by Lizzie Shane
“We might have screwed up.”
Miranda lifted her eyes to the wide-eyed PA. Had she ever been that young? “I don’t like vague, Emily.”
The girl wet her lips, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “Craig spent the night with Marcy.”
Miranda frowned. “Linus told me she threw him out and slammed the door in his face last night. We have footage of it.”
“He must have gone back,” Emily squeaked. “When Amelia went in this morning to run through the previous night with Marcy for the confessional, he was still there.”
Miranda pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tell me we got footage of his walk of shame,” she said without much hope.
“Amelia didn’t bring a mobile camera team because she thought it would just be standard confessional footage.”
“And we didn’t put hidden cameras in the suite. Shit.” She pursed her lips. “We have no video evidence of them entering the room together, being together inside or him exiting the room. Were the mics hot at least? Audio?”
“Indistinct. It’s very muffled. And then they took off their mic packs.”
“Of course they did.” She cursed softly. This is what happens when you fucking delegate. She’d been so much better lately. Letting her people do their jobs, actually getting nearly normal amounts of sleep each night. She’d finally learned how not to micromanage every little detail and now this. Fantastic. “So who am I firing? You? Is that why Linus and Amelia sent you to deliver the news? Did they think I would kill the messenger?”
Emily’s face drained of color. “I—I didn’t—”
“Relax. I’m not firing you. Yet. I still need you to coordinate the drivers to get us out to that god forsaken lake for the Final Choice shoot.”
“Ms. Pierce—”
“Emily. This is an epic fuck-up. Someone is getting shit canned, but it won’t be you because it wasn’t your epic fuck-up. Tell Linus and Amelia to stop being cowards and get their asses in here to face the music.”
“Asses already present,” Linus stepped forward from a nearby alcove, Amelia at his side.
“Sending a PA to deliver the news was cowardly, Linus. I expect better from you.”
“You would have fired me on the spot if I’d told you myself.”
“Probably. It’s still an option. Our job is to get footage of everything and you let Miss Right get laid without even a PI-style still shot of our boy entering the room. Care to tell me how that happened?”
“It was the roof shoot,” Amelia complained. “We weren’t prepared for being on battery that long and when they ran downstairs, we lost them for a minute. One of the camera guys caught them outside the room and managed to get the shot of Marcy kicking Craig out, but his battery was dying and it was late and we didn’t think there would be anything more that night—”
“And no one thought to track either of them down to get their reactions to the fight while they were still worked up?”
“We did, but we couldn’t find Craig.” Amelia swallowed nervously. “His mic pack was off by then so we figured he must have gone to walk it off or something. I knocked on Marcy’s door but she didn’t answer and her mic was dark so I figured she was asleep.”
“I’m really liking the idea of firing you, Amelia. When did you think to playback the audio?”
She wet her lips. “This morning. After I saw…”
“Sadly we can’t put your account of what you saw on the air.” Miranda cursed again, closing the budget report.
“We were actually thinking maybe this is a good thing,” Linus put in.
“Oh this should be good. Please enlighten me how not getting footage of one of the most pivotal moments of the show is a good thing.”
“We couldn’t show it anyway. We wouldn’t want to. Not when she chooses Daniel.”
“It would make her look bad in the eyes of the audience to be sexing it up with one guy immediately before getting engaged to another,” Amelia picked up where Linus left off.
“If she becomes engaged.”
Linus and Amelia’s matching expressions of shock would have been comical if there were anything funny about the situation. It was hard to laugh when Miranda could lose her job as well, thanks to their fuck-up.
“Why wouldn’t she?” Linus blurted.
“I know she seemed ambivalent at first, but lately all the confessional footage has been pointing toward Daniel,” Amelia insisted.
Miranda felt old suddenly. Ancient and weary. “Don’t put too much stock in the confessional footage.”
Amelia’s face melted into horror. “You think she might actually pick Craig?”
“I know he’s cute and all,” Linus protested, “but he would have to have a magical penis to change her mind. Marcy is practical and Daniel ticks all the boxes. He’s perfect. Besides, you had Pendleton film the job ultimatum with Craig already—he’s going to dump her at the Final Choice altar. If we had footage of them getting it on just two nights before, he’d be the most hated man in America.”
“And he would deserve to be.”
It was too late to worry about footage they didn’t have now. As much as she wanted to keep venting her frustration on the pair that had likely just cost her her job, Miranda reached for her tablet instead. “You both have jobs to do. I suggest you do them to perfection for the next forty-eight hours. Get us through the Final Choice ceremony flawlessly and you might still have a prayer of ever working in reality television again.”
Her two minions, suitably cowed, retreated, taking Emily—who had been watching the whole conversation with wide-eyes—away with them.
“Amelia,” she called after them, before they could completely escape the cafe that the crew had commandeered. “Don’t tell anyone else what you saw this morning. As far as we know, nothing happened. Understand?”
Amelia nodded frantically and Miranda turned her attention back to her tablet, though she didn’t see the screen, her brain working frantically.
