Most eligible, p.20
Most Eligible, page 20
I reel back as if she’s slapped me.
“How dare you,” I seethe. I’m numb to the vodka burn now, all anger, all ice. “Roland’s the one screwing around with other women while I—”
“While you what?” She raises a penciled brow. “Are you about to tell me why you’re really here?”
“I’m here to find love.” I say it so forcefully that Lainey’s eyes widen in surprise. “I’m here to find love,” I repeat, my voice quivering. “I’m here to marry Roland.”
In a flash, Lainey steps around the counter and leans in so close I can smell her mascara. “If that’s true, then you probably don’t want me telling him about you and Rhett, do you?”
“Why would you—”
“You heard something in Rhett’s room,” she says. “I’m asking you to keep it to yourself. If you don’t, I might let something slip to Roland.”
The irony is almost comical. She thinks she can use Roland to keep me quiet, but he’s the furthest thing from my mind.
“I won’t say anything, I swear,” I lie. I glance at my paintball gun. The plastic edges make it look like a pitiful defense.
My breath is coming so fast, heart beating so furiously, that I don’t notice a tear of anxiety puddling in my eye until it falls down my cheek. I dig my nails into my palms, cuticles, anything to keep me going, to keep my gaze on Lainey so she knows she hasn’t won.
She licks her lips like a snake, tongue darting out as it surveys its next meal, before she picks up my left hand and holds it up between us. A drop of blood trickles from the little half-moon indent where my fingernail has picked my skin raw.
Lainey scoffs. She lets my hand fall back to my side. “I don’t know what Roland sees in you. I’d think he would want someone a little more sure of herself.”
“I—” But I can’t finish. Suddenly, I’m back in my apartment with Serena, watching Rhett’s Love Shack contestants parade across my laptop screen.
God, does that woman even like herself? Not nearly enough confidence. He’s already a celebrity; he wants someone who knows who she is.
“Pathetic,” Lainey says.
“That’s enough.” Rhett’s voice echoes through the room.
Lainey grabs her paintball gun, looking to the door of the kitchen as Rhett walks in, hands outstretched like he’s approaching a rabid animal.
“Rhett, what the hell are you doing?” Lainey asks.
“You have to stop,” he says, glancing between me and Lainey. “This is way too far.”
“We were just having a little chat,” she says, smoothing the front of her blazer. “Don’t forget what we talked about, hmm?” With one last look at me, she stalks out of the room.
As soon as she’s gone, I collapse back against the counter, then slide to the floor.
“Are you okay?” Rhett crouches down and takes my hand in his. “What happened?”
I snatch my hand back, shaking my head. What happened is that I got what I came here for: proof that Lainey Williams is a sadistic, evil producer. Proof that Roland failed dope tests and hid it. Proof that I meant nothing to Rhett. A sob forces its way out of my throat and I bury my face in my arms.
“Talk to me,” Rhett says. “What did she do?”
I sniffle, wipe my nose. “Nothing. It’s—nothing.” It’s what she said that shook me to my core. Her words, so like Serena’s, even if they were about a different man: I’d think he would want someone a little more sure of herself. I raise my head, look into Rhett’s worried eyes.
He wants someone who knows who she is.
That isn’t me.
And now I’m in far too deep.
“Georgia,” he says again. “I want to help.”
Another sob breaks through, and he leans forward, takes my face between his hands, and brushes his thumb across my cheek.
“Can I do anything?”
“Haven’t you done enough?” I snap.
“What are you talking about?”
“You told Lainey about me—my phone.”
Rhett’s eyes widen and he drops his hands. “I didn’t.”
“I heard you talking to her on the veranda—you told her it was mine.”
He shakes his head. “I was talking about when she found your … undergarments in my room.” He whispers the word, leaning forward and making me blush despite my tears. “I said you came in trying to start something and I shut it down. I told her you’d been drinking—that you weren’t thinking straight.”
I sniffle a laugh. “What, ‘Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off’ or something like that?”
He drops his hand to my bare knee and smiles. Heat shoots up my leg. “Thought you didn’t like country music.” He’s so close I can smell him, woodsy and calm.
