Most eligible, p.22
Most Eligible, page 22
Rhett’s mouth twitches as he tries valiantly not to laugh. “We’re not going to—”
My vision tunnels and now all I can see is an image of myself plunging into the depths of the Atlantic. All for what? So I could maybe get a job?
“I can’t die like this,” I gasp, clutching at my throat. My chest squeezes tight with panic. “Why did I ever agree to this?”
“To being on reality TV?” he asks. “I ask myself that every day.”
“No…” I hesitate. My mind is racing. If I tell him, I’m risking everything. But he’s here, with me, in an airplane bathroom that probably smells like death. He’s helped me and saved me and covered for me time and time again—don’t I owe him a little honesty? “I only agreed to come here for a job. My friend hired me to write an exposé on Love Shack—as Gracie Hart. And I agreed to do it because … I don’t even know now.” I put a hand to my forehead, as if trying to keep the panicked thoughts from escaping. I glance at Rhett, but his face is impassive. “You don’t seem surprised.”
His lips twitch again like he’s trying not to smirk. “I had my suspicions,” he says finally. “You’re not exactly the reality TV type.”
“Hey!” I swat his arm, but then the plane lurches again, and I end up holding on for dear life.
I try to remember the me of last year, even the me of six months ago, throwing herself headfirst into every work opportunity that came up just to get that goddamn country singer out of her mind. The me that dodged calls from my mom and woke up every half hour to give my cat-of-the-month his medication. The me that was foolish enough to think I could survive this show.
“It’s my dream job,” I whisper. I don’t even know if he can hear me over the rumbling of the engine. “She promised she’d hire me as a full-time music journalist if I did this. Most magazines don’t really hire for that anymore, it’s all freelance or contract or—”
“Georgia,” he cuts me off, placing a hand on my waist. Shut up, I tell myself. He doesn’t want to hear me rant about layoffs or the gig economy. I shouldn’t have said anything to begin with. But isn’t there a saying about airplane bathrooms? What happens in an airplane bathroom stays there? Or maybe I’m thinking of the mile high club …
“Georgia,” he says again. “Look at me.” His fingers flex over the slice of skin between my T-shirt and leggings.
I pull my eyes to his face. Airplane bathroom lighting must be the worst in the world, but somehow, he still looks good, the bluish tint making him more mysterious and less alien like me.
“You’re going to be okay,” he says.
“Please don’t tell,” I whisper. My panic is clearing, but now alarm bells are ringing in my head over what I’ve just told him.
“I won’t,” he promises. “You know I wouldn’t do that.” And I do. At long last, I think I trust him. If only I could say the same for myself. “But you don’t want to be in Lainey’s way. Trust me, I’d know.”
“So she did leak the information about your arrest?”
His forehead creases. “She denied it, but I wasn’t expecting her to be honest. I don’t think she knows you were with me in Nashville, but if you’re going to stay on the show, you have to be careful.” He looks at me, his eyes serious. “Are you going to stay?”
My lips part as I nod, bracing myself for the impact of my admission. “Is that okay?” I whisper.
He sets his jaw, then smiles. “You don’t need my permission.”
I let out a breath, suddenly hyperaware of his fingers on my waist. He steps back, releasing me, pulls something out of his front pocket and places it in my hand. “I should get back to my seat.” With a swift half-smile, he turns and exits the tiny bathroom. I open my palm and find a small white earbud.
After glancing around to make sure that nobody saw us together, I sneak back to my seat and sink down.
A few rows ahead, past the filmy curtain separating us and them, Rhett sits back down, his boot propped on the seat in front of him. He pulls something out of his pocket and reaches up to his ear, then leans back in his seat. I put the Bluetooth earbud in my ear and let my hair down to hide it. At first, I think it’s not working, but then I see Rhett pull a device out of his pocket, and music starts up in my right ear.
