Most eligible, p.8
Most Eligible, page 8
“Right, sorry.” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear.
“No problem. Whenever you’re ready,” she says, smiling. Her expression is maternal and almost … kind. But kind doesn’t seem to be in Lainey’s normal wheelhouse. This must be how she lulls contestants into a false sense of security.
I meet the camera’s gaze. “The kisses were magical. It felt like everything was meant to be.” I pause, take a dreamy breath, then continue. “I can really see a future with him—he’s everything I want in a partner. He’s kind, compassionate, talented, smart, and, well … he’s a really good kisser too.”
Though not as good as Rhett. The thought sends my nails digging into my palms, and Lainey’s eyes flick to the movement. She misses nothing.
“And your own family—can you tell me about them? How has your parents’ divorce affected your approach to relationships?”
It’s like a bass drop. This is what she wanted all along.
I stare down at my hands, trying to prepare myself for an emotional moment.
“I think watching my parents go through that has made me more wary of relationships,” I say honestly. “They split up when I was twelve, but things were rocky for a long time before that and they kept holding on—maybe for me, I’m not sure. I don’t want to end up like that.”
Anxiety pools in my gut. The truth would be too much for the cameras—that I’m so terrified of winding up like my parents that I’ve needed to become fiercely independent, so unwilling to trust anyone else with my heart that if I made it to the end and married Roland, he’d be my longest romantic relationship to date. So instead, I pivot my anxiety into something the cameras can understand: sadness.
I sniffle and wipe my eyes. “It was just … really hard.” Lainey leans forward, watching me intently. “I knew things weren’t great between them, but when my dad finally moved out, it felt like he was giving up on their relationship—on me.” My voice catches with the brutal honesty of it. I almost don’t say the next words—it’s not fair to my dad or, frankly, to me. But I have to. “He didn’t even tell me where he was going.”
I found out where my dad was going, of course. But the initial hurt of waking up to find boxes in the hall instead of his shoes didn’t subside easily.
I’ve never told anyone how I felt as I watched my dad packing up his things, how suddenly, his life seemed so small, so lonely, if it could be stuffed into the back seat of a sedan. I didn’t tell my mom, because her emotions were already big enough for the both of us. I never even told Serena.
So why the fuck am I telling Lainey? A tear squeezes out of my eye, and I let it roll down my cheek, then take a few seconds to pull myself together. “But I know now that it was for the best. I got to rebuild my relationships with both of them and I feel really lucky to have two loving parents. That’s more than a lot of people have.”
Lainey sniffs, looking a little disappointed. Maybe she wanted me to completely lose it on camera. “And how do you think your parents would react to you getting engaged?”
“I know they’ll support me unconditionally when I fall in love.” This, at least, I know is true.
Immediately, she snaps up the bait. “So you’re falling in love with Roland?”
I almost balk at her. Love? It’s been seven days. But I know some of the other women have already said it. Deprive the contestants of everything except the lead, and they can’t help but pine over him. If he’s all you see, you’re sure to fall in love.
“It must be hard to be away from your family and friends,” Lainey says without waiting for me to answer her previous question.
“It’s only been a week.” And it’s harder being away from Presley than from anyone else I left behind.
“If you make it to Family Week, you’ll get to see them,” she says.
The idea of involving my parents in this charade is the last thing I want to do.
Lainey leans forward. “I’m sure there’s so much you want to tell them.”
I frown—what’s she getting at?
“Have you had any contact with anyone outside the house?” she asks delicately. My eyes widen. How could she possibly—
“No, of course not,” I say quickly. “I don’t even know how I’d manage that.” A prepaid phone plan. A burner.
“Okay,” she says, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She bends down and picks up a magazine. The bright logo at the top startles me—Us Weekly. Flipping to a page in the middle, she shows me a page of text under a bold headline: RHETT AUBURN IS BACK IN THE SHACK.
