by Lizzie Shane
She remembered how excited she’d been to meet Mister Perfect, how nervous. She’d stood up so fast when he walked in the room that she’d tripped over her own hem and fallen over an end table—too far away to fall gracefully into Jack’s arms. She’d risen laughing and luckily, Jack had smiled too. The fall hadn’t been intentional, but show bloggers were still praising the tactic. Jack had helped her up and she’d become an instant favorite. The screenshot of her face as she realized she was going down had been a popular internet meme for weeks.
She really didn’t want to think about the captions that were going to be spawned by being roped like a steer on national television.
“Whenever you’re ready, hon,” the segment producer closest to her murmured softly.
Marcy reached for her best smile and stepped forward into the light.
Sixteen launched to his feet and smiled, a sweet aw shucks sort of smile when he saw her. He met her eyes and the look he gave her wasn’t quite shy—thank God, because you couldn’t be shy and survive reality TV—but more earnest.
Wholesome.
Damn. Marcy nearly cringed. The show was going to eat him alive.
“Marcy, it’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m Daniel.”
She mentally filed away his use of her name—either he was a student of the show or he was a producer favorite and they’d told him who she was. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Daniel.”
He thrust out a hand when she approached and she took it, expecting an awkward handshake, but Daniel surprised her by lifting it to his lips to kiss the back. He didn’t seem like the uber-suave type who usually went for the hand kiss.
“I’ve been counting the seconds until I could meet you. It feels like I’ve been waiting my whole life to meet you and now I know the wait was worth it.”
And I bet you came up with that line just now, without any coaching from friends and family before you came. Though if he had been a student of the show, he would know the waiting-a-lifetime line had been used three times before, with varying degrees of success.
“I hope the rest of your time here doesn’t disappoint,” she said, meaning the words wholeheartedly. Poor sweet Daniel. She almost felt like she ought to protect the openness in his eyes from the show. Those eyes were the kind of blue that should have only been achievable with contacts, but she had a feeling they were all Aw Shucks Daniel. “The experience can be a lot to take in.”
“It’s all a little more than I’m used to,” he admitted, grinning with endearing self-deprecation. “I almost never wear a suit. Not much call for it as a third grade teacher.”
“My dad was a teacher before he retired.”
He didn’t react like he’d heard her, but she wrote it off as nerves as he segued into the next portion of his gimmick. “My students actually, well, they made something for you.” He turned toward the mailbox prop and opened it to reveal a bulging envelope. “It’s a petition. And the, uh, hand-kissing thing was their idea too. I promised them I’d do it.”
Marcy could practically hear the sound of two million American women swooning in front of their television sets when this aired. She tugged out the envelope. “Should I open it now?”
“Yeah, yeah, go ahead.” Daniel shifted nervously from foot to foot.
It wasn’t sealed, just folded over, so it only took her a moment to pull out the stack of loose-leaf paper with the large, careful writing of eight-year-olds scrawled across the top. Petition for Miss Right to Give Mr. P a Kiss Chance. Chance was the only word written in adult handwriting.
“Mr. P?”
“Pierzynski. It’s Polish. None of them can spell it. They asked for help from the sixth graders on the playground to spell petition.”
“I see something has been crossed out here.”
He shrugged. “They were lobbying for a kiss, but what I really want is a chance to get to know you.”
And the collective ovaries of America just exploded.
Marcy wanted her knees to go weak. She urged her heart to race. This man was exactly what she’d said she wanted. Handsome. Wholesome Midwestern values. Even a teacher, like her dad. So why couldn’t she let go of her cynical side? Why did his Petition of Ridiculous Cuteness feel exactly like being lassoed by a cowboy in a tuxedo? Just another cheap stunt.
But America would love him, and Marcy knew how to play to an audience.
“I can’t disappoint the youth of America.”
She caught him by his crooked tie and tugged him forward, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his cheek, just off the corner of his mouth—let the producers edit that how they would.
When she leaned back he was blushing. Actually blushing. She really ought to find that adorable.
“We’ll talk about the chance inside.”
“I look forward to it.”
Chapter Four
Craig leaned against the edge of the Jacuzzi and watched Miss Right lean in and plant one on the White Bread Beefcake. His eyes narrowed. He hadn’t expected Captain America over there to be legitimate competition.
The Suitors weren’t supposed to be able to see one another or catch a glimpse of Miss Right before the first meet, but whoever had set up these two had been more concerned about camera lines-of-sight than about his. If he leaned back and angled his head just right, he had a clear view.
He’d watched Tall, Blond and Innocent directing the placement of the mailbox prop and figured him for one of the gimmick guys who wouldn’t last past the first night.
Craig had studied the show. He’d seen the first impression gimmicks—and knew they backfired just as often as they paid off. He didn’t have one—he wanted her to remember him, not the stupid tricks he played to try to be memorable—but now he was wondering if that strategy was short-sighted. Captain America had handed Miss Right an envelope and gotten a kiss. Maybe she ate cheesy gimmick shit up.
Too late to change his game plan now.
Something fluttered in his stomach. Those familiar pre-show nerves. Audition jitters. And this was an audition. Now reading for the role of the love of your life, Craig Corrow.
