Page 39 of Most Eligible
“Mija, wish Georgia luck!” she says, waving me off.
I head out the front doors, expecting to be ambushed by cameras, but to my surprise, there’s no one here. Not even Addison. I’m on the verge of going back inside when I hear a rumbling engine, and a vintage convertible pulls into the drive. I plaster on my bestso happy to see you!face and wave as the car slows to a stop in front of me.
My hand freezes midair, smile sliding off my face like mud.
Rhett looks at me over the top of his sunglasses, one hand still on the wheel.
“Hop in,” he says, but I hesitate. My eyes linger on the car, which is gorgeous. Creamy white, not a scratch on it, top folded elegantly down to reveal light coffee-colored seats and red highlights. On the back, little accents pop up like wings. Its sleek mid-century vibe has me salivating. Is it possible to be attracted to a car?
“You coming?” Rhett’s voice snaps me back to attention. I must be attracted to the car because I can’t let myself be attracted to its driver, even as his eyes slide up and down my body, making me more aware than ever that I’m not wearing a bra. “I’m driving you up the coast to meet Roland,” Rhett says. “He’s already there. They’ve been doing interviews all morning.”
“What about Addison?”
He laughs stiffly. “They picked her up a few minutes ago. She, uh—she refused to arrive with you.”
Too infuriated by this to focus on avoiding Rhett, I open the door and slip onto the bench seat.
“This car is amazing,” I breathe, unable to hide my awe. Pulling my fingers from the silky-smooth paneling on the door, I glance at my driver. He’s wearing dark jeans and cowboy boots, his hair slicked back with one treacherous lock spilling onto his forehead.His short-sleeve button-down cuts off just high enough that I can see the tattoos on his biceps. In short, he looks like a goddamn movie star.
“How’d you get this glamorous job?” I ask as we shoot out of the driveway. “Shouldn’t a PA be taking me? Or have they demoted you?”
“No one else drives my car,” he says, caressing the steering wheel.
“You mean you don’t drive a pickup like all your country music brethren?”
“This is the same car as Elvis had.” His eyes cut to me, assessing my reaction.
“Elvis owned this car?!” I shriek, swiveling around like I expect to see Elvis’s hip-waggling ghost shooting out of the exhaust pipe.
“No.” He laughs, a short, abrupt sound. “Same type of car. Same year, same make and model. But not this exact one.”
I flip my sunglasses down over my eyes. “You didn’t answer my question—why are you driving me?”
He scratches his jaw. “I wanted to talk to you. Without cameras,” he clarifies. “About the other night—”
“Forget it,” I say. “It’s fine.”
“I wasn’t trying to mess you up.” He looks over at me. “I’m sorry if you missed time with Roland. I… I don’t know what you think of me at this point, but I wouldn’t do that.”
I’m hesitant to believe him, but the apology in his voice is genuine. “You won’t tell anyone, right? That I was with you instead of kissing Roland’s feet or whatever?”
“Didn’t know he was a foot guy.”
“Be serious.”
“Come on, Georgia.” He palms the wheel. My spine tingles from the juicy tang of my name in his mouth, the way he bitesinto it like a peach. “I’ve been pretty good at keeping your secrets so far. Why would I tell on you now?”
Relief unspools further in me as I turn this logic over in my head. He could’ve sold me out on night one, but he didn’t. That has to count for something, right?
“I don’t know,” I say, “to blackmail me?”
“Tempting. But I’m sure you’d get back at me somehow. Do you have any dirt on me?”
I glance at him, biting my lip, and wish I’d been able to call Serena again. “Last year?”
His jaw ticks. With those two words, I’ve disarmed him. But just as quickly, his guard goes back up.
“I’m sure you were supposed to disclose that to the producers, right?” I ask.