My heart hammers as I scan the page:
Sources have confirmed that Love Shack season 18 lead Rhett Auburn has returned to the mansion to host season 20 and help tennis pro Roland Marchetti find love. Just last year, the singer’s own Love Shack romance with Cassidy Foley ended in heartbreak. Other details on season 20 remain a mystery, including the lineup of women vying for Marchetti’s heart.
“I—I didn’t,” I stammer. “I don’t know anything about that.” There are any number of people who could have leaked this information—I didn’t even know it was supposed to be a secret. Serena knows how important this is—she wouldn’t have told a soul.
I may not be responsible for this breach, but when I get out of here, I’ll make sure Love Shack is in the headlines again. Though with the expression on Lainey’s face, I might not make it out to write anything at all. Maybe she has a lethal syringe hidden in her bra. Or maybe she’s hoping the lack of sleep and sustenance will finish me off naturally. Either way, she’s terrified me to my core.
She raises an eyebrow at me and I shake my head.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
Pursing her lips, she sets the magazine down. “I didn’t think so,” she says. “But we have to ask. Especially with you being a journalist, you know.”
“Music,” I correct her. “Music journalist.”
“I know,” she says dismissively. “I read some of your little reviews. I would have thought you’d want to prove yourself a bit more, write about something more substantial. You can’t make a real career off of other people’s work.”
My blood boils at her remark—who is she to insult my work when she’s made a career preying on people’s insecurities?—but I fix a smile on my face.
Lainey Williams may not be used to making mistakes, but her biggest one is sitting right in front of her.
A source close to the couple has confirmed that Love Shack season 18 final couple Rhett Auburn and Cassidy Foley have officially divorced. The “Is There a Heaven for Horses?” singer refused to comment, but the couple posted a joint statement on social media, saying that they “still have a lot of love for each other.” Sadly, this isn’t the first time a Love Shack romance has ended in heartbreak, nor will it be the last.
—“All’s Fair in Love and Divorce: Rhett and Cassidy Call It Quits,” Us Weekly, one year ago
Chapter Eleven
I can’t get away from Lainey fast enough. Taking heavy, anxious breaths, I careen down the hallway and sink to the floor in a dark corner. I pull at my body mic until the wires pop from the battery pack, tangling with my dress.
That was close. Far too close.
As seconds pass, my heart rate slows, but not by much. I rest my arms on my knees, head in my hands, and let out a shaky breath. Everything I’ve been working toward for months—all the interviews, background checks, lengthy applications—it could be gone, just like that.
I jerk my head up at the sound of footsteps, expecting Lainey, back for more blood, but Rhett is kneeling in front of me, face puckered with concern.
“Are you all right?”
Tears flood into my eyes and Rhett’s face swims inches from mine. He raises his hand and brushes his thumb along my cheek, taking my tears with it. His skin is warm and cozy, so different from Lainey’s cold, calculated demeanor, that I’m disoriented. I take another shuddering breath, imagining bright strobes flashing around us.
“I’m fine,” I say, plastering on a smile. I sniff and run a hand over my face. “Just thinking about Roland—he is so dreamy. And such a good listener.”
Rhett raises his eyebrows, and I smile even wider, really committing to the bit.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says.
I consider him for a moment, his dark gray suit, collar popped open. “I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I’m just … I need some air.”
He catches my arm. “Come with me. They won’t miss us.” He tugs me toward the end of the hall, but I stand my ground.
“Are you trying to get me in trouble?”
Cocking his head, he gives me a withering look. “Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know—to get rid of me?”
“Because you’re so threatening.”
“I could be.” I step closer to him, snagging my bottom lip between my teeth.
“Gracie maybe,” he says. “But not you. Come on.” He pulls me with him and, unable to think of a snappy comeback, I follow.
I feel like a naughty kid in high school, sneaking off behind the science wing to smoke a joint—or you know, whatever normal people did in high school when I was hanging out with the band kids at lunch.
