by Lizzie Shane
Would America be swooning, she wondered? Was there something wrong with her that the line did nothing for her? She was officially a cynical bitch, letting her skepticism rule her heart.
“Thank you, Daniel.” She squeezed the hands that held hers. “I know I can trust you.”
At the word trust, his face screwed up as if he were in pain. “Marcy… there’s something you need to know.”
He’s gay.
Shut up, subconscious, that is not helpful commentary.
While she argued with herself, distracted, Daniel forged on.
“I thought we had to let you make your own decisions, your own mistakes—”
How magnanimous of you.
“But I worry that you are acting without all of the information. I didn’t want to get involved in your relationships with any of the other Suitors—”
Then don’t.
“But I can’t in good conscience let you continue being deceived by this man for another Elimination Ceremony.”
Marcy searched her feelings—trying to figure out how to react, to determine what the producers would want her to feel in this moment, but all she got was a vague curiosity if the lighting was good enough for them to be having this conversation. The night-vision feature was typically reserved for blurry make-out sessions because it wasn’t that sharp.
“I appreciate your candor,” she said. Even as I find it slightly insulting that you think I’m oblivious to everything that’s happening here.
Daniel’s shoulders relaxed at her words. He was visibly relieved at that slight encouragement. She tugged on the hands he still held and urged him to the mouth of the gazebo where the camera crews hovering on the lawn could get a clear, bright shot of them during this discussion.
“It’s Craig,” he said firmly. “The guys and I have been discussing it and we don’t think he’s here for the right reasons.”
Marcy sank down onto the gazebo steps and Daniel hesitated only a moment before brushing off the other side of the step and perching on it.
“I know.”
His jaw dropped like a character in a cartoon. “You know?”
She patted his knee and he caught her hand, lacing their fingers together. He probably wouldn’t believe her if she told him that Craig had already told her what he wanted out of the show. Any more than he would understand why she still wanted him to stay, knowing that. Sometimes it seemed like he was the only one here who really got her.
What would Daniel think if he found out that Marcy wasn’t here strictly for the right reasons either? How would he react if she told him that she thought coming on a show like this for the sole purpose of finding love was an exercise in naivety and self-delusion?
Daniel thought she was a romantic because she was a romance writer. He didn’t have a clue that her bar for romance wasn’t set at roses and moonlight, but rather at a real connection. The trappings of love just brought out her cynical side—which inevitably made her feel like a fraud. Like she was faking her romance expertise. What the hell did she know about happily-ever-after anyway? She’d never had one. She feared every day that her readers would figure out she’d been putting one over on them and the dream job she had would vanish in a cloud of smoke.
But Daniel didn’t know that because he didn’t know her. Was that because he wasn’t looking? Or because she wasn’t showing him?
And what could she tell him now to explain why Craig was going to get a favor tonight, because Daniel was probably the best Suitor she had and she didn’t want to lose him over the guy she already knew wasn’t going to stick around long enough to win her heart.
Marcy looked down at their interlacing hands. “I don’t expect you to understand—” Truth. “But I’d like you to respect that if I do keep Craig it’s because my relationship with him—while unconventional—is still worth exploring to me.” Truth. “But I appreciate your desire to warn me.” Bald-faced lie. “And I will keep your reservations in mind.” Because they are the same as mine.
Daniel’s mouth puckered for a moment like he was sucking lemons, then his gaze flicked side-eye toward the cameras and he lowered his voice to whisper—though the mics would easily pick it up and subtitles would clarify it for any viewers who might miss it. “Are the producers pressuring you to keep him because he creates drama?”
“I can’t talk to you about the show, Daniel.”
His face instantly cleared. Apparently her evasion was as good as a confession. “I understand,” he intoned gravely, though she was reasonably certain he didn’t. She thought for a moment he would hug her, but he just sat there, holding her hand. “If you ever need a respite from him, I am always here for you. I’ll be your safe haven.”
But who will be yours when you discover I’m just like him?
Chapter Fourteen
As soon as Marcy walked into the library and saw the thick red folder sitting on the desk, she knew exactly what was about to happen—she’d seen the show, after all—but she played along, feigning ignorance as Josh Pendleton led her to one of the chairs and sat down opposite her.
His face was as somber as his dark grey suit and the shadowy lighting the producers had arranged in the dark, wood-paneled library only added to the funereal atmosphere. Josh leaned forward, somehow managing not to wrinkle or crease his suit with the action.
“Marcy, I know to this point you’ve been enjoying getting to know the Suitors—the first few weeks really are all fun and games—but this is when things start to get serious,” the host intoned direly. “In a few minutes, I’m going to reveal to you and only you the results of the compatibility tests that our team of experts has prepared, evaluating your potential relationships with the remaining thirteen men.” He nodded toward the infamous red folder. “At that time it will be entirely up to you what you choose to do with that information and whether you choose to reveal it to the men themselves or to the viewers at home. As you know, you have a few more days and two more dates before the next Elimination Ceremony, but we felt you might like to let this information guide you as you sort through your Suitors in anticipation of the most important Elimination Ceremony yet.” Josh straightened, meeting her eyes. “Are you ready?”
