Page 98 of Most Eligible
My reflection catches my eye again, and I scowl at her.Get it together, I tell myself.
Rhett isn’t here. He’s not here, and he’ll never be here—with me—again. I’ve lost what feels like everything, but I can’t think about that right now. Instead, I pull the silk robe back on and step out into the hallway.
Roland is standing at a side table, pouring two glasses of champagne. He’s taken off his shirt and put on comfortable-looking