“It’s a classic.” I shrug, wipe my eyes. When I turn my gaze back to Rhett, his is already on me, hot and intense, boring a hole back through space and time. It’s like I’m unraveling into him all over again, gathered in his arms, his mouth on my neck, melting into well-worn sheets.
“I told her the phone was mine,” he says.
“You—what?”
“It’s not like she can fire me. She didn’t believe it was Nina’s, so I told her it was mine.”
My heart sinks. If what he’s saying is true—that he was protecting me, that he took the fall for me … then I’ve completely misjudged him. He’s saved me multiple times, and all I’ve done is lie and sell him out.
“And you told her … about us?”
He shakes his head. “She only knows you were in my room last week. Nothing else. I was worried,” he says, then breaks off. “She’s had it in for you from the start. At first, I believed her—that you were just here for your job.” He takes my left hand in his, running his thumb over my raw, bleeding cuticles. “But I hope no one would put themselves through this just for a story.” His eyes find mine, asking a silent question of me.
I look away, feeling monumentally foolish.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” He gets to his feet, pulling a stool up beside the counter and helping me onto it. “Here,” he says, twisting out of his flannel overshirt. He puts it around my shoulders, and I shrug into the sleeves, letting the warmth calm me down.
“Where are the others?”
“They’re outside,” he says. “Olie’s on the roof and Addison is staking her out.”
If Olie’s hiding on the roof, things can’t be going according to plan. “I should help Olie.” I move to get off the stool, but Rhett sets a hand on my knee.
“Just wait a minute.” He rummages in the cabinet and pulls out a first aid kit. His forehead knits in concentration as he opens a bandage and gently wipes the drops of blood from my fingers.
“Jeez,” he whispers, eyeing the fake nail that’s hanging from my finger like a screen door after a storm. He peels it off and tosses it in the trash.
“It’s—it’s an anxiety thing,” I murmur. “I got better for a while, but being here … It’s really hard.”
“It is hard,” he says, nodding. “You’re doing great.”
My heart starts to slow as he turns to my face.
“May I?”
I nod, not daring to speak. With that same featherlight touch, he wipes the tears and makeup from my face.
“So serious,” I whisper, a smile tugging at my lips as his fingers skim my cheekbone. His face lights up, but he stays focused.
He turns my hand in his so he can see the new tattoo at my wrist. His thumb rolls over the bone, and I shiver as he murmurs, “I like it.”
We’re kissing distance now, his lips parted like they’ve just whispered a secret.
“Georgia,” he breathes. It’s a secret in itself, the way he says my name. Like a wisp of perfume slipping into me.
I lean closer, my knee bumping his hip. He sucks in a breath, his teeth snagging his bottom lip. He hooks his hand under my knee, tugging me forward on the stool.
Suddenly, a high-pitched scream rips through the air, and he leaps back like I’ve burned him. Then: Crash.
“She’s trying to kill me!” someone screams.
“Oh god,” I whisper. “Was that Addison?”
Footsteps pound through the living room and I see a flash of rust-red beard fly by before Norbert bursts out onto the veranda.
Rhett and I look at each other, then hurry to follow Norbert. Paintball be damned, I have to make sure Olie isn’t hurt—or hasn’t hurt someone else.
We make it outside just as Norbert leaps off the veranda and into the cluster of bushes beneath the terrace roof. A jumble of limbs pokes out of the top as the bushes shake violently.
Monica jogs up to the house from the gardens, looking less dewy than usual, her modesty bandanas askew on her hips. “What the hell—”
“I HAVE APPREHENDED THE CULPRIT!” Norbert bellows, his arms clawing their way out of the bushes. “ADDISON IS ALIVE!”
Addison crawls out from under one of the bushes, spitting leaves out of her mouth.
Rhett bends down and helps her to her feet. Damn him for being so gallant.
The bushes give one last shake, and then Norbert rolls out, entangled with someone else, and shouts, “THE ATTACKER IS DOWN, I REPEAT, THE ATTACKER IS—Olie?”