She could make this work. If Marcy’s choice went the way she thought it would, the dramatic door slamming would play just as well as a late night booty call. America never needed to know that anything had happened—or if they needed to find out, it would make a juicy tidbit at the reunion show.
Craig had been given his choice. Marcy had been given hers. Now it was a game of wait-and-see.
Kind of like Miranda waiting to see if she could hang onto her job. Her first chance at the helm of the show and she had to get curveball after curveball. It still remained to be seen if she could hit them out of the park.
The chance was slight, but there was still hope for a happy ending for all of them. Miranda, heartless reality show producer, stared sightlessly at her tablet and prayed that just this once love could conquer all.
Because if Marcy could get her happy ending, maybe there was hope for the rest of them.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“So, Marcy, tell us, how does it feel, now that the big day is finally here?”
The cameras whirred, the lights hummed, and Marcy scrambled to think of the usual platitudes as Amelia waited expectantly. “I can’t believe eight weeks have gone by so fast.” What else was she supposed to say? “I didn’t know what to expect when I began this process, I wasn’t sure I would find love, but now…”
Craig’s smoky black eyes rose up in her mind’s eye, gleaming with wicked invitation as they had that night. She hadn’t seen him since he slipped away in the morning when Amelia walked in on them still in bed—thankfully without cameras accompanying her. He hadn’t pled his case again, hadn’t said anything about how he felt. He’d simply grinned at her—all wicked and playful—and ducked out the door with a laughing, “See you at the altar.”
The Final Choice altar. In two hours she’d be standing there. Faced with one man and then the other. Presenting them with her choice.
A choice she still hadn’t made.
All day yesterday as they’d driven from Verona to the villa at Lake
Bracciano where Tom Cruise had married the most recent of his wives, Marcy had stared out the window at the Italian countryside and waited for a sense of certainty that never came.
She knew she should pick Daniel. Anyone with half a brain would pick Daniel. But what about her heart?
She was in love with Craig. She knew that now with absolute conviction—what she didn’t know was whether he would ever be capable of loving her back. What sort of fool risked her heart on a man who had admitted he would only break it—even if he’d also implied that she might be capable of breaking his right back? Was she really such a masochist?
And what would America think of her if she picked him? She wished she was the kind of person who didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about her, but she’d never been that girl. The idea that America might scorn her—or worse, boycott her books—was like an ax hanging over her head.
She wished she could speak to her sisters and her parents, ask their advice, but they were thousands of miles away and it was still early morning in the States.
If she did pick Craig, would her father worry? Would it throw him right back into another heart attack?
No, she couldn’t. She couldn’t risk doing that to him.
But with Daniel…
“Marcy?”
She blinked, coming back to the present—the whirring cameras, the expectant producer. “I’m sorry, what was I saying?”
“You weren’t sure you would find love when we started. Are you in love now?”
Yes. She couldn’t pick Daniel. It wouldn’t be fair to him. Or to her.
It just wasn’t there. She liked him. She respected him and valued him, but love? Her stupid heart was engaged elsewhere.
She almost laughed, remembering what Jack had said when he broke it off with her. I’m sorry, Marcy… my heart is engaged elsewhere. She really ought to give Jack and Lou a call. See how they were doing. They’d survived a reality television show. Maybe they could help her save her sanity when she got home.
“Marcy?”
“I need to talk to Miranda.”
Amelia frowned, taken aback. “Miranda will be here shortly to hear your choice so we can arrange the arrival order of your two remaining Suitors, but while we’re waiting for her, let’s get a little more on how you’re feeling today, shall we?”
“Yes, I’m in love,” she snapped impatiently. “I’m also about to reject a man who doesn’t deserve it and make one of the most difficult decisions of my life, so forgive me if I can’t remember the appropriate platitudes about the culmination of the journey or my life with Mister Right finally beginning.”
Amelia’s lips pursed. “I’ll get Miranda.”
Five minutes later, the executive producer walked into the room and waved the cameramen out. “I hear you’re being difficult.”
Marcy stood. She needed to be standing for this—like the words were too big to get out of her mouth any other way. “I’ve made my choice.”
Miranda nodded, satisfied. She couldn’t suspect what was coming. “Good. We do the rejected party first, so how do you want me to schedule them?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve decided to pick neither.”
Miranda didn’t even blink. “Neither.”
“It just isn’t there with Daniel and I… I just can’t with Craig.”
Miranda nodded, still displaying none of the shock Marcy had anticipated. “Daniel’s hotel is closer. We’ll have him in the ten o’clock slot. Craig will arrive just after one. We’ll get your reactions afterwards and you’ll be done by four.”
She made it sound so simple. So easy.
Marcy tried to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry. “Have you had anyone refuse to pick in the past?”
“It’s not unprecedented,” Miranda said calmly. “You should prepare yourself for some negative push-back from the audience. They are ravenous for a happy ending and can react unpredictably when denied one—but we’ll do our best through editing to show that you made the only choice you felt you could. Which would be easier if you would sit down with Amelia for some more confessional footage.”
Marcy nodded, dazed by how straightforward she made it sound. How final. Decision made. Done deal. She couldn’t seem to process it though.
