Most eligible, p.27
Most Eligible, page 27
“Where is he?” she asks. “I have to talk to him.”
Rhett cuts his eyes to the producers, then back to Monica. “He’s not on the property at the moment.”
I frown—even if this was Lainey’s doing, it seems extreme that she would forcibly sequester him. Unless Roland has taken my advice and gone public with his secret, in which case things will certainly get more dramatic.
Monica huffs and stalks from the room, leaving Rhett and me on the couch. There’s at least a foot between us but I can feel the heat radiating from his body like we’re naked, curled up together in Palermo.
He leans forward, arms resting on his thighs. “Georgia, how do you feel about losing this time with Roland? Are you confident in your relationship with him?”
I blink at him. I’d almost forgotten that the cameras are feet away, that this isn’t a conversation between us, but for them.
“I—yeah, I am. We…” I press my hands to my eyes. “Can I start over?” I sit up straighter, taking a breath as I glance at the producers. “It’s disappointing not to have more time with him. But I was confident in what we had.” I look into Rhett’s eyes, trying to catch any trace of an apology. “Ultimately, though, it’s his decision. He knows how I feel and it’s up to him to choose what he feels is right.” I let out the last words in a gush, lost in Rhett’s shadowed green eyes. I doubt he knows what Roland told me—that I’m only here as a formality—and his expression gives nothing away.
He runs a hand through his hair, breaking our eye contact, and stands. “That should do it,” he says curtly. Without a backward glance, he sulks from the room.
“Georgia!” The whisper comes from above, and I look up to see Monica’s face peeking over the landing. “Come up here!”
I sprint up the stairs and meet her in the bunk room. Wordlessly, she pulls me into the bathroom and pulls something out from behind the toilet. A laptop.
“What the…”
“I snatched it from the producers’ room,” she says. “It’s not like they can kick us out now. Check this out.”
She opens the laptop and pulls up a Google search of Roland’s name. Dozens of news articles flood the screen. He’s world-famous, so this isn’t shocking, but the content is.
“Roland Marchetti’s Love Shack season dragged across the court.”
“Will Roland find love despite the drama?”
“Marchetti speaks out about Love Shack controversy.”
It goes on. Monica scrolls down and clicks on one of the articles. Silently, we sink to the floor, and I read the headline.
Sex, Drugs, & Rock ’n’ Roll-and Marchetti: The Love Shack Scandal You Won’t Believe
I shudder at the abominable pun, though Norbert would get a kick out of it. Monica scrolls down so we can read more.
We were all so excited for Roland Marchetti to find love, weren’t we? Dazzlingly handsome tennis star, family man, American sweetheart. But all that is about to change as the hit reality show Love Shack is thrown into scandal.
My stomach churns as I read on, through a long interview monologue Roland gave confessing everything about his illicit drug use.
“Holy shit, this is wild,” Monica breathes as she scrolls further. “I never thought—I mean I knew he was having trouble with his recovery, but I never thought he’d do this. It’s what Sharapova was on,” she mutters, almost to herself. “This is going to destroy him.”
She scrolls through a few more articles.
“Oh my god, there’s something about Rhett too,” she breathes.
I snap back to attention and lean closer to the laptop.
Is There a Heaven for Rhett Auburn? The Country Star Falls into Bed with Fans
By Serena Romero
Reality TV and country music fans alike remember Rhett Auburn’s whirlwind romance with fashion influencer Cassidy Foley. His appearance on Love Shack and their public relationship catapulted his country music career to new heights, but when he and Foley split up amid rumors of cheating, his popularity started to wane as Love Shack fans sided with Foley. Shocking new evidence reveals that there was more to the story.
Weeks after Auburn and Foley split up, Auburn sought comfort in the arms of strangers (photo below). We can confirm at least one fan hookup—if not more—in the weeks following the breakup, as well as subsequent payoffs to keep the press quiet. But it seems that those hookups weren’t just a thing of the past. Sources claim to have seen Auburn in Nashville just weeks ago with a woman who looked suspiciously similar to the woman from last year (photo below).