If there’s no champagne toast at the end of the night, you know things have gone terribly, terribly wrong.
—Shacking Up: The Definitive, Unauthorized Guide to Winning Love Shack
Chapter Twenty-Five
“She almost stabbed me!” Addison sobs. She’s wrapped in a blanket in the living room with several cameras pointed at her. Apparently having someone (Olie) fall on you from the roof means you no longer have to be naked. I should try it sometime.
“I was standing on the veranda waiting for her to come down and—and—” Addison hiccups. “And then she attacked me!”
“Someone make her a cup of tea,” Lainey barks.
She deposits Addison in a squashy armchair by the fireplace and fusses over her blanket. Philippa and Chloe jog in through the open back doors, a large paint splatter covering Chloe’s stomach.
“I didn’t attack you,” Olie says impatiently. She pulls herself free from Norbert’s grip. “I was trying to sneak into your room from the roof—”
“To kill me!” Addison shrieks.
“No!” Olie says. “You weren’t even in there.” She reaches into the side of her boot and pulls out a warped paperback, then tosses it on the table.
Shacking Up: The Definitive, Unauthorized Guide to Winning Love Shack stares up at us.
“I was going to put that in your room,” Olie says. She meets my eyes, and I give her a small smile, but it’s hard when she looks so thoroughly defeated.
“Wuzgoingon?” Roland skids Tom Cruise–style into the room in his socks and boxers, white T-shirt rumpled like he just rolled out of bed.
“Put some pants on,” Lainey snaps. A PA hurries over with a pair of pants, and Roland hobbles into them. “Olie, I’m incredibly disappointed. Trying to sabotage another contestant goes against the foundations of sisterhood that Love Shack is based on.”
Philippa snorts, earning her a glare from Lainey.
“You’ve left me no choice,” Lainey continues, turning back to Olie. My breath gets shallow. Is Olie about to be kicked out? “Since it seems that the rules of this show mean nothing to you, you can’t be upset when I change some rules too. We’re doing the elimination ceremony early—now.”
“Wait, wh—” Roland starts, his eyes ping-ponging between Lainey and Olie, but Lainey cuts him off.
“Need I remind you who’s in charge, Mr. Marchetti?”
He gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly.
“We’re doing the ceremony now?” Monica asks, her voice trembling. “Shouldn’t we change first?”
“No need,” Lainey says brusquely. “Now let’s get started.” She signals to get the cameras rolling as we arrange ourselves in the customary semicircle.
It feels like years ago that there were twenty of us standing in the rose garden in Malibu, fresh-faced and innocent. But now, the aesthetics couldn’t be more different. Our dirty bare-bones outfits are a far cry from the elegant gowns Love Shack viewers are used to. And no one’s smiling this time.
Of the six of us, Philippa is the only one who seems unscathed. Everyone else looks like they’ve just escaped a reality TV torture chamber. Monica has a large paint splatter on her back and has lost one of her boots. Chloe’s entire stomach is covered in neon green. Addison looks downright traumatized. And Olie … well, Olie has twigs in her hair and a large scrape on her chin, not to mention the rainbow of paint covering her from head to foot.
Even Roland looks miserable. Lainey pulls him and Rhett off to the side and starts whispering furiously, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. When they return, Roland’s jaw is trembling.
“Ladies,” Rhett says, “it’s been quite a day. Per the rules of the game, we don’t quite have a winner, but I’m afraid we do have to say goodbye to one woman right away as she was hit first during paintball: Chloe.”
I fight to keep my face impassive as Chloe steps forward and takes Roland’s hand.
“Thank you for this opportunity,” she says. “As sad as I am to leave, I know it’s been worth it.” She steals a glance back at us but stays focused on Philippa, whose eyes are glistening. “Because I really did find love,” Chloe continues, dropping Roland’s hand.
I blink in confusion as Chloe walks back to us, but as she takes Philippa’s hand, it clicks.
“Will you come home with me?” Chloe asks.
Philippa takes Chloe’s hand and nods, tears streaming down her face.