He made it sound like he was about to hand her a loaded gun, not a file full of compatibility tests, but Marcy managed to keep a straight face and meet his question with the same degree of gravitas. “I’m ready.”
Josh stood, walked to the desk, collected the red folder and returned to her, holding it out to her with both hands. When she accepted it, he nodded gravely. “I’ll leave you to it.”
The host exited, leaving her alone—if you didn’t count the two camera crews, one mobile and one stationary, that were there to catch her every reaction.
Marcy stood and moved to the chair at the desk, making a show of taking a deep breath before she released the string binding the folder together. The breath might be for show—but it wasn’t entirely fake. She’d been nervous about this part from day one.
What if she wasn’t compatible with any of them? Or what if the person the experts wanted her to end up with was someone she didn’t particularly like? Not that she disliked any of the remaining men, but there were some she wasn’t sure it was a good idea to be too compatible with.
Like Craig.
If Craig was her most compatible Suitor, what would that say about her? He was openly materialistic, ambitious and ruthless—which, okay, yes, was a lot like her, but she didn’t want America to know those things about her. She wanted to be compatible with someone wholesome and good—like Daniel—not someone who openly admitted he wasn’t interested in love.
Marcy flipped open the cover. The compatibility tests were always arranged from worst to best. She flipped quickly past the first few—no surprises there. Her relief grew as she didn’t see Daniel’s name at the top of the pile. But she didn’t see Craig’s either.
Impatience grew and she flipped to the back of the pile—her most compatible Suitor.
N
inety-two percent. Not the highest the experts had ever given, but perfectly respectable. And the name at the top of the page?
Not exactly respectable. Craig Corrow.
Shit.
Daniel was next highest. Eighty-nine percent. Almost as good. But not quite. No, her most compatible Suitor was the one man she’d been afraid she was too much like. And there it was in black and white. Romancing Miss Right had some smart experts. He wasn’t in it for love and neither was she.
If she told America she was keeping him because he was her most compatible Suitor, they would be less inclined to think she was an idiot woman being taken in by a con man. People didn’t buy books from authors they thought were morons. But if she revealed that Craig was her most compatible, what would that reveal about her? Would the viewing public figure out that she was a romantic fraud?
What right did she have to write about romance? What did she know about true love anyway? She was already afraid she was a phony, was this just the last nail in the coffin? Who would she be if she couldn’t be a writer anymore? She’d built her whole identity around happily ever afters and she wasn’t even sure she believed they existed.
One of the cameramen coughed and Marcy reminded herself that she was on. She flipped quickly through the rest of the files, nodding, smiling, and then looked up to the camera with a grin. “No surprises here.” That was true enough. “But I think I’m going to keep this information to myself.”
She closed the folder, tying it shut, and wondered if she could sneak off somewhere and quietly burn it—not that the producers wouldn’t have made copies. God, she hoped the information never got leaked. She needed her illusions.
Miranda pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, counting slowly to three before opening them again in an effort to force her tired retinas to focus on the blurring screen. She’d been reviewing the footage for hours, trying to avoid the inevitable conclusion—the week was dull. Boring. Ever since she’d put Craig on his best behavior, the drama of the show had taken a marked drop.
She’d given the Compatibility Test results to Marcy a couple days early in an attempt to drum up something watchable, but Miss Right had chosen to play that one close to the vest and the entire plan had backfired.
She needed a scandal. Something they could promote the hell out of to tempt the viewers to stick with them until they started forming emotional attachments and picking favorites. It was too early for dull.
Tomorrow night was the Elimination Ceremony—the final night of filming for this episode. She needed a jolt of drama in the next twenty hours or she might as well start brushing up her resume.
Hands closed over her shoulders and she shrieked, half-leaping out of her chair. “Bennett! Crap, you scared me. What are you doing sneaking up on me?”
He coaxed her back to her chair in the editing bay, pulling up another beside her. “I wasn’t sneaking. You were so engrossed I think a marching band could have walked in here and you wouldn’t have noticed.”
She frowned, pulling her hand from his when he started to massage her palm. “This isn’t a good time. I’m under the gun.”
“I can help, remember? Partners?”
She shook her head, exasperated, but desperate enough to take a genius idea from anywhere at this point. “I need drama. Nothing happened this week. Nothing. Wallace is going to fire me if I don’t come up with something good, but we don’t have a single useable scandal. Unless I can somehow get the guys to break out into a brawl tomorrow before the ceremony, I’m screwed.”
She wasn’t paying attention to anything but her problem or she probably would have noticed before the last sentence the way Bennett’s expression closed off more and more as she spoke until he wore a carefully expressionless mask.
“What?” she snapped.
“You want me to help you smut-mine?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I want you to not give me a hard time about what I do for a living when I have enough to deal with already, but it doesn’t sound like I’m going to get what I want tonight.”