And if this wasn’t enough, around the same time last year, Auburn was charged with drunk and disorderly conduct after throwing a beer bottle through Foley’s window. This, too, was covered up by network executives who value Auburn’s career and net worth more than the integrity of their programming.
In an exclusive interview, Foley said of Auburn’s behavior: “I had no idea about the payoffs. That’s all I can say.” Presumably because she too was paid.
And this is just the beginning.
I scroll down to the bottom of the article, heart hammering. There, in blurry glory, is an image of Rhett and me at the Pink Iguana club last year. I’m unrecognizable, just arms snaking around his back, Converse sneakers on tiptoe. But he’s unmistakable, his hair a mess, black jacket pushed back on his shoulders. And further down: a photo from last week that must have been taken by the paparazzi in Nashville. Again, my face is obscured, but my long hair falls the same way. Even my goddam jeans are the same, the tiny, embroidered flowers on the back pockets winking at me like a tease.
Tune in next week for the identity reveal of Rhett’s mystery woman. Die-hard Auburn fan? Long-lost love? Love Shack leftovers? We have all the details.
My eyes bulge at the final paragraph.
She knows. Despite all my lies and evasion, Serena has put it together and placed a target on my back. She’s done this to me—to Rhett—because Roland went public before she could break the story herself.
The only consolation is that she doesn’t have the whole story. The reason she sent me here—to research producer behavior and cover-ups—isn’t part of her story, and without me, it can’t be. She has no idea I’m planning to write it all on my own.
My breath shudders as Monica shuts the laptop.
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “Can you believe it?”
“Some of it.”
“I bet Roland and Lainey are doing damage control,” Monica says, drumming her fingers on the laptop. “I don’t think the Rhett thing is such a huge deal. I mean, he and Cassidy were split up, right? Who cares if he was fooling around? Imagine being that woman,” she says, laughing. “She must be shitting herself. If I were her, I’d probably leave the country before my name goes viral.”
I nod, proverbially very much shitting myself. A week—that’s all I have, until my name is tied to Rhett’s forever. But there’s nothing I can do about it now.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Listen, I have to…” I stumble to my feet and gesture out of the bathroom. I run down the hall and skid downstairs to the kitchen, where Norbert is drinking a green juice.
“Georgia!” he says happily. “Want some? Best way to keep up your strength.” He holds out the green juice to me, but I shake my head.
“Norbert,” I start. I try to arrange my face into the most pleasant smile imaginable. “Can I use your phone? Today is my mom’s birthday and I really want to call her.”
It’s a thin lie, but he smiles fondly at me. “Well now, strictly speaking I shouldn’t, but … Why not bend the rules for your dear mum?” He reaches into a pocket of his cargo pants and hands the phone to me under the counter. “I’ll give you some privacy then. You best go outside, away from all the…” He gestures around to the cameras in the high corners of the room. Even if we’re not mic’d, you never know who’s watching. “And be back quick—don’t want Lainey to catch on.”
“Right. Thanks so much,” I say. I take the phone and start to leave the kitchen, but he calls after me.
“Ah—the password’s one, two, three, four!”
I chuckle and dart outside to the patio, then run down the steps to the beach. Collapsing in the sand, I fold my legs under me and watch surfers pop in and out of the waves for a minute before swiping open Norbert’s phone and typing in Serena’s number.
She picks up before the first dial tone ends. “Hello?”
“Serena, it’s me,” I say.
“So, did you like the piece?”
I ignore this, gritting my teeth. “How could you do this?”
“You lied to me,” she says silkily. “When I saw that picture of you and Rhett in Nashville I almost couldn’t believe it. But then it all made so much sense—what you said in Italy, about not publishing the stuff on him. And I know you tipped Roland off. Why else would he suddenly go public? You can’t expect me to give up the whole story—I had to go with the piece I still had.”