Rhett sneaks us down a hallway and through a set of double doors. The grandeur of the mansion vanishes, leaving us in a cement and linoleum stairwell. The only décor on the landing is a stack of unused area rugs and, beside them, a bowl of fake fruit.
“Welcome to behind the scenes.” He takes off his suit jacket, then his mic and battery pack, which he sticks into the fruit bowl. Glancing nervously up into the corners—no cameras that I can see—I tug at my own disconnected wires until he sighs, turns me around, and starts unzipping my dress.
“What are you doing?!”
“The battery pack is under here, or did you forget?”
I flush and turn back around as he unclips the pack from my dress, his fingers hot on my cool skin.
“At least buy me a drink first,” I mutter.
“Thought I already did,” he says, zipping my dress back up.
I spin back to face him, searching his face for any trace of embarrassment, of longing for that night. My fingers tingle with the ghost of the frozen margarita he bought me. Sweet on my tongue. Cold in my throat. But he was so warm.
I blink it all away and cross my arms.
“You’ve got quite a sunburn.” He brushes my hair to the side as his fingers murmur across the peeling skin on my neck and chest.
Below us, a door slams and he jerks his hand back. I press against the wall as footsteps echo through the stairwell.
“We should get out of here,” I whisper, but Rhett shakes his head, leaning over the metal railing to look down.
Another door slams and the echo fades into silence.
“Kevin,” Rhett mutters. “Taking a smoke break.”
“Oh no,” I say lightly. “How will we survive for five minutes without a bartender?”
Rhett laughs and shakes his head. “Come on.” He starts up the stairs and I follow, peering over the railing into the pit of the mansion. We climb up two flights to the top of the stairs. Another echoing noise from below makes me jump, and Rhett lays a hand on my elbow, steadying me.
“We shouldn’t be here,” I say as the footsteps below fade away. “I can’t get caught.”
“We won’t.” He reaches up and grabs the bottom of a metal ladder, yanking it down with a clang that echoes around us.
“Shh!” I hiss, flapping my arms like a bird.
Rhett just rolls his eyes, like I’m the unreasonable one.
“You’ll want to ditch those.” His grin crashes down my spine like a bolt of lightning.
I open my mouth, which only seems to let the improper thoughts in faster. “My…”
“Your shoes?”
“Right,” I breathe. Not my clothes. I kick my heels off, bare feet sticking on the cool concrete floor.
He does a double take, presumably since I’m only about a half inch shorter than him now. I must have been smaller in his memory. I raise my eyebrows, daring him to comment on my height. But he just says, “Ladies first?” and gestures for me to climb the ladder. “It should be open at the top.”
I look up the ladder, then at him, my mouth hanging open.
“You want me to climb up there?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Kind of?” I hate how unsure I sound. Surely with that fancy producer credit, he knows all about my fear of heights. He’s probably watched all of our introduction videos, knows each of our carefully exploited flaws. He certainly seems to know everything else about me, even if that’s my own fault.
He raises an eyebrow and shakes his head a little, as if asking what the hell I’m talking about.
“Didn’t you see my intro video?”
He laugh-grunts. “No.”
“But you’re a producer. I would’ve thought—”
“In name only,” he corrects. “And I’d rather not spend my time watching a hundred identical videos.”
The corners of my mouth turn down. “I thought mine was pretty good. You’re missing out.”
“I’m sure,” he teases. “Now are you going to climb up or not?”
I look at the ladder. “I just have a … a tiny issue with heights. But this seems all right.” I grab the sides of the ladder and hoist myself up. For the first time all night, I’m grateful for the thigh-high slit in my dress. I climb a few rungs, my bare thigh parading right in front of Rhett’s impassive face. When I reach the top, I push on the trapdoor, but it doesn’t budge.
“Hold on,” he says. “I’m coming.”