From the terrace above, he could just make out the sound of the other Suitors talking basketball and getting a jump on their bromances. They didn’t have the angle to see where the woman they were already calling “our girl”—the plural of which was slightly disturbing—was already giving some sugar to Captain America.
Craig watched as Miss Right pulled away, said her goodbyes and walked out of the pool of light surrounding the blond. She handed the envelope to a nearby production assistant and nodded at something the producers said before a pillar blocked his view.
The crew manning his set up had been lazing around, but they all came to attention together and Craig knew what was coming before a producer appeared out of the shadows and raised a hand in a places please gesture.
“Okay, Craig. You’re up.”
Craig straightened to his full height and smoothed his suit jacket down, collecting himself. He’d considered going for leather, but decided on a more subtle route. He was glad he had now. The suit was light enough not to be suffocating in the warm humidity of the California night. A leather jacket—though badass—would have drenched him in sweat. And while he was the bad boy, he didn’t want to overdo that image. This was not just the moment when he would meet Marcy, but also the moment when America would see him for the first time. His future audience.
The hair at the back of his neck prickled and he rolled his shoulders to loosen the muscles there.
Showtime.
Marcy made quite the picture when she stepped into the perfectly lit area around the Jacuzzi, her full-length evening gown sparkling like starry sky. Brown curls tumbled over her shoulders and her ready-for-camera smile gleamed.
His mother might be disappointed it was her, but there had been something about the petite brunette when he’d watched the previous season for research and he had to admit he wasn’t disappointed for a second. She wasn’t as overtly hot as Ka
tya had been, but he had a feeling there was a layer of lava underneath her composed exterior and he was looking forward to tapping into it.
He’d gotten the Jacuzzi location after joking with the producers that he could talk her into skinny-dipping on night one and looking at her, it was definitely tempting to try. But he had a bigger agenda.
Craig shot her his best bad boy grin and began his campaign to be unforgettable to America. “So I’m curious. What did Captain America do to score a kiss?” He was close enough to see the slight flush that rose to her cheeks. “I’m guessing it wasn’t some cheesy I’ve been waiting for this moment for my whole life bullshit. You’re too smart for that.”
Her eyes darkened, but her ready-for-camera smile didn’t falter. He had to respect that. “Thank you. I think.”
“You’re welcome. So what was it? His ailing grandma watches the show and sent you a sappy letter of recommendation, begging for a kiss for her little prince?” Those grass green eyes narrowed—he wasn’t far off the mark. Craig didn’t quite manage to bite back his triumphant smile. “I’m close, aren’t I?”
“Why don’t you worry about your own first impression?”
A warning flashed in her eyes and Craig’s smile died a quick and bitter death. Shit. Thirty seconds in and he’d already violated Rule Number One of winning these damn shows: Don’t trash talk the competition. In fact, the best strategy was usually to pretend the competition didn’t even exist—and here he was making his first impression all about another guy. Real smooth, jackass.
He needed to make up ground fast if he wasn’t going to be one of the losers going home tonight. Leaving now would be worse than not coming on the show at all. He’d figured he needed to make it to at least the final six to get the exposure to really launch his career.
Time to turn on the charm. He smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I’m just not used to seeing a girl I’m about to go on a blind date with kiss someone else right in front of me. It threw me for a second, but give me a second chance and I guarantee you won’t regret it. I’m Craig Corrow, K-Rock in San Diego’s Favorite Bad Influence. At your service.”
“A shock jock, huh? I should have guessed. I’m Marcy.”
“I know. And can I just tell you how very glad I am that it’s you?” He let his eyes roam down over the delectable curves showcased by the evening gown. “You look exquisite. Though my mom will be disappointed. She was hoping for Natalie.”
Marcy’s eyebrows flew up, eyes widening. “Is that your line? Telling me your mother won’t approve?”
“Just a fact. Sorry, I don’t have a line for you. No gimmicks planned out to make me stand out in your mind. I’m not gonna be the guy who jumps through hoops—literal or otherwise—but I think we can skip the formalities, don’t you? We both know you’re going to ask me to stay.”
His words startled a laugh out of her—she may be appalled by him, but he already had her laughing. “Do we? You’re awfully sure of yourself.”
He shrugged. “I’m hot.”
Another short startled laugh popped out of her mouth. “And modest too.”
“Sweetheart, there isn’t a guy here who doesn’t think he’s hot shit. The ones who are playing at being modest are just the biggest liars.”
“So this is supposed to be what? A refreshing display of honesty?” She crossed her arms and cocked her head to one side, rocking back on her heels. Her posture was deliberately casual, but her eyes were intent and very interested. Much more interested than she was probably willing to admit.
Just try to resist me, sweetheart. “I’ve never had to lie to get a girl.”
“Are you saying I’m not worth lying for?” Challenge sparkled in her eyes.
Well, I’ll be damned. Miss Right wants to play. He felt himself smiling. She was quicker than he’d expected. “Lying for, maybe. But lying to? You’re too good for that.”
“Smooth.” She shook her head ruefully, eyes gleaming.