It feels lopsided, the way listening to music in one ear always does, but I close my eyes and let it tunnel into my head. It’s like hot tea after a cold day, holding hands after isolation. I hadn’t realized how much I missed music until it was coursing through me like a drug. The instrumental acoustic intro ends, and the first verse starts up.
My eyes fly open. Is this—is Rhett seriously listening to his own music right now? His ego wouldn’t fit in the plane’s cargo hold.
But there’s something wrong with it—he keeps singing the same line over again, then starting at the beginning. When he finally gets to the chorus, I understand. I’m listening to a demo tape. I peek past the curtain again and see him run a hand over his jeans-clad knee, fingers flexing on the fabric.
I shudder as his voice reaches an all-time sad-boy pitch before spiraling down into his lowest register, gravelly and deep.
The first demo ends, and the next track is a complete song, no pauses or do-overs. Again, it’s acoustic, just Rhett and his guitar. My eyelids get heavier, fluttering closed. I want to stay awake and listen to everything, but before I can fight it, I feel a heavy pull behind my eyes and exhaustion drags me into darkness.
* * *
Sailboats flit in and out of view from my windowsill perch. I stretch my arms and climb down to explore the goody bag I was too tired to look at when we arrived yesterday.
The final flight from Rome to Palermo was a harrowing sixty-seven minutes in which turbolenza! was shouted over the loudspeakers almost as many times.
The logo of the luxury hotel we’re staying at is printed on the side of the large paper bag on my bed. Mint-green tissue paper crinkles as I pull out an expensive-looking set of Italian lingerie. I wrinkle my nose at the thought of the producers picking it out for me. Next up is a bottle of fancy Italian wine that I set on top of the dresser.
After enlisting Jules’s help, I manage to get into the dress that the wardrobe crew has left in my closet; at this stage in the game, they can’t afford to trust contestants’ own fashion instincts. The dress is a form-fitting burgundy number with thin straps and an open back—and a devilish built-in underwire bra that feels like a personal affront.
The sun is just beginning to set as we gather on the hotel’s patio, producers flitting around us like birds. Snippets of Italian from the local crew hit my ears. I see a hotel employee pointing at me, and with a jolt, I remember that our pictures were released a few days ago, along with the full cast list for this season. Any hope of anonymity I’d clung to is officially gone.
The woman steps closer, wielding her phone like a saber.
“Over here.” An arm appears around my shoulders, and Rhett steers me away from the gawking woman with ease.
“Thanks,” I say, ducking out from under his arm. “And…” I glance around, crossing my arms. “Thanks for the in-flight radio show.”
His mouth ticks up as he tugs on the collar of his bright floral-print shirt.
“That’s … quite a shirt,” I say. It’s green and orange and white with huge flowers festooning every inch. The man does not look comfortable in floral print.
He scowls and grumbles, “Lainey,” before walking away.
Monica, Addison, and I line up beside the fire pit, backs ramrod straight and our hair falling in loose, almost identical curls.
I stare after Rhett as he heads to the producer’s table. He straps into his body mic and ruffles up his hair, catching my eye underneath his arm. A smile lights his face before the cameras start rolling, and I have no idea if it was for me or for the masses. Or both? I grimace at the thought that reality TV is becoming just that: reality. And not one I want to live in.
“Ladies, welcome to Palermo, Italy,” Rhett begins. “You have a monumental two weeks ahead of you while you’re here. This week, Roland will meet your families.”
Inwardly, I groan. It’s been fifteen years since their divorce, but having my parents in the same room still makes me jittery—add Lainey, Roland, and my mom’s bad response to jet lag, and I’ll be an absolute wreck.
“Then,” Rhett continues, “next week, there will be overnight dates where you’ll have time with him off-camera.”
My gaze shifts incrementally to Addison. She already had off-camera time with Roland. If Olie were here, she’d bare her teeth and growl. But me? I just purse my lips and stare at Rhett like Addison means nothing to me.
“Now, at this stage in the process, big feelings are starting to get involved,” Rhett says.