“So you just decided to ruin my life?”
She laughs. “Seriously? I’m hardly ruining your life. You’re going to blow up after this.”
“Serena, just … just stop,” I say. I curl my toes in the sand and twist my hair around a finger, pulling tight. “I’m done. I’m done with this.”
“Seriously?” She scoffs, and it sounds so much like Addison that I wince. How could I not have realized what she was really like in all the years of our friendship? Maybe I’d been so caught up in her glow that I didn’t notice the shadows. “You’re choosing Rhett—a guy—over everything you’ve worked so hard for?”
“He’s not just a guy,” I snap, but my voice catches at the thought of Rhett. “Besides, that’s over now.” I’m reaching for a familiar comfort from her, one that I know now is not to be trusted. But something in me wants it all the same.
“Are you sure?” she asks.
“What—of course I’m sure,” I say. Is she just trying to push the knife deeper?
“Because…” she trails off, her voice softening. I close my eyes in the silence, the sea spray brushing my eyelids. “I talked to him.”
My eyes fly open. “What?”
“I asked Rhett for a comment before I went live with the story.” I picture her flipping her dark hair over her shoulder, shrugging. “He told me to go to hell, so there was that.”
I laugh a little imagining it.
“He said to print all of it,” Serena continues. “But not the part about you.”
My mind flies back through everything that’s happened since I woke up in Italy to find the other side of the bed empty. It’s nearly impossible to believe that after everything, Rhett would still want to protect me, but my brain latches on to it and won’t let go.
“He said he didn’t want to get you involved in his mess,” Serena says. “He fought pretty hard, I’ll give him that. But how could I give up something that juicy?”
“So you’re about to expose me as some celebrity mistress?”
She pauses, and I can hear Presley mewing in the background. I can’t wait to see him when I’m home.
“It sounded like he really cares about you, G,” she sighs.
There’s no reason I should believe her, but it’s all I have—one last shred of hope for a relationship I thought was already dead.
“Okay,” I say, my voice hollow. “Thanks, I guess. And … What you said about me choosing Rhett over everything we worked for? That’s not true. I can have both.” She doesn’t need to know how I’m planning to do it, but she’ll find out soon enough.
“And how are you going to manage that?” she asks in a bored tone. I imagine all the things she’d say if I told her—how she’d try to threaten me out of publishing, how she’d point out that my credibility will be tainted if people find out about me and Rhett.
“I don’t know,” I lie as Presley mews even louder in the background. “All I know is that I won’t publish as Gracie again.”
That much, at least, is true.
“Okay, well call me when you’re home so I can drop off Presley.” She sounds a little sad, like she’s actually mourning our travesty of a friendship.
“Bye, Serena.” And it hurts, letting her go. Like a compartment in my heart is shutting forever.
“Bye, G,” she says quietly.
I hang up first and close my fist around the phone. The people I really want to call are my parents. I want to tell them that I’m sorry Lainey wouldn’t let them come, that I miss them. But I don’t have much time. I walk slowly back up the cliff to the mansion and let myself back inside, where I find Norbert in the kitchen, now making a smoothie.
“How about some of this?” He holds out the blender, but I shake my head, setting his phone on the counter.
“Where’s Rhett? I—” I stop, realizing I have no lies prepared. “I have to talk to him.”
“He just left, lassie,” Norbert says. “He’s performing downtown tonight. At some club—I think it’s called the Orange Lizard?”
“The Pink Iguana?”
Norbert points at me. “That’s the one.” He gives me a wave and leaves the kitchen with his smoothie.
As soon as he’s gone, I rush upstairs and make sure Monica isn’t in the bedroom before rifling through my suitcase and pulling out my best makeshift concert outfit: those same jeans from last year and a paisley-patterned tube top.
If what Serena said is true, if there’s any hope of salvaging what we have, I have to talk to Rhett.
I just hope I’m not too late.
Tonight! Rhett Auburn performing for one night only at the Pink Iguana in downtown LA. Don’t miss this performance!
