to the definition of “annoying”
in the dictionary.


The technician steps over to adjust my mike. Someone else powders Larry’s nose and smoothes down a stray hair. Michael just
sits there in his dark suit, cool as a cucumber. I bet the man doesn’t even sweat. He’s probably Botoxed his armpits to keep
from perspiring.


A minute until we go live.

Larry chats with Michael about his wife and their plans for the holidays. He wants a white Christmas and cozy fire. She wants
beaches and sun and time by the pool.


I can’t believe the holidays are already approaching again. Is Thanksgiving really just a week away?

Thirty seconds until we go live.

As a kid, I loved Thanksgiving. I don’t anymore. I hate being alone on Thanksgiving, but even worse is crashing Shey’s family
celebration like an orphan. An orphan…


Fifteen seconds.

I take a deep breath, sit straighter, shoulders squared.

Ten seconds. Larry smiles at me. I smile back. Piece of cake.

Five seconds.

Michael leans toward me. “If you need any recommendations for a good plastic surgeon, just call me. I’ll get you squared away.”

And we’re live.

Asshole.



I leave the building, shoulders slouched, absolutely exhausted.


That was a disaster, I think, unbuttoning the top button of my jacket and exhaling hard.


Michael made mincemeat of me. I don’t know how he did it, either. He’s never bested me before. Maybe I didn’t feel enough
sympathy for Jenna Meadows. Maybe I was preoccupied with Glenn’s devastating news. But still, I’m a professional. I can’t
lose focus, . . .