“I’ll just send Amelia and the crew back in. Take your time getting your thoughts out. Wardrobe will be here to change you into your Choice gown in a little over an hour.”
“Miranda,” she called when the producer would have left. “I’m sorry I couldn’t…”
She paused with a hand on the door. “You don’t have to apologize to me, hon. But be really sure this is what you want, okay? For yourself. You never struck me as the kind of girl who was afraid of leaping off a bridge.”
Leaping off a bridge. The memory of bungee jumping with Craig came back with a vengeance.
Had Miranda said that on purpose? Was she trying to say something? Trying to tell Marcy to pick Craig?
Marcy dropped her head into her hands. She was going to drive herself crazy with all these doubts, but it would be over soon. And she’d be alone again. Easier that way. Safer.
Craig stared in the mirror, adjusting his tie for the hundredth time. This was it. The big day. The big choice. Marcy would make hers and he would make his. Pendleton had been clear. He couldn’t let her get the word out one way or the other. Whether Marcy would choose him or not, he had to interrupt her and pick the job over her before she made her choice or the offer vanished.
Love or money.
The producers weren’t subtle.
He’d known as soon as he woke up beside her yesterday what his choice would be. Waiting twenty-four hours for all the pomp and circumstance had been a serious pain in the ass, but the producers demanded their pound of flesh.
He didn’t wake up beside women. He wasn’t that guy. It was too much the mark of a relationship, spending the night. Too intimate. He always crept out in the night, leaving a note to make her smile and think of him fondly when he was gone, but always waking up by himself in his own bed.
He wasn’t the relationship guy. It wasn’t how he was wired.
But with Marcy, maybe he could be.
It was strange to want that. Strange to want anything beyond his career. Strange and scary.
When you wanted things, you made yourself vulnerable, exposed yourself so people could use them against you—the same way the producers were trying to use his unabashed fixation on his career against him. It was safer not to want anything—but safe wasn’t life.
He wanted his success and he wanted Marcy. And waking up beside her, with the curve of her arm flung over her face and her hair a tangled mess on the pillow, he had known with shattering certainty that there would be other jobs, other opportunities, but there would never be another Marcy.
Craig rubbed at his chest with his fist.
So this was love. Jumping off a fucking bridge. Opening yourself up to getting kicked in the teeth. It kind of sucked. But for all the terror, it was exhilarating. Like walking across a high wire after handing someone at the end a giant pair of scissors.
The door to his dressing room opened. Linus poked his head in. “Fifteen minutes and we’ll get you in the car. You good?”
“As good as I’ll ever be,” he said, clinging to the confidence that had gotten him this far. Fuck it, if he was going to go for it, he’d better go all the way. “Linus,” he called when the producer started to shut the door. “I need to make a phone call.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“I’ll have to clear it with Miranda.”
Craig snorted. “Trust me. She’ll let me make this call.”
Fifteen minutes later, Craig had a cell phone in his hand. The first one he’d held for weeks. A gruff voice answered on the third ring.
“Mr. Henrickson? It’s Craig Corrow. I’m sorry to call so early, sir, but there’s something I need to ask you.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Daniel had cried. She hadn�
�t anticipated that.
Marcy stood at the Final Choice altar, her arms wrapped tight around her middle, feeling unaccountably cold even with the midday sun warming her shoulders. The strapless gown was a lavender so pale it flirted with bridal white—which just seemed cruel since she wasn’t going to be marrying anyone anytime soon.
Shit. What had she done?
She didn’t love Daniel, but should she have picked him anyway on the belief that she could grow to love him? Once Craig was out of the picture, would her stupid heart have fallen in line?
The scene the producers had set was almost nauseatingly romantic. The symbolic altar—part of every Miss Right and Mister Perfect finale—had been set up at the end of a rose arbor overlooking the crystal blue perfection of the famous Italian lake. Flowers that weren’t perfect enough had been removed and replaced until each bloom was as flawless as the last.
Nearby bushes rustled and Amelia stepped out of them where she’d been hiding from the cameras’ views. “The car is coming up the drive now,” she informed Marcy. “Pendleton will meet him and escort him as far as the top of the path and then it’s up to you. I know the instinct is to get it over with quickly, but don’t be afraid to let the drama build. In the end, it will be good for both of you if you don’t leave anything unsaid today.” She smiled, as if Marcy weren’t about to dump the man she loved on national television. “All set?”
“Sure. Yeah.”
“Good. And just remember I’m only a few feet away with security if he should start to get violent. Good luck!”
Marcy glared after the producer. Her bedside manner sucked.
But her glare didn’t last long. She was too busy turning toward the villa and squinting for some glimpse of Craig at the top of the path.
He appeared—all swagger and charisma—long legs, a dark suit, and a cocky smile. Her heart lurched. This was it. The last time she was going to see him smile at her. She didn’t know how he would react when she rejected him, but she knew it wouldn’t be with smiles. Or maybe it would be. Maybe he would laugh it off and she would be the one to burst into tears at the proof that all his mights and maybes had been nothing more than the illusion of emotion that didn’t exist.