by Lizzie Shane
What were they talking about? Right, his mother. “Yeah, I mean, I think she thinks what a lot of people thought of you.”
“And what do a lot of people think of me?” Marcy straightened in her chair, eyes flashing, and Craig felt a moment’s guilt that he was deflecting the heavy emotional crap onto her. But she was the one who’d wanted to open up…
“That you’re, you know, emotionless.”
Marcy’s green eyes flared wide. “Emotionless?”
“Unfeeling.”
“I know what the word means, Craig.”
He shrugged, playing at innocent even though Marcy would never buy it. “I’m not saying you are, just that some people think that, my mother included, and she wanted me to date someone who was going to bring out my touchy feely side rather than be another emotionless void.”
“Did you just call me a void?” She didn’t look emotionless now. Her lips were slightly parted, eyes turbulent and filled with shock and tinges of hurt.
“I don’t think you are,” he protested, “but…”
“But?”
“I can see how people who don’t know you could get that impression. You’re very composed. People who come on this show tend to buckle under the pressure. There are a lot of tears, a lot of emotional outbursts, and you never really did that. You didn’t cry when you were rejected. You didn’t scream at him that he’d be sorry—”
“Jack was in love with Louisa before he even met me—”
“Yeah, but you never opened up your heart to him. Which was probably why he kept you around so long, because he knew he wouldn’t break your heart when he dumped you, but I think some people—my mother included—thought you were a little cold.” While Craig couldn’t help thinking she was one of those fires that took longer to coax out, but burned twice as hot.
“Just because I didn’t embarrass myself on national television—”
“Everyone’s an idiot sometimes. It’s called being human. I think the viewers probably just want to see that you are.”
She released a frustrated huff, holding herself stiff in her chair. “I’m human.”
“Are you? What about today? I was scared shitless, but you were cool, calm and collected. Jumping off a bridge like it was nothing.”
“You weren’t acting scared either.”
“I couldn’t show you how terrified I was when you weren’t the least affected.”
“I was affected,” she insisted. “I had butterflies.”
“Butterflies. Plummeting to certain death and you had butterflies.”
“It wasn’t certain death. We’re both fine, in case you missed it.” Irritation flashed in her eyes, darkening the green to emerald.
Time to change course. If he pushed her too far she might send him home.
He held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’d never call you cold. I think you’re hot as hell and twice as naughty.”
She glared at him. “You’re one to talk. You aren’t exactly an open book with your emotions.”
“True. Luckily, when you’re a dude, the mysterious hides-his-true-self thing works in your favor. Women always want to know what’s going on beneath the surface with me. They can’t stand the idea that I’m exactly as shallow as I appear to be.”
A frown line popped up between her brows as she studied him. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re trying to make me dislike you. Why did you come on the show, Craig?”
“Honestly?”
She waved a hand in a go-right-ahead gesture. “Absolutely. Don’t start lying now.”
“I want a career in television.” Nearby one of the producers made a choked, horrified noise. “I want to be a personality. Bigger than radio. This is my shot.”
“So it had nothing to do with me or finding love?”
He snorted. “Have you seen these shows? That isn’t what they’re about.”
“It’s not very flattering to hear that you came here just to use me to catapult yourself to fame and fortune.”
“I came here to use Miss Right. I didn’t know it’d be you. I like you.”
She frowned. “I’m still Miss Right. Still the girl you’re using.”
“No. You’re more than that.” He leaned in, reaching for her hand beneath the table and lacing their fingers together. The position of the chairs was awkward—a little too far apart for comfortable making out, but he could work with it.
Her expression softened, the heat in her eyes changing direction, and he inclined forward another inch, sliding to the edge of his chair.
“I like you, Marcy. A lot more than I thought I would.” His gaze dropped to her lips, the full perfect curve of them.
“I shouldn’t like you,” she whispered, but she swayed toward him.
“Don’t I get points for honesty?” he murmured, millimeters from her mouth now. He lifted his free hand and caught one of her curls, rubbing the silky length between his thumb and forefinger.
“You’re trouble.”
“Yeah. But you like trouble.” The last was whispered against her lips.
And then there was no more talking, only a kiss that burned far hotter than any chaste, made-for-public-consumption lip lock had any right to be.
He could have left it at that. Kept it PG for all the kiddies back home. But that wasn’t who he was. Craig had never met a boundary he didn’t want to push.
He dropped the curl and plunged his hands knuckle-deep into her carefully arranged hair, not caring that the stylists would be cursing his name. Angling his head, he traced his tongue along the seam of her lips, urging her to open them. His bad girl didn’t even hesitate, a sexy little sigh brushing against his lips as hers parted for him. He took what she yielded, stroking his tongue against hers, deepening the kiss.
She broke away from him, her eyes dazed and breath coming quick. “You don’t have brakes, do you?” She reached for her glass of ice water, taking a sip and then pressing it against her flushed cheek.
He grinned, reaching for the curl again and twining it around his forefinger. “You wouldn’t like me if I didn’t go all out.”