—LA Music, today
Chapter Thirty-Five
Above the doors of the Pink Iguana, the sign reads: RHETT AUBURN: ONE NIGHT ONLY.
Whether because of his recent scandal or the brevity of the gig, it’s already packed inside when I push my way through the doors. I wriggle through the crowd so I can stand close to the stage.
Trying for anonymity, I’m wearing the Rhett Auburn–branded baseball cap I never gave back to him. It seemed fitting for the occasion. I don’t think anyone will recognize me, but I can’t help looking over my shoulder every few seconds.
I haven’t been back here since meeting Rhett a year ago. Back then, I was a dogged journalist toggling back and forth between Gracie during the day and Georgia at night. I loved the nights. I loved going to concerts, giddy with the rush of live music. There, it didn’t matter if I came alone. Because in the crowd, I wasn’t alone anymore.
A young woman in a cowgirl hat sidles up to me and leans in. Her lip gloss smells like sugar. “Did you hear all the drama about him?”
“Oh, yeah—it’s wild,” I say.
She grins and takes a long sip of her drink. “You know he made out with someone in this club.”
I just nod and smile back, focusing on the stage. It was right up there that the lead singer of the indie band had leaned into the microphone, waited for the strobe lights to beat once, twice, then said: “Kiss a stranger.” My skin melted into Rhett’s as couples formed around us, and when we pulled apart, the next song was already playing. Kissing him was like being swept up in a wave. His hands were steady, assured, but at any moment I could find myself at the edge of the world.
Now, the lights dim, and Rhett steps onstage to thunderous applause. He’s wearing his usual outfit—a short-sleeve black shirt and jeans, cowboy boots poking out of the bottom. That damn lock of hair falls over his forehead as he walks to the stool center stage and props his guitar up on one leg. He adjusts the microphone and smiles out at the crowd, taking my breath away.
“Evening, y’all,” he says.
Next to me, cowgirl-hat lady is freaking out. She squeezes my arm so hard I think she might draw blood and screams at the top of her lungs, “RHETT, WILL YOU MARRY ME?!”
Everyone in the audience can probably hear her. Rhett glances over, chuckles, a hint of a blush creeping up his neck. “Uh, I’m flattered,” he says. “But I think it’s probably best if I say no.”
She doesn’t seem disappointed in the slightest. She’s screaming to her friend, gushing over the fact that he was talking to her. I grin into my chest and look back up at the stage to find Rhett staring at me. After a second, he breaks his gaze away, the blush still coloring his neck.
“This song is from my second album,” he says. “It’s called ‘Time of My Life.’”
Rhett’s fingers strum over the guitar strings and he keeps his gaze down as he begins. I’ve heard this song before, but hearing it live, directly from his lips and fingers, leaves me chilled.
We had the time of our lives
On those small-town back roads
But when you left, you tore me in two.
We had the time of our lives
Fighting our battles
Or was I just having the time of my life with you?
It’s a slow song, perfect for an acoustic performance, and when he finishes, the crowd erupts in cheers. He sings a few more of his older songs, stopping to say a few words between each one.
“I’m almost done for the night,” he says finally. “Y’all’ve been wonderful, but I only have time for two more. These are both new songs that I wrote recently and I’m hoping they’ll be on my next album.” My heart quickens. “This first one is called ‘Being New.’”
The song has a long intro, Rhett’s fingers flying across the strings as he leads the song into its slow, folky tune, before he starts to sing.
Sometimes, it’s a hard time, being new.
It’s the song he was playing when I snuck into his room, but the words hit me differently now as I remember what he said about his drinking, about how things ended with Cassidy.
By the time he gets to the chorus, the entire crowd is swaying, the woman next to me clutching her friend for dear life. When he finishes, I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
“One more,” he says. His eyes scan the crowd and land on me. His voice falters and for a second he just stares. His lips part like he’s about to say something, but no sound comes out.
