by Lizzie Shane
It was too early to know who she would pick in the end. Too early to know which hearts would get broken, which guys would turn into jealous monsters and which ones would try to use her.
Josh Pendleton sank into the interview chair. “Shall we get started?”
“Darius, will you accept this token of my favor?”
“Of course.”
Craig watched as Marcy pinned another of the little ribbon thingies to the lapel of another of his competitors, his own lapel irritatingly bare.
On the other side of the semi-circle of Suitors, Daniel reached up to pat his own ribbons, looking insufferably smug. Even Drunk Aidan had one of the little knots. And there Craig stood, watching the pile of favors dwindling down to fucking nothing, without so much as a glance in his direction.
There was something between them. He knew there was. So why wouldn’t she even look at him? What had the producers said to her when they whisked her away? Had they warned her away from him?
He should have kissed her. Fucking Danny Boy and his shitty timing. If he kissed her, he’d have a favor.
Darius returned to his place in the semi-circle and Marcy picked up another favor, leaving only one on the pedestal beside her.
“Mark L.”
Next to Craig, another Suitor cursed under his breath as Mark L. moved forward to accept his favor. Josh Pendleton had gone through a whole speech at the beginning of the ceremony, explaining the symbolism of a lady bestowing her favor on the knights vying for her hand, as if they didn’t all know what hearing their names called meant. Mr. Perfect gave out slim gold rings—not big on subtlety, this show—but Miss Right’s version of the golden ticket to stick around for one more week was a fancy knot of multi-colored ribbons pinned to the lapel.
Mark L. received his pin and returned to his place.
Last favor.
Fuck. He couldn’t go home on the first night.
Eight of the original thirty never made it past the first night, but he’d never even considered that he wouldn’t go deep into the competition.
Craig smiled, trying to project calm and confidence for the cameras as Josh Pendleton stepped forward into the view of the cameras.
“Gentlemen, as you know, this is the last favor of the night. If your name is not called, I’m afraid your journey for love ends here.” He turned to Miss Right and nodded. “Marcy.”
She reached for the last favor. Her gaze lifted, locking on Craig’s. Her hand hesitated, hovering over the pedestal. He realized he was holding his breath—and not just because of what this decision could mean for his career. He wanted Marcy to admit she liked him, to admit there was something there. Chemistry, fire, whatever she wanted to call it. He held the stunning green of her gaze and willed her to admit she wanted him, willed her to say it.
She wet her lips. “Craig.”
“Thank God,” he muttered under his breath, stepping forward to receive her favor. She mumbled the official words and he nodded his consent as she reached up and pinned the ribbons to his lapel. Her hands shook a little as she worked the pin and he bent his head toward her, lowering his voice. “Good choice.”
Her eyes flicked up to meet his and she smiled ruefully, shaking her head. “Cocky punk.”
He just grinned, and she grinned back, and that moment was theirs—the cameras, the other Suitors, the millions of American viewers who would see it, they couldn’t touch this.
Chapter Seven
Miranda sat in the editing bay, scrolling through the footage from the previous night. Miss Right and all the Suitors had retreated to their respective mansions and collapsed after shooting had finally wrapped close to five a.m., but there was no rest for the wicked. And Miranda was pretty sure she qualified as wicked. Anyone who made her living manipulating people’s emotions had to fit the bill.
On screen, Daniel swept Marcy into his arms, gallantly carrying her across the lawn, and Miranda made note of the time-stamp on the footage. That was a money shot right there. The reality TV gods had been smiling on her when they gave her Daniel.
In a few hours, Marcy would wake up and start getting ready for her first private date. It hadn’t been hard to make sure Marcy “picked” Daniel for the first date, setting him up as the early favorite. The viewers tended to be like baby ducks—imprinting on the first Suitor out of the gate who was remotely promising. And Daniel was very promising.
He had a real chance to win the whole thing, but Miranda almost hoped that he didn’t because using him as the next season’s Mister Perfect would be pure, undiluted ratings gold.
The casting team had dug him up out of nowhere. A school teacher from the Midwest, nominated by the mothers of several of his students. Went to church. Loved his parents. Wanted to have kids, but just hadn’t met the right woman yet.
The poor bastard hadn’t known what he was getting himself into, signing up for Romancing Miss Right. His homespun values and innate chivalry were for real. Completely uncoached. You couldn’t train that kind of sincerity.
If only Marcy seemed to like him more.
She’d been good last night—composed and elegant when needed, fun and flirty when called for—but those emotional walls were still an issue. The viewers wanted all the emotional ups and downs of falling madly, wildly, foolishly in love. They weren’t going to get that if Marcy was too reserved.
Miranda scrolled through the footage, pausing again when she saw a flicker of uncertainty on Marcy’s face. There. That was human. That was real. But who was she looking at?
Miranda’s cell phone rang and she reached for it absently as she pulled up additional angles of the same moment. “Miranda Pierce.”
“Why are you still awake?”