His face grew tense, as if the muscles of his mouth were fighting themselves on whether or not he would speak. “Are you listening to yourself? You’re fabricating scandal. You know it’s wrong.”
“I know the viewers want it and the Suitors signed up for it.”
“Those kinds of cheap stunts are what is ruining television.”
“Yeah. So you’ve said. And you’re a god among producers because you only work on high minded shows about finding the next big dance star or renovating a needy family’s home. Ratings are dropping across the board in reality television. The eighteen to forty-nine demo is leaning more and more toward scripted television. I avoided a dip last season by making Jack and Lou the romance of the year, but I can’t slack off now. You know better than anyone that getting to the top doesn’t mean taking a holiday. You work harder.”
“By stirring up imaginary scandals? You’re better than this.”
“And you’re wasting my time.”
His face tightened again, the lines jumping out in stark relief.
Miranda looked away. “Maybe we should take a break.”
“What?”
“I’m about to go on location anyway—”
“You don’t need to,” he interrupted. “Glen never traveled with the show. You have a supervising producer for a reason.”
“I want to keep a close eye.”
“You want to run away from me.”
“It isn’t always about you, Bennett.”
He shoved to his feet, stalking to the opposite side of the small editing bay. “No. It’s never about me. It’s always your show first and me last.”
Her heart was beating too fast. This was it. They might really be breaking up. “You knew what you were getting with me.”
“Yeah, a younger female version of me.”
“And that’s what you liked, right?” She threw the words at him, as if she could blame him for getting involved with her in the first place.
“I really owe my ex wives apologies.”
“Well, maybe you should go apologize. If you remarry one of them, think of the alimony savings.”
“Goddamn it, Miranda.”
“I really need to get back to work.”
He yanked both hands through his hair, as if by pulling the strands he could pull himself together. “I can’t travel with you,” he snapped. “My show begins shooting in two weeks. I’m needed here.”
“This is probably for the best.” Her throat tightened but she forced herself to look unaffected. “It was never going to last anyway.”
His mouth clicked shut and he swallowed hard. “Yeah. I guess it wasn’t. Goodbye, Miranda.”
“Yeah. Best wishes, Bennett.” Happy fucking trails.
He hesitated, as if waiting to see if she would say more, then shook his head, sharp and aggravated, and stalked out of the room. The door to the editing bay didn’t slam, catching on the carpet. She swallowed thickly, turning back to her tablet. She stared at it for a good three minutes before she could focus her eyes.
Marcy. The show. That was what she needed to be thinking about. Bennett was a blip. Focus, Miranda. She needed scandal. Something juicy.
Miranda punched up her assistant’s number on her phone, only glancing at the ungodly hour after the third ring. She felt only the slightest flicker of guilt. You didn’t get into this business because you liked normal working hours.
Todd answered groggily on the fourth ring.
“Sorry to wake you,” Miranda said, more out of politeness than sincerity.
“No, no, I was awake,” Todd lied. “What’s up, boss?”
“I can’t find the background checks we did on the Suitors.” Because I’ve been awake for forty-two consecutive hours and my heart just stopped beating. “I need a deep dark secret we can exploit. Secret families would be best, but right now I’ll take anything.”
“They’re filed under the private investigator’s na
me,” Todd said, “but it’s a pretty clean group. We vetted them pretty thoroughly.”
“Crap.”
“Do you want me to check the tip line?” he asked, sounding much more alert—which was how he’d gotten the job as her right hand. “See if any of the crazies check out? Or we can arrange a party crasher. That astronaut from two seasons ago is always willing to fly in and stir things up.”
“Start with the tip line. If that fails we’ll try the Space Cowboy in the morning.”
“On it.”
He hung up, not asking for thanks. And Miranda went back to the footage, looking for some scrap of drama she might have missed. Trying not to think about the drama of her own shredded love-life.
“Jackpot!”
Miranda jerked awake, rubbing at the keyboard imprint on her cheek as her assistant burst into the editing bay, waving his tablet triumphantly.
“We have a winner,” Todd declared. “One of the crazies from the tip line turns out to not be totally insane after all. Turns out one of our boys has a secret girlfriend back home.”
That cleared away the last cobwebs of sleep in a hurry. “Seriously?” There is a God. “Which one? Never mind, who cares? Is she willing to appear on camera?”
“Already signed the release,” Todd said triumphantly. “She can be on the nine o’clock flight up.”
Miranda looked at the clock on the wall. Six thirty in the morning. They had twelve hours to put it all together before the pre-Elimination cocktail party. Perfect. “Todd, remind me to give you a raise. Or a pony. Your choice.”
He laughed. “I’ll take the raise. Ponies are a pain in the ass.”
“Good call. Get the girlfriend on that plane. I’ll meet her at the airport and prep her on the way. In the meantime, get me Pendleton. We’ll need him to do a Tactful Concern About These Rumors scene with Marcy, so she can confront the Suitor before we bring in the girlfriend to confirm it all.”
Todd turned, already on his phone to carry out her orders, when Miranda called him back.