Then her gaze flicked to something over his shoulder and he glanced back, catching sight of the producer waving a hand in a wrap it up gesture. He abruptly realized he’d been standing there flirting with her for far longer than his allotted sixty seconds.
“Time’s up,” she said, and he detected a note of reluctance that gave him hope. “Any last words? Unique skills you’d like to awe me with before I send you home?”
“Like I said, we both know I’m not going home tonight. As for my skills… there are only three things I’m good at: looking pretty and talking fast. Looking pretty gets me the girl and talking fast keeps her smiling after I’m gone.”
“Charming. But that’s only two things.”
He just smiled until Marcy rolled her eyes.
“That’s an old joke,” she complained.
“Old as Adam.”
“Juvenile, too.” She arched a brow in challenge. “I expected better from a fast-talker.”
“Find me later. I’ll show you better.”
“We’ll see.” She tried to fight it, but there was a smile trying to break through the stern set of her mouth.
Craig watched her walk away, a smug smile spreading across his face. He wasn’t going home any time soon.
Marcy resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder at Craig Corrow as the producers ushered her to the next set up. She had a feeling she knew what she’d see if she looked. Cocky smile. Lazing against the edge of the Jacuzzi like he hadn’t a care in the world.
She was pretty certain he was an unredeemable asshole underneath all that bluster and confidence, but she couldn’t help but realize that for the first time all night she was fighting a smile rather than forcing one.
There was something about him. His tall frame was covered in a dark suit with a charcoal grey shirt underneath, open at the collar with no tie—perfectly acceptable attire for the first night, but the way he wore it, he exuded bad boy vibes. His jet black hair was intentionally messy—making her fingers itch to fix it… or mess it up some more. Black eyes glittered wickedly and his skin was a bit too dark to be strictly Caucasian, but she couldn’t pin down the ethnicity that had given him that bronze glow. All in all, he was one fine package of masculinity.
And he knew it.
Marcy knew she shouldn’t be intrigued by him. She could already tell he would be all about games and power plays—which would make the show more interesting but could make her life hell for the next eight weeks. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what he would come up with if she sought him out later. A moth to the freaking flame.
What was it about the bad boys?
She ducked into the sitting room at the producer’s direction to meet the next prime piece of manflesh. He whipped a giant papier-mâché bouquet from behind his back and she slapped on a smile as he launched into a series of magic tricks. She tried to pay attention to him, tried to engage, but her thoughts drifted back to Craig. Was he stirring up trouble on the terrace?
On a lark, Marcy had gone speed-dating with Dinah once in Columbus. It had felt a lot like this. An endless series of awkward, forced conversations—and the few moments when there was an actual spark of chemistry, it was whisked away before it had time to fan into a flame.
Once she went inside it would be a different matter. The guys would face the First Night Challenge which tended to become a free-for-all of epic proportions. And after that was the pre-Elimination cocktail party where anything could happen—and with guys like Craig stirring things up, anything might.
Marcy smiled. It was going to be quite a season.
Chapter Five
“To Marcy!”
Craig echoed the toast and saluted with his glass, taking a moderate sip of beer—the last thing he wanted was to be the guy at the cocktail party who was falling on his ass drunk. He’d leave that to his two companions.
Stefan and Aidan threw back their shots with gusto and a helpful PA refilled their glasses in preparation for another toast to their absent hostess. Marcy was with the producers, watching t
he secret camera footage and reviewing their responses to the First Night Challenge. Since she was a romance writer, they’d all been asked to write—in one sentence or less—what their love story with Marcy would be.
Of course, in a standard opening night twist, there hadn’t been enough of the pink note cards to write them on. Luckily, Craig had pocketed a cocktail napkin and borrowed a pen from a PA as soon as he got to the terrace, in anticipation of just such a move and he’d been able to stay above the fray as the others panicked and argued and negotiated cutting the cards in half. He’d calmly written his dirty limerick on the napkin and adjourned to the bar where he’d met up with Stefan and Aidan as soon as they turned in their answers.
The mood was tense with anticipation and Stefan and Aidan were killing their nerves with a few dozen shooters.
Stefan listed against the bar, his accent growing thicker with each shot. “She is too sexy,” he slurred enthusiastically. “And when we marry, I will have all the sexiness of her.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, buddy,” Craig cautioned. “You’ve gotta get past all the competition first and Captain America over there already scored a kiss.”
“What?” Stefan pivoted, staggered and righted himself with a hand against the bar, glowering blearily in the general direction of Homespun Daniel, who eyed the cluster around the bar with disapproval. “No. No. I am the first kiss.”
“Maybe it was just a peck. You could still get the first real kiss.”
“Si.” Stefan nodded, the up and down motion of his head gaining momentum with his enthusiasm. “Si, this is what I do. I get the first real kiss. I knock her socks off. No socks!”
He lifted his glass in a toast to no socks and threw back the shot, Aidan echoing the action before slumping against the bar groaning. “I don’t feel so great.”
Right on cue, Miranda, the head producer—a platinum blonde with a razor sharp bob who looked too young to be in a position of such authority but acted like she owned the planet—strode into the room and called out, “Showtime, gentlemen!”