by Lizzie Shane
The crew began ushering them all to the main living room, shoving champagne glasses into their hands, and arranging them on and around the couches. Aidan stumbled on a wrinkle in the carpet and Miranda’s laser-like gaze honed in on him mercilessly. “Shit. Already?” she swore. “Get him some coffee.”
She directed their placement, eyes narrowed as she arranged them according to height, coloring, and suit style until they created a suitably impressive array of masculinity. Make-up artists drifted around, blotting noses that were too shiny. At the last minute, a PA darted in, plucking the coffee from Aidan’s grasp and handing him a full champagne glass.
Miranda lifted a hand and the general hum of conversation quieted. “All right, gentlemen,” she announced. “This is the moment you’ve all been anticipating for months. You’ve all had the chance to meet her, so you know exactly how gorgeous and incredible Marcy is. One of you just met your future wife, but all of you will remember this experience for the rest of your lives. Let’s have a great night, gentlemen, and let Marcy know just how glad you are that she’s your Miss Right.”
With that Miranda stepped back, ducking out of the camera sight-lines, and the French doors at the far end of the room swung open majestically, revealing Miss Right in all her glory. And she was glorious.
A cheer went up from the gentlemen and Craig heard himself joining in—surprising himself with the sincerity of his shout. Marcy was something else. She glided into the room, champagne glass already in her hand, and smiled, a blush rising to her cheeks as the cheering went on and on.
Craig may be here for his career, but he was going to enjoy wooing this woman for six or seven weeks until she kicked him off. He would have gone through the motions with anyone, but Marcy… Marcy was going to make this a hell of a lot more fun.
“Marcy, I would steal you away, yes?”
John’s face fell comically as Stefan stepped forward, extending his hand for her. Marcy placed her hand on his, letting him help her up from the loveseat. She offered an apologetic smile to John from Baltimore, who had only just begun telling her about his three dogs and two cats, and let Stefan lead her away.
For the last hour she’d felt like she was in a game of hot potato—snatched from one man to the next before she had time to think. She’d been tempted, more than once, to say no, that a suitor could not “steal her for just a moment”, but the producers kept encouraging her to give every man his chance to plead his case. Reward those who take initiative, they said.
Unfortunately, Stefan’s initiative seemed to have come with the help of some liquid courage.
He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and she took shallow breaths to avoid inhaling too much of the alcohol fumes wafting off him. She leaned on him, trying to avoid breaking an ankle on the uneven ground as he led her across the lawn to the gazebo strung with fairy lights.
“Mi amor, we are believe in love at first sight, yes?” He guided her up the two steps into the gazebo and turned to face her.
“Uh…” Marcy frowned, trying to figure out if he was telling her he loved her already. His English seemed to have deteriorated in direct correlation to the increase of his blood alcohol content.
“I know you have kiss Daniel. But my kiss is kiss of love, yes?” He reached for her face and she shied away.
“Whoa, Stefan—”
His hands clamped hard to either side of her head, digging the mic hidden in her hair into her scalp. “We are destiny. We are begin journey of romance.”
“Hold on, sport—” She slapped both palms against his chest and gave him a shove, but alcohol had lent him strength and obliviousness. His lips puckered, looming closer. “Stefan, stop.”
“Yes. In name of love.”
“Oh for the love of—“ Marcy twisted her head in his grip, shooting a pleading look toward the camera crew capturing all of this for America’s viewing pleasure. “Guys, c’mon.” Were they seriously going to let this guy force himself on her because it made good television?
Those fleshy lips were millimeters from her now, drowning her in noxious whiskey-scented breath. “Mi amor.”
A figure surged out of the darkness, leaping up to join them in the gazebo. “Is this man bothering you, Marcy?”
Blond hair gleamed in the fairy lights. Daniel.
“I do not bother,” Stefan declared indignantly, but he did release her.
Marcy quickly stepped away. Daniel moved forward, placing himself between her and Stefan—who appeared to be quickly morphing from an amorous drunk into a belligerent one.
“You dare me!” Stefan began to unbutton his jacket.
Daniel seemed to swell in response. With his chest puffed up like that, he did look a bit like Captain America. Marcy felt the most insane urge to giggle. Which was wrong. So wrong. But there was something so hysterical about the moment—two men, about to come to blows over the right to kiss her. It was heady stuff.
Insane. But heady.
“Stefan,” she said, before things could get out of hand. “I think you’ve had a little too much to drink. I think it’s time for you to go home and sleep it off.”
The Spaniard frowned, visibly confused. “We are destiny?”
“I don’t think so.” She wasn’t destined to be with anyone who got falling down drunk the first time he met her. “Sorry. I think you should go.”
Security appeared at the edge of the fairy lights, proving they’d been there all along and someone—Miranda most likely—had held them back to allow Daniel to have his savior moment. He did give good hero. Captain America had probably earned himself the first private date with these theatrics.
As security stepped forward, Stefan began to sob, muttering incoherently in Spanish, though he didn’t resist when they escorted him away from the gazebo.
Daniel watched him go, muscles bristling beneath his suit coat. Only when Stefan was out of sight, did he turn to her, blue eyes crinkling with concern. “Are you all right?”