My throat is tight as they both hug me goodbye and leave to whatever TV afterlife (or likely, SUV ride to the airport) awaits them.
Roland looks like he doesn’t totally understand what just happened, but having only four women left spikes the tension in the air. I glance at Rhett, who’s deep in thought, pacing a hole in the bearskin rug.
Lainey takes a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut like she’s trying to go to her happy place. “Roland? Are you ready?”
“But Lainey,” he protests, “I can’t—”
“You can and you will. Or do I need to remind you how precarious your position is?” She steps closer to Roland and lays a hand on his forearm. “You can’t marry a woman like that,” she says quietly. “You have a reputation to uphold. I have a reputation to uphold.”
Roland swallows hard, nodding, as Olie trembles, still in Norbert’s firm grasp. Roland lifts his head to look at the four of us, then he looks back at Lainey, who just nods. A death signal if I’ve ever seen one. But I can’t tell if it’s me or Olie getting the axe.
I stand up straighter, ready to go out with my head held high.
“Olie.” He says her name so tenderly it breaks my heart. If I have to leave, I’m glad she gets to stay a little longer.
Olie wrenches free from Norbert and runs up to Roland, throwing herself against his chest. “Thank you,” she sobs. “Thank you so much, baby.”
Roland pats her hair, tears leaking from his eyes. Slowly, he detaches her from his chest and looks down at her, setting his jaw. She freezes, as my stomach drops with sick anticipation.
“No, you have to go, baby,” Roland says.
“Wh—but, what’re you saying? You can’t do that—she can’t make you do that!” Olie looks frantically at the sea of producers, at Lainey, at Norbert, but no one moves. “Rolie, baby, please,” she begs, grabbing onto his arm. “Please don’t do this. Please!”
“I’m sorry,” Roland says, voice tight. “I’m so sorry. I don’t have a choice.”
I look between him and Lainey as Olie breaks down in sobs. Lainey’s mouth is set in a grim line, but she makes no move to interfere.
Norbert steps forward, pulling Olie gently back from Roland.
“Rolie—Roland, please,” Olie cries, but Norbert starts to haul her away, her heels skidding on the hardwood floor.
“Out you go, lass,” Norbert says, and even he sounds a little sad.
Monica turns her head so she doesn’t have to witness Olie’s undignified exit. I’m tempted to do the same, but something keeps me watching until she’s out of sight, her howling sobs echoing through the foyer.
I half expect the producers to start interviewing us about how Olie’s leaving makes us feel or some other bullshit, but once Roland retreats to his room in tears, the cameras cut.
“What, no champagne toast for the winners?” Addison asks, tossing her blanket onto the couch, apparently fully recovered from her “near death” experience.
Monica throws her a dirty look. “How do you live with yourself?”
Addison just smirks as Monica trudges upstairs.
I’ve never felt less like a winner. Maybe I’ll feel better tomorrow, but somehow I doubt it.
I ignore Addison and follow Monica upstairs. In my room, I peel off my clothes and pull on a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a T-shirt. It’s only midafternoon but I’m exhausted—and starving. The vodka sloshes around unaccompanied in my stomach, but the thought of eating another Love Shack–approved salad or bran muffin isn’t appetizing. What I really want is a grilled cheese. Or a burger. Or literally anything that would make Lainey turn up her nose.
There’s a soft knock on my door, and I press my eye to the peephole. But it’s not Lainey come to scold me for my impure thoughts about cheese. It’s Rhett, his face bulging in the warped glass.
I open the door a crack, and he glances up and down the hall, then steps into the entry of my room. He has a set of keys in one hand and a black baseball cap in the other. On the front of the cap, the words Rhett Auburn are stitched in white thread, accompanied by a small horseshoe. He reaches up and puts it on my head, tugging on the brim so it sits more snugly in place.
I peer up at him. “Why are you giving me merch?”
He twists his jaw to the side, smirking, and pops up the collar of his jacket as he says, “Want to get out of here?”
Was Rhett arrested last night? A friend saw him downtown with cops.
—@loveshack_fandom22, Instagram comment, one year ago