At the sound of that voice, she stopped seeing the screens in front of her, going blind as her entire being seemed to lean down the line. Only Bennett Lang could do that to her. Her former mentor and current lover was the only thing that could so completely swallow her focus. “Bennett.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still working.”
“All right, I won’t tell you.”
He made a small disapproving sound. “You need to take care of yourself. Or better yet, let me take care of you. Come over tonight.”
“We’re filming tonight.”
“And your minions can take care of it,” he argued. “That’s the benefit of being EP. Delegation.”
“The first few episodes are crucial. They set the tone for the entire season. I can’t just decide to take a night off. Not right now. I warned you that for the first couple weeks I practically live at the mansion.”
“You’re looking through raw footage right now, aren’t you?” he accused, proving yet again that he knew her entirely too well. “You have story producers and editors for a reason, Miranda. Use them.”
“They don’t see what I see. This is how I got where I am. If I don’t stay vigilant, Wallace will give my job to someone else.”
“And then you can come work with me at ADS again.”
Miranda snorted. “Because that wouldn’t be a conflict of interest at all.”
They had met when she was just starting out as a segment producer on American Dance Star—and she’d left a job she loved to go to the Marrying Mister Perfect/Romancing Miss Right franchise when she realized she was having unprofessional feelings for Bennett. She refused to be that woman who slept her way to the top. She wasn’t going back on that now.
“We could work that out,” he argued, ever persuasive.
She tensed, annoyed by the same old argument. “Bennett. I haven’t slept. I’m busy and I’m tired. Do we have to discuss this now?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll let you get some sleep,” he said, though they both knew she wouldn’t be sleeping when she got off the phone. “First night go well?”
“Better than I could have dreamed. Though I may have just jinxed it by saying so.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in luck.”
“I don’t.” Her eyes fell back on t
he monitor and she frowned. Who was Marcy looking at?
“I just lost you, didn’t I?” Bennett said, again with that eerie perception.
“Sorry. You caught me in the middle of something.”
“At least consider taking a night off, all right? You have months before the first episode airs to make everything perfect. Let your minions do some of the work for a change. I want to see you.”
“I’ll think about it.” When I have time.
“I guess that’s all I can ask.”
“G’night, Bennett.”
“It’s morning, Miranda. I’m calling from the office.”
“Then good morning.”
“Good morning,” he echoed.
She disconnected and set her phone aside, attention already back on the screens. On them, the room was crowded. It was hard to tell who Marcy might be looking at, but someone there had gotten under Miss Right’s skin and Miranda would find out who. She would find that spark of vulnerability and fan it into genuine emotion.
This was going to be an unforgettable season. She would make sure of it.
Chapter Eight
A body hit the ground hard, sending up a puff of dust from the arena floor. The crowd cheered wildly and Marcy joined in, waving her banner as Darius surged to his feet and charged back into the fray, swinging his padded sword. She didn’t know whose brilliant idea it had been to dress all the Suitors on the group date up as knights, give them fake swords and set them loose to whack at one another in the Renaissance Faire Arena, but she had to admit the spectacle was entertaining—provided none of them ended up in the hospital.
She was fascinated by the strategies they employed as they tried to win the prize—twenty precious minutes of alone time with her. None of them had been told what the criterion for winning was, but they had to guess it was her decision, so it was telling what they did to try to impress her, revealing what they thought she was looking for.
Darius was ruthless, determined to defeat everyone in his path. Mark L. appeared to have no athletic ability, but rose laughing every time he got knocked down—she might have to consider awarding him the alone time just for being such a good sport. Mark J. and Aidan had taken to working together, teaming up against the other opponents, which seemed to show a distinct lack of understanding that there could be only one winner, but also demonstrated that they could play well with others.
And then there was Craig. All flash and showmanship. No surprise there. He played to the crowd, earning more cheers than all the others combined, but he couldn’t have made many friends at the Suitors’ Mansion because the others kept coming after him, ganging up on him with single-minded ferocity, as if they had something to prove.
Did they see him as a threat? She certainly hadn’t shown him any favoritism. If anyone was the front runner at this point, it had to be Daniel—though she supposed it was hard for anyone to dislike Daniel, even his competition.
She’d had her first private date with Daniel last night—or as private as a date could be with camera crews capturing every swoon-worthy moment. She’d had a nice time. He was good company and it was hard not to enjoy herself on a picture perfect date, but even as they’d swayed in the moonlight to the strains of their private orchestra, she’d wondered if there was something wrong with her that she wasn’t swept away by the romanticism of the moment.
Daniel kept gushing about how “unbelievable” everything was—the helicopter that whisked them away, the private viewing of the new Monet exhibit at the Getty Villa, the gourmet meal served to them beside the fountains of the Villa, the private orchestra that appeared and began playing just for them, and the fireworks that exploded above their heads as soon as he finally manned up and kissed her—a gentle, respectful peck which he’d declared “perfect”.
Everything was “perfect” and “unbelievable”—and Marcy couldn’t help but wonder if he’d never seen the show. How else could he be shocked by the standard generic romance tactics?