I mean, sure. If “big feelings” include fearing for your life during a paintball game.
“Some of you may have even told Roland that you’re falling for him.”
The sarcasm-track in my head screeches to a halt. Falling for him? It’s only week four. Shit. I try to remember what the Love Shack prep book said about admitting your feelings to the lead, but I could’ve sworn it was supposed to be later. Unless I’m mixing it up with when you’re supposed to reveal any serious hereditary illnesses.
“And I know he has strong feelings for all three of you,” Rhett continues. “Which only makes these two weeks more important. When I was on my own season a few years ago, the overnight dates were quite revealing. Getting to talk to someone off-camera is essential to building a good relationship, so I urge you to make the most of that time.” He smiles stiffly, successfully skirting around the fact that the main purpose of overnight dates is sex.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Addison giggles. “We’ll make the most of it.”
“Monica,” Rhett says, ignoring Addison. “You’ll go first. Roland will meet your family tomorrow. Addison, you’ll be second. And Georgia”—he fixes his gaze on me—“you’ll be last.”
Once the cameras wrap, I turn back toward the hotel, but run headfirst into Lainey.
“Sorry,” I blurt, hastily stepping back.
She smooths the front of her shirt. “Glad I caught you,” she says. “I wanted to apologize for the other day—about how our chat ended. I’m sure you understand my position—I have to protect this show at all costs and I thought … well, it doesn’t matter what I thought, but it’s all settled now.” She smiles up at me, the picture of innocence.
“I—um, thanks,” I mutter.
“I spoke to your parents this morning,” she says.
I blink at her. “You—what? My parents? Both of them?”
“They’re not going to be able to come for Family Week after all.”
A confusing mix of relief and disappointment washes through me. Relief because I won’t have to deal with any awkward family dynamics or lie to my parents’ faces. Disappointment because … despite everything I’ve told myself, the sob story I’ve pushed for the cameras is truer than I’d like to admit. Even though my relationship with Roland is a lie, I wanted my parents to be here for me.
“I know how hard that must be,” Lainey says. “But you must be used to it by now, right? Your parents not being there for you?”
I take a step back, the words knocking the breath from me. Lainey may be creepily observant, but that doesn’t mean I have to believe her. “I’m sure they were just busy.”
“You don’t think it has something to do with their own divorce?” she prods. “Perhaps they resent you for finding love?”
“No, it’s not like that.” I shake my head, and then rear back as I notice the camera trained on me. For a few seconds, I’d forgotten. It’s sickening to think I’m becoming immune.
Pressing my fingers to either side of my nose, I turn to the camera. I clench my teeth to make my chin wobble and blink rapidly, wishing I had some Vicks VapoRub on hand to help me fake tears. “I’m really disappointed that my family can’t make it, because I know they’d love Roland.” My throat gets tight, but I remind myself that it’s all an act. My sadness, my disappointment—it has to be an act, because otherwise, I’ll fall apart.
“And how does it feel that you’re the only one who hasn’t told Roland you’re falling in love with him?”
My jaw drops, then I recover. My first instinct is to be annoyed with Monica and Addison. They couldn’t have warned me that they were leveling up? But I wouldn’t have warned them. Why would I when we’re all in this to win?
“I have no doubts about my connection with Roland,” I say smoothly. “I know how I’m feeling and I’ll tell him when the time is right.”
The cameras cut, and Lainey gives me a tight smile. “I hope you get the chance.”
I shiver as I follow the others back inside. I hope I get the chance to do a lot of things. Taking Lainey down is at the top of that list.
Week Four Interviews, Clips:
“Georgia has been my best friend since college. I know everything about her. I really want her to find the love that she so desperately deserves.”
—Serena Romero, friend of Georgia Rose, Love Shack season 20
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Since my parents bailed, I assume it’ll just be Roland and me for our date at the end of the week. The producers have all been tight-lipped, and the one person who might actually tell me something—Rhett—has been kept so busy that I haven’t seen him since our first day in Italy. Meanwhile, I’ve been cooped up all week, unable to go any farther than the hotel’s pristine beach. At least I’ve had copious amounts of pasta to keep me company.