Something about the way he asked the question struck her as overly dramatic. The crew may have let Stefan smear her with sloppy kisses for the good of the ratings, but she’d never been truly in danger. She’d known that, but Daniel was acting as if he’d just saved her from a fate worse than death, rather than an awkward situation. “I’m fine. He was just confused. And drunk.”
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that. May I escort you back to the party?”
Marcy didn’t know what to make of this guy. He saved her right on cue—in a scene that had doubtless been carefully choreographed by the production team—and then he didn’t even try to use his heroics to his advantage to score some alone time with her? She couldn’t figure out his angle. But if she played along, maybe he would reveal it. “Thank you. I’d like that.”
He took her arm and guided her down the steps. As soon as she stepped onto the grass, her heel found a divot and she wobbled, tilting against him.
“Allow me.”
Daniel bent and hooked one arm under her knees, sweeping her and roughly two tons of glittering fabric up into his arms as if she were no heavier than a feather. She gasped, clutching his neck—and the producers doubtless all had simultaneous orgasms.
At least now she knew his angle.
Marcy grinned, settling in to enjoy the ride as Captain America—I really ought to stop thinking of him as that, damn Craig for putting it in my head—marched across the lawn with her in his arms like a real action hero. The camera crews swarmed around, trying to get them from every angle without getting in one another’s sight lines.
“I’m so sorry you had to deal with such unpleasantness on your first night,” he said, his voice not betraying the slightest hint of breathlessness at the exertion. The man was fit.
“If this is the result, I’m not all that sorry,” Marcy teased.
“I didn’t mean, uh…” It was hard to tell in the dark, but she thought Daniel blushed. Was he for real? “I only meant that we should be doing all we can to make this stressful situation e
asier for you.”
“Thank you.” Being carried around like a fairy tale princess certainly didn’t hurt.
“I think some of the guys may have been less than helpful.”
“What do you mean?”
They’d reached the edge of the pool deck and Daniel set her on her feet, not even trying to cop a feel as she slid down against his body.
His face was clearer in the lights surrounding the pool, his eyes wrinkled with concern. “I don’t want to speak badly of anyone, but someone may have been egging Stefan on. Doing toasts with him and stuff.”
“Let me guess. Craig?”
Daniel grimaced and nodded.
“Thank you, Daniel. For telling me and for your help. You leave Craig to me.”
Chapter Six
“Hey, Miranda, what’s Marcy’s favorite drink?” Craig asked
“Amaretto sour,” Miranda said automatically, not even sparing him a glance, her attention consumed by whatever she was relaying over her headset.
Stefan had just been hauled through the house on his way to the rejection limo and Craig figured he had about two minutes before Danny Boy tattled on him and Marcy came to find him. If she did, he’d have her favorite drink ready as a peace offering. And if she didn’t, he’d take it to her. There was only so long a guy could wait to be sought out—but he wasn’t going to tell the other guys that. Perception was half the battle. If these guys were all panicked and insecure, it could only help his cause.
Craig collected an Amaretto sour from the bartender off camera and strolled back into the living room to wait.
“That’s your strategy?” John from Baltimore asked skeptically. “Just stand there with her favorite drink and hope she comes to you?”
“Dude, she’s already coming for me. I’m just prepared for her.”
He couldn’t have timed it better. Marcy entered the living room and didn’t even glance at the other men. “Craig, could I have a word with you?”
He smiled at her as if they had a secret. “Of course.”
She turned on her heel, probably intending to storm out so he would be forced to follow, but he moved quickly so it looked like they were sneaking away together. Perception. Nothing like it.
Once they were outside, but still in view of the other men, he extended the drink to her. “Amaretto sour? I hear they’re your favorite. Thought you might like something to help you unwind after the way Stefan was dragged out of here.”
She frowned at the drink, but accepted it. “Did you intentionally sabotage Stefan?”
He blinked innocently. “How would I do that?”
“By encouraging him to drink more than he could handle.”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t the one pouring the shots, sweetheart. You can take that up with the production team.”
She frowned. “You aren’t supposed to mention them. They’ll have to edit that out.”
He glanced around, reminded that the conversation they were having now was on camera. It was disturbing how easy it was to forget the constant presence of the cameras and that everything he said now would be fodder for the viewing public in a few months.
Marcy kept walking, around the pool deck to the fire pit. When she shivered, he shrugged off his jacket, dropping it around her shoulders as she settled onto one of the plush loungers around the pit. She accepted the jacket, shooting him a speculative look as she tugged the lapels.
From across the pool came the distinct sound of someone retching into the bushes. Aidan, most likely.
Marcy groaned. “I suppose you had nothing to do with that either?”
“If I did, could you blame me? It improves the odds for me.” He sank down beside her, close enough that his leg pressed against hers.
She sighed—whatever irritation had carried her inside to seek him out had melted into a sort of resignation. She eyed him. “You’re trouble, aren’t you, Craig Corrow?”
“That depends.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Do you like trouble?”
Her lips twitched. It was answer enough. Marcy may be America’s Sweetheart, but she was just as susceptible to bad boys as the next girl.