She’d smiled and said all the right things—she’d written this scene too many times not to know her lines—but she hadn’t been moved. Wasn’t she supposed to be moved? She’d thought the reason she hadn’t fallen head over heels for Jack was because she’d known on some subconscious level that he was in love with someone else, even before she’d seen him with Louisa, but now she had to wonder if there was something actually wrong with her.
A cheer went up and Marcy forced her attention back to the arena below. Craig and Mark L. had somehow taken center stage, their swords clashing with muted thunks rather than the clang of metal. Mark L. whirled, going for one of the flourishes the fight choreographer had taught them and Craig brought his own sword up to counter just a little too slowly—Mark’s sword thwacked Craig square in the face, eliciting a sympathetic groan from the audience as he fell to his knees.
“Craig!” Marcy flew to her feet, her banner falling from her hands. Both Mark and Craig dropped their swords to the ground—Mark in horror and Craig to bring both hands to his face where bright red blood began to gush from his nose.
A trumpet sounded and the melee in the arena stumbled to a halt as Marcy rushed down the steps to the arena floor. Medics in medieval garb were already kneeling at Craig’s side. Marcy wove through the other competitors, hearing Aidan mutter, “Why didn’t I think of that?” as she flew past.
Then she was beside him, where blood was already turning the dirt of the arena dark.
“I’m so sorry,” Mark L. groaned, hovering nearby.
“It’s nothing, man,” Craig slurred—or at least that’s what she thought he said through the towel pressed to his face. He’d tipped his head down to speak and the medic gripped his chin, tipping it back up again to staunch the blood. The white towel was already soaking through.
“That’s a lot of blood for nothing,” Marcy said. “Is it broken? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“And leave the date? Hell, no.”
“It doesn’t appear to be broken,” the medic said. “Just a gusher.”
“See?” Craig said, though it came out as sthee. “Nothing.” He pulled away the sopping towel, and the blood seemed to have finally stopped pouring out of his nose, though the lower half of his face was caked in red. “So did I win?”
Two hours later, Marcy and a cleaned-up Craig stood on the battlements in the Renaissance Faire’s Queen’s Castle, looking out over the lights of the Faire below as the rest of the men waited in the dungeons below for his awarded private time to end.
She cocked her head, studying her slightly-banged-up knight. A bruise was beginning to form beneath his left eye—he was going to have quite a shiner to go with his swollen nose—but he somehow managed to make the bruises work for him, lending him an air of danger. Not that he needed any help in the sex appeal department. The man only had to look at her to set her panties on fire.
“I think some of the guys think you took that hit on purpose.”
He grinned, rakish and unrepentant. “I did.”
“You risked your pretty face just for some alone time with me? I’m flattered.”
“I made sure it was Mark L. who hit me. Figured he wouldn’t have a very strong arm.”
“Very Machiavellian of you.” She realized she was fighting a grin again. Even when she knew he was trouble, she felt so alive being with him, like champagne bubbles were fizzing through her blood. “I suppose I should have expected it would get violent.”
“Hell yeah, you should have. We’re all hard-wired to fight for the prize to begin with and you gave us swords.”
“So I’m the prize, am I?”
“Did you think you were anything else?”
She knew she shouldn’t like the glint of challenge in his dark eyes, but when he pushed it just made her want to push back. “I think I’m the one in the driver’s seat and I can send you home whenever I want.”
“But why would you want to do that? I’m the only one who’s honest with you.”
“Is that s
o? Show me some of this honesty. Tell me something true, Craig. Something real.” She leaned against the fake-stone wall, surprising herself with how badly she wanted to scratch the surface of his bullshit and see who he was underneath.
“Something true?” He braced one arm beside her, close enough for her to feel the heat of his body, but not quite touching. The tease was almost more arousing than a caress. “You’re going to give me the next private date.”
“I am, am I?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And why would I do that?”
He grinned, leaning in so his chest just brushed the outside of her arm, her shoulder. She’d had no idea those could be erogenous zones, but she was so aware of him she felt like she could combust at any moment from the sheer electricity of his presence.
“Because,” he murmured deep and low, “while all those guys were fighting over you like dogs over a bone, not one of them looked up at you to see you were bored out of your mind.”
A blush rose to her cheeks—and she told herself she was embarrassed by his perception, not turned on by his proximity. She had been bored senseless watching the men banging their chests. But how had he seen that? “I wasn’t bored.” Deny, deny, deny.
He just grinned and tangled one of her curls around his forefinger. “While we’re being honest,” he said, “I have a question for you.”
“Oh?”
He met her eyes, his own smoky and intense—no one seared her with a look like Craig. “At the Elimination Ceremony, why did you hesitate?”
Her already heated cheeks went supernova. “What?”
“You almost didn’t pick me. Why?” He leaned forward again until she could feel each expulsion of his breath warming the skin along her neck and behind her ear. “Do I make you nervous?”
She struggled for a nonchalant shrug. “You know how these shows are. We have to create drama for the viewers.”
“So that’s all it was.”
“Of course.”
Again, he just grinned. That smile calling her out in the lie.