I head outside to meet Roland, wearing a corseted top and miniskirt that the producers delivered to my room. The outfit is tight, and every time I bend down, the built-in underwire digs painfully into my chest. It’s like Lainey’s trying to become the world’s first killer to use underwear as her signature weapon.
Roland and I are driven along the coast to a dock that stretches out into the Mediterranean. Our driver, a taciturn man with a wide beard, mutters the names of landmarks in Italian.
We hop out of the car and meet the producers on the dock. Moored at the end is a small dinghy, and farther out in the water is a huge, sleek sailboat. For the cameras, Roland tells me, “I’ve got a pretty special surprise for you.”
He clearly means the boat, but I joke anyway, “Is it your penis?”
I know the reprimand is coming before Lainey even registers what I’ve said.
“GEORGIA!” she screeches. “Watch it.”
“Uh, no,” Roland says, shaking with silent laughter. “Think bigger.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Damn.”
“Enough!” Lainey shouts.
Roland throws me a wink as he says his first line again, giving me a chance for a more appropriate answer.
Once we finish filming on the dock, we hop in the dinghy and speed out to the sailboat with Lainey and a few other producers. As I climb the ladder up to the deck of the bigger boat, I keep my focus trained on the rungs beneath my hands. It’s only about fifteen feet up, but after my last experience on a ladder, I’m wary. I’m almost at the top when Roland starts climbing below me.
“Whew!” he says. “I’ve got quite the view.”
Harrumphing, I tug my skirt down.
I finally manage to climb onto the deck, where a camera crew has already set up. At one end, a few large built-in benches are covered with colorful pillows that match the green-blue ocean. Two people are already seated on the benches, but before I get a good look, Roland hops up beside me and slings an arm around my waist.
“Do we have company?” I ask. I’d assumed this would be one of those make-out-on-deck dates Love Shack is so fond of.
The boat rocks with the ocean as Roland says, “Surprise!”
He spins me around so I’m facing the seating area, and once I take a few steps closer, I see what—or more accurately, who—the surprise is. I might’ve preferred a one-on-one with Roland’s tongue.
Because sitting on the couches are two people I do not want within fifteen feet of each other.
“Serena?” I squawk.
And beside her, with no clue just how much Serena really knows about him: Rhett.
* * *
I don’t have long to recover before Roland says, “Since your family couldn’t come, I wanted you to have someone special here.”
That much I’d figured out, but it doesn’t explain Rhett’s presence.
“It’s sooo good to see you!” Serena squeals. “And I can’t believe I get to meet the Roland Marchetti!” She throws her arms around me and Roland so I’m in the middle of a human sandwich I don’t like one bit.
“And I figured I’d bring a friend too,” Roland says, shrugging a little bashfully. “Rhett has been my rock through this whole process.” He pats Rhett’s shoulder. “I’m proud to have a guy like him as my best friend.”
“Awww,” Serena coos. “I just love dude friendships. They’re so special.”
I’m a hundred percent sure that Rhett does not consider Roland his best friend, so I can only assume that he was asked to sub in to balance out the numbers today. Just my luck: the worst double date in history.
Roland sinks down onto one of the benches and I start to sit next to him, but he pulls me onto his lap, snaking his arm around my waist. One look at Lainey tells me not to bother protesting, so I snuggle into his side as naturally as I can. When I catch Rhett’s eye, instead of his usual pained expression, he tugs a smile down, running his hand over his jaw like he’s trying not to look amused.
Norbert swoops in and places a tray of drinks and pastries on the small table between the benches. “So, how’s it been going?” Serena asks, leaning forward. “I want to hear everything.”
Roland doesn’t miss a beat. “Right from the first night, I knew Georgia was special,” he says. “And when we kissed for the first time in that hot tub, I felt such a strong physical connection—”