“It’s a little early to be gunning for the role of villain, isn’t it?” she asked. “Aren’t you concerned you should make a good impression?”
“Why should I be?” He reached up and wound one of her brown curls around his finger. It was softer than he’d expected. “Good girls like you can’t resist a bad boy like me.”
She lifted one eyebrow, the naughty gleam in her eyes going straight to his groin. “What makes you so certain I’m a good girl?”
The air ignited, seeming to sizzle between them as her tongue snuck out and wet her bottom lip. Craig went half hard before his brain had time to catch up to what he was seeing.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he rasped, his voice suddenly huskier. “Who’d have suspected Miss Right is a bad girl? That’s a relief.”
Her other eyebrow lifted to meet the first. “A relief?”
“Hell yeah. Good girls can’t resist me, but bad girls can’t get enough of me.”
She was in trouble.
Craig grinned, wicked and inviting and sexy as hell, and leaned in. His gaze dropped to her lips.
Oh Lord. He was going to kiss her. She could feel the weight of that imminent kiss pressing against her skin, charging the very air in her lungs with an expectant electricity.
She’d told herself she wasn’t going to be the Miss Right who kissed all the Suitors at the drop of a hat, but something about Craig took all of her good intentions and burned them to a crisp. Her eyelids were suddenly unreasonably heavy, falling over her eyes as he leaned in... closer…
“Marcy? Is everything all right out here?”
She stiffened, jerking back, eyes open wide. “Daniel.”
“Of course,” Craig muttered. “Captain America to the rescue.”
He didn’t try to stop her when she rose. She shrugged out of his jacket and handed it back to him as Daniel stepped into the light around the fire pit, the camera crews shifting to accommodate his arrival.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Daniel thrust his hands into his pockets, frowning severely at Craig.
“Absolutely. We were just heading back to the house.”
“We were?” Craig still lounged in front of the fire, its light casting intriguing shadows across his handsome face. The man was too good looking for his own good. And certainly too good looking for hers.
“We were,” she said firmly.
Craig shrugged, as lazily confident as a lion, and came to his feet. He slipped his jacket back on and held out his arm to her. “Milady?”
Daniel watched the interplay, frowning, but Marcy couldn’t see a reason not to take Craig’s arm, so she rested her palm against the firm curve of his biceps. He was all rock hard strength beneath that jacket—a fact she felt oddly guilty for noticing with Daniel looking on.
They walked back toward the house and as they went the rest of the men who had been outside joined them until she felt like the pied piper of masculine hotness, leading them all back to the living room. As soon as they entered the house, she became aware of the production crews swarming around—always careful to stay out of the camera sightlines—ushering everyone into the living room.
It was time, she realized, a bolt of nervousness striking her stomach. The moment of truth. Time for the Elimination Ceremony. God, she hated these things. She’d never enjoyed them when she was on the other side and she couldn’t imagine that being the one making the choices was going to make it any more pleasant.
As soon as everyone was settled in the living room, Josh Pendleton, the long-time host of the show, stepped into the room, tapping his champagne class with a fork to call the room to order. “I’m afraid it’s that time, gentlemen, Marcy,” he said.
She tried not to grimace, taking Josh’s arm and letting him lead her out of the room. He escorted her to a small room where Miranda waited along with headshots
of all the Suitors.
The producer tucked her iPad under her arm and waved Marcy toward one of the room’s two chairs. “Have a seat. Hair and make-up will be here momentarily to touch you up and then we’ll take just a few minutes to hear how you’re feeling, whether you think there might be long term potential with some of these guys, and something about how important this decision is for you. Josh will walk you through the interview and then leave you alone with the photos to deliberate. Take all the time you need,” Miranda glanced at her watch, “as long as it’s not more than fifteen minutes. We’ll be getting the guys set up and you know how restless the natives can get right before the Elimination Ceremony. If you’d like suggestions, that list,” she pointed to a piece of paper tucked amid the photos, “has ten of our recommendations—including suggestions for who to pick first and who to pick last. When you’re ready, let Linus know, he’ll cue Josh to give the boys the speech and then we’ll walk you. You good?”
Marcy nodded. “Great.”
Miranda’s speech settled her, reaffixing both of her feet firmly on the ground. It was surprisingly easy to forget why she was here. Even with the camera crews swarming around like bees, she found herself getting caught up in the moments. It was good to have the reminder of why she was here—the show element of it, to entertain America with her emotional upheavals. A neatly edited, carefully choreographed version of her love life.
She was Miss Right. That was her role and she knew her lines. She had a feeling Craig would be on the recommended list—his inflammatory tendencies would make for great television while the viewers were still getting to know the “nice guys” and picking their favorites. But he was trouble and she didn’t need someone like Craig around tempting her to break character.
Miranda and the show’s teams of matchmakers and psychologists laid out their picks for her, but she wasn’t required to look at them. And ultimately the decision was hers.
Her stomach clenched. She’d thought this would be the easy part. She was good at decisions—she trusted her instincts, never got mired in self-doubt. But now that it came down to the moment of truth, she could only stare helplessly at the sea of faces staring back at her from the photos.