I have my doubts that the ladder will hold both of us, but soon he’s climbing up, and it’s still standing. Unlike most things in this mansion, the ladder seems to be made of more than smoke screens.
Rhett taps my ankle, right above the bone, where there’s a tattoo of tiny black stars. Goosebumps erupt up my calf as I scoot over to let him climb up beside me.
“This is unsafe,” I mutter, looking anywhere but at him, my eyes roving over the ladder and the trapdoor above us, his carefully pressed collar …
Rhett pushes upward and the door bangs open, startling me. He grabs my waist to keep me on the ladder. For a second we’re like a couple in a disaster movie, hanging on to the side of a burning building, about to have amazing sex in an apocalyptic industrial wasteland. But then he lets go and pushes past me, climbing up onto the roof. He reaches down for my arm. We’re not a disaster movie couple about to trauma-bang. We’re two people on reality TV, and for a second, I’ve forgotten that fear is pulsing through me.
I grab his forearm and pull myself up onto the roof. It’s slanted, so I brace myself against the tilt and sink down onto the half-moon tiles. Rhett sprawls easily beside me, looking more at home on this roof than I’ve seen him anywhere downstairs.
“What?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at me.
I tear my eyes from his casual rooftop pose. “I was just thinking about what kind of movie we’d be in,” I say.
“Well,” he considers. He puts his hands behind his head and lies back. “We’re on reality TV, or did you forget?”
“Not right now though,” I point out. “Unless there are cameras up here?”
He shakes his head. “No cameras, Georgia. Just you and me.”
My name in his mouth is like a sip of too-hot tea. It scalds, burns, but I’m warm all over. Flushing, I pick at my fingernails, then stop myself. The anxiety it reveals has no place here, not least because I need to preserve my manicure.
“I think,” I say slowly, “we’re in one of those movies where a bunch of shit happens and then the main character wakes up and realizes it was all a dream.”
He sits up, looks at me. “You don’t want this to be real?”
“Who says I’m the main character? I could be a figment of your imagination.”
He’s suspended, somehow backlit by the darkness as he raises his hand and brushes a lock of hair from my sunburned face, whispering, “Sometimes I wonder if you are. Or a memory come back to haunt me.”
My lips part and I inhale. He still smells the same.
As I breathed in the bodies at the club that night, I wondered what he would taste like. His breath, his skin, his lips. I guessed at whiskey and leather, but I was surprised by the citrus twist when his lips met mine, the acidic aftertaste that made me crave the beginning all over again.
If I pulled him to my mouth now, he’d be soft, sweet. I’d be left with that same bitter bite.
His eyes flick to my lips, fingers still against my cheek. He leans in fractionally, but I pull back from his touch.
A memory come back to haunt me.
What about our first encounter would haunt him? I’m the one who felt like I’d seen a ghost when he walked into the mansion’s sitting room on the first night of filming. I’m the one who wanted to run him through with a sword just to see if he was flesh and bone. In his glamorous life, what about me would have made an impression?
He seems to come back to himself and drops his hand to his lap.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I was a fucking idiot.”
I hold my breath, afraid to move, to break the moment.
“I shouldn’t have left.” His voice is hoarse, like he’s sung an entire set without warming up. Like it hurt but he’d do it all over again. He runs a hand through his hair, shakes his head. “It’s hard to know sometimes, what’s real and what’s not, with people … with fans.”
I blink at him, confused for a beat, then it clicks.
“I didn’t think we were real,” he murmurs. “Didn’t … couldn’t let myself think that. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “Really, Georgia, I’m sorry. You deserved better.”
I duck my chin, my face heating. It’s all I’ve wanted for the past year. But …
“It’s too late,” I whisper. Maybe he was wrong, maybe we were real, but I can’t let him speak that into existence. It has to be too late, because I have a job to do. “I’m here for Roland. I’m here to fall in love with Roland.” I wish I sounded just a tenth less like I’m trying to convince myself.
