Page 15 of Most Eligible
Beside Norbert is Lainey, looking fresh as a daisy without a wrinkle in sight. See my Botox theory for further details.
“Good morning, ladies,” she says once the others have piled onto the couch. As she turns her head to sweep all of us with her icy gaze, not a single silver hair flutters.
Behind her, the mansion’s huge front doors open and Rhett ambles in carrying a paper coffee cup. Where the hell has he been? He looks sleep-rumpled and exhausted as he walks over, his hair sticking up in the back.
“Nice of you to join us,” Lainey says, giving him a piercing look.
Rhett heads off to hair and makeup as she turns back to us, hands clasped. “Today, seven of you will be going on a romantic group date with Roland. The rest of you will see him later this week for your own group date. At the end of both, one lucky woman will be chosen to have some one-on-one time with him,so make sure you’re putting your best foot forward. Or…” Her eyes stray to Brooklyn and she falters. “Or your best wheel.”
Brooklyn stiffens but manages a smile.
Meanwhile, Lainey’s face splits into a grin like she’s just solved the climate crisis and she gives a phony thumbs-up. I cringe all the way to my toes. Is this the first crack in Lainey Williams’s manicured facade? Does this microaggression mean there’s truth to the rumors about her emotional manipulation of candidates?
“Any questions?” Lainey asks. No one moves. “Good. The buses will be here in an hour. We’ll film Rhett with you all and then get going.”
I’m confused for a second, but then Rhett emerges from the hallway, sans coffee, with combed hair and a fresher face. My exhaustion sits on me like a weighted blanket, but after makeup, Rhett looks bright and shiny. The stubborn circles under his eyes are the only sign that we were up until sixAM.
Just like our first night together, he’s erased all trace of me.
The buses bring us to a luxury tennis resort on Laguna Beach. The main building’s white stucco walls gleam in the sunlight, framed by swaying palms that look almost too perfect to be real.
We’re ushered to a grass court overlooking the ocean, but no amount of picturesque views can stop the sinking feeling in my stomach. If we’re playing tennis, there’s no doubt that Monica will win. I won’t stand a chance. The last time I played a sport with a racket was in high school gym class, when I hit my doubles partner in the face and sent her to the emergency room. Survival is all I’m hoping for here—for me and everyone else.
Norbert eyes me suspiciously as he hands me a racket. “Try not to hurt anyone there, lass.” He winks and tosses me a white visor.
“I’ll do my best,” I grumble, shoving the visor onto my head.The Velcro snags my hair, and I wince, trying to yank it off. With a trail of hair still clinging to the back of the visor, I back up to remove myself from the women who don’t seem to be having hair adhesion issues.
“Whoa there,” says a voice behind me. Warm hands clasp my shoulders and hold me upright as I stumble, then quickly let me go. I whirl around, the visor dragging in my wake, and come face to face with Rhett.
“You stuck?” He inclines his head to my Velcro situation.
When I don’t answer, he lets out a world-weary sigh and reaches up, gently untangling my hair. He succeeds with minimal casualties and places the visor back on my head, tugging gently on the front. He drops his hand, fingers brushing across my cheek, sending heat up my chest. I back up, glancing around to make sure no one saw. A smirk plays on his lips as his eyes flick down to my blushing skin.
“Good luck,” he whispers, and turns away.
I glower at his back. It’s one thing for him to interrupt when I’m in the middle of a private hair situation, but fixing it followed by a subtle cheek caress? Borderline unacceptable. It’s like hewantsme to get kicked out.
We’re corralled onto the center of the court so the cameras can get a group shot. I’m squeezed between Nina and Monica while Sonya and Briana complete our row and Addison and Olie sorority squat in front of us, Olie’s backside bumping against my legs.
“All right, ladies,” Rhett says. He’s wearing his own black visor now. I hope the Velcro tears a bald spot into his wavy, movie-star hair. “Today, you’ll be playing tennis with Roland Marchetti himself—an opportunity most only dream of.”
“You’ll get to see my competitive side,” Roland chimes in, somehow winking at all of us at once. Is eyelid carpal tunnel a thing? If so, Roland is in deep danger of it.
Lainey motions for Rhett to continue, but he glares at her and shakes his head.
“Say it,” she hisses.
“But on this court,” Rhett continues through gritted teeth, “love doesn’t mean nothing.” He pauses, but the effect of the pun is dampened by the scowl on his face.
“Good enough,” Lainey huffs. “Move on.”
“You’ll be playing seven on one,” Rhett says. “Elimination style after a little warm-up. If you hit the ball out of bounds, then you’re out of the game. At the end, the winner will get one-on-one time with Roland.”
“I can’t tell you how excited I am,” Roland says. “Ever since my injury I’ve been itching to be back on the court, and if I’m going to make it back to Wimbledon this year, I have to get in some practice. Let’s do it!”
He adjusts his knee brace and trots to the other side of the net. Production assistants arrange the seven of us around our side with Monica near the back, which seems dangerous. With so many of us in front of her, this could turn into target practice as she picks off her victims one by one. I’m shuffled right up to the net, mere feet from Roland, who winks at me and mouths, “You’re going down.”
I smirk and shake my head. “No way.”