She shook her head, but she was smiling, and looking at him from beneath her lashes. “You really are a bad influence, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.” He leaned in, but instead of going for her lips, he gently nuzzled her ear and whispered, “I dare them to call you cold now.”
She flushed. Hot.
His mother may not approve, but Marcy Henrickson was an inferno beneath her calm and collected exterior, and he was looking forward to bringing out her fire.
And riding that fire all the way to the finals and a gig on daytime television.
Chapter Eleven
“Craig is very…” The kiss came back in graphic detail and she pressed her hands to her suddenly hot cheeks, words slipping out of her mind like water through a sieve. “He…” Is very good with his hands. And his tongue. And every other part she’d had the opportunity to experience. “Can I start over?”
“Just be honest,” Linus coached, his voice low and encouraging. “This is a safe place.”
This is national television and my mother is going to see it. “Right, I know. I’m good. Let’s go again.”
Linus nodded, counted her in, and the cameras rolled.
“Craig challenges me,” she said, smooth and composed. “I appreciate his honesty, but even though I enjoy spending time with him, he has been very clear about the fact that he isn’t here for love, so I have to wonder if it would be foolish of me to keep him around.”
Linus smiled, but it was tight-lipped, not even revealing the gap between his front teeth. “Good, sweetie, good, but let’s try it again and maybe not so cerebral this time. Think about how he makes you feel.”
How he made her feel.
Hot and achy and a thousand things she absolutely could not say on national television in front of her fourth grade Sunday school teacher.
Is that why people thought she was unfeeling?
“Can I speak with Miranda?”
The camera crew sighed—doubtless realizing they weren’t going to wrap production for the night any time soon—and Linus reached for his tablet. “Absolutely, sweetie. Whatever will make you more comfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable.” Nor was she cold and unfeeling, thank you very much.
Marcy fidgeted through the next several minutes as the crew all checked their respective phones until Miranda strode into the confessional. The room wasn’t tiny, but it was designed around one purpose and only the person being filmed had a comfortable chair. Linus rose from a folding chair as Miranda took in the crew members leaning against the walls and turned to Marcy with a frown. “What’s up? Do I need to get Pendleton?”
Get Pendleton. Marcy’s heart clutched with the realization that Miranda thought she wanted to send Craig home. It was the only reason the show ever woke up the host in the middle of the night. “No. Nothing like that. I just… Can we talk in private?”
Miranda’s lips pinched with irritation, but she nodded curtly and waved Linus and the crew out of the room. She knocked her glasses up her nose and sat down facing Marcy. “What’s wrong, hon?”
Marcy shifted uneasily in her chair. Now that she’d gotten Miranda down here, she felt like even more of an idiot for bringing it up, but she had to know. “Does America think I’m cold and unfeeling?”
The tweets and emails she’d received while the show was airing had been very supportive—filtered through her publicist as they were. And now here she was in a totally media-free bubble where she had no idea how the world was reacting to her selection as Miss Right. Was she hated? Did they all think she was some kind of emotionless diva?
Miranda groaned something that sounded like, “Fucking Craig,” and scooted to the edge of the folding chair Linus had vacated, resting her ever-present tablet on her lap. “Are you sure you don’t want to be having this conversation with Josh on camera? I am more than happy to wake his lazy ass up.”
“No, I don’t want to inconvenience him.”
“Sweetie, he’s paid very well to be inconvenienced whenever I want to inconvenience him.”
Marcy shook her head. “I’d rather not do this on camera. I just want to know. That’s all.” She swallowed around the knot in her throat. “Do people hate me?”
“Oh sweetie, no. No one hates you.”
“But they think I’m distant. Emotionless.”
Miranda sighed and Marcy knew what the answer would be before she spoke. “I’m not sure I should be telling you this, but you’ve always seemed to do best with honesty so I’ll be honest. It was my boss’s primary reservation about selecting you as Miss Right.”
Blood rushed to Marcy’s face, lingering to pound in her temples. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t see how the knowledge would help you open up.”
And apparently that was necessary. She needed help opening up.
Something thick and viscous clogged her throat.
The world thought she was heartless. How could they think that? Didn’t they see how hard it was to keep your shit together on a show like this? How it was all she could do to defend against the barrage of emotional stimuli? Did she have to shatter just to prove she could feel? What the fuck did they want from her? Her freaking soul?
“I have emotions,” she snapped.
“I know, hon. That’s why I picked you. I think you’re perfect. You just need to loosen the reins a little.”
“I’m supposed to what? Perform how I’m feeling?”
Miranda shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt.”
Marcy’s teeth began to ache from grinding against one another. “It would be fake.”
“We’re not asking you to fabricate emotions. Just maybe don’t be so composed all the time. Let loose a little. Especially with the guys.”
“I jumped off a bridge today! How am I not loose?”
“That was fabulous! You’re amazing at the fun date stuff. It’s letting loose with the sappy emotional stuff that seems to be more of a challenge for you.”
“I’m not allowed to tell any of them how I feel about them,” she protested.
“That’s true, but you can imply more. And if you’re feeling overwhelmed, just let it fly, you know?”
Let it fly on national television. Her mother would be appalled. “I’m from the Midwest. We don’t broadcast our feelings.”
“Yeah, well. You’re not in Ohio anymore, Dorothy. This is Hollywood. And out here people feel all the feels. I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to open up to getting hurt. If you don’t risk your heart, no one can win it.”
Marcy finally managed to swallow the blockage in her throat. “I’ll try.”
Miranda slipped out of the confessional and waved Linus and the camera guys back inside to finish up Marcy’s post-date recap. She didn’t know what Craig had said to her on the date—she hadn’t seen that footage yet, but it had certainly done a number on Marcy.
Hopefully she’d managed to patch up the holes in Marcy’s leaking confidence—or punch more holes in her walls—hell, who knew? It was late and she was too tired to think of a decent metaphor. It was a miracle she’d been so coherent with Miss Right.
She’d been beyond coherent, if she did say so herself. She’d been so fucking profound she’d amazed herself.
“Miranda.”
Miranda stumbled, nearly dropping her tablet. “Jesus.” She saved the tablet from death-by-tile-floor but her heart rate stayed elevated as Bennett seemed to appear out of nowhere in the hallway in front of her. Or from the kitchen doorway, to be accurate, but it seemed like thin air to her.
“What are you doing here? How did you get past security?”
One eyebrow arched toward his salt-and-pepper hairline. “I’m Bennett Lang. Your minions are terrified I will destroy their careers if they deny me anything.”
“They should be more worried about me destroying their careers. Come with me.” She grabbed his sleeve, towing him quickly through the halls and down the basement stairs into the crew area of the house where she kept a small room to crash in. It wasn’t any larger than her first dorm room at USC, but it served its purpose.
She’d never noticed how small it was until she was enclosed inside the narrow space with Bennett Lang. She flung her tablet down on top of the daybed where a blanket was wadded up from her most recent three hour power nap, in lieu of a proper night’s sleep.
Bennett frowned at the bed. “I thought you were speaking metaphorically when you said you moved into the mansion during filming.”
“What are you doing here, Bennett?”
“I haven’t seen you since before you started filming. Have you even left this building?”
Irritation spiked. Would he ever stop trying to teach her things and see her as an equal? “This is the job Bennett. You know that.”
“It was the job when you were supervising producer. Now you’re EP. You don’t need to be involved in everything all the time. You’re big picture.”
“The devil is in the details.”
“Which is why you hire people to look over every detail so nothing gets missed. Those are their jobs. Stop micromanaging and come have dinner with me.”
She glanced at her watch. Just past midnight. “It’s too late for dinner.”
“Then just come away with me for a few minutes and get a break from this place.”
“I don’t want to leave my baby in anyone else’s hands. I thought you of all people would understand that.”
Bennett’s jaw worked and he raked a hand through his hair. “I’m suddenly realizing why both of my wives left me.”
Miranda folded her arms tight around her stomach, glaring at him. “You want to break up?”
He gave a low, humorless laugh. “Aft
er the years it took me to get past your defenses, you think I’m going to give up the ground I’ve gained?”
“You make me sound like a siege.”
“Am I wrong?”
She looked away, studying an irregular spot in the paint on the wall—like someone had patched the paint with a color that didn’t quite match.
“You have a strange profession,” Bennett grumbled. “Pushing everyone else toward happily-ever-afters when you have an aversion to letting yourself have one.”
“I don’t have an aversion,” she protested, still fixated on the paint mismatch. “I’m busy.”
“Learn to delegate,” he growled.
Something about his tone of voice hit her wrong and her gaze swung back to sear him. “Your show is on break right now. Stop pretending you’d still be here if your show were in the middle of filming, You’d be just as work-obsessed as I am.”
“I can be like that, you’re right. I understand what you’re doing, so I can be patient, but this is your life, Miranda. Do you want to spend it at work? Perfecting other people’s Happily Ever Afters? Or do you want one of your own?”
“Why can’t it be both?”
“Because you won’t let me be your partner. From the second this show started filming, you’ve cut me out. I could tell the second I walked in today that you’re stressed about something, but instead of using me, relying on me, and talking to me, you immediately start a fight about how I got past your security.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“I’m right here!” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m offering. I’m not implying you need me, because God forbid I be anything other than a convenient body for you to use when you’re horny—”
“I didn’t mean that.” She looked to the paint splash again.
“So prove it. Talk to me. Let me be your goddamn partner.” He stepped forward, hands reaching to cup her face and from the second he touched her, her resistance unraveled.
The tension leaked out of her spine and she pressed her cheek against his hand.
“One of the Suitors is trying to manipulate the show. Sabotaging the other guys, getting inside Miss Right’s head. He’s making me nuts and I need to figure out how to get him on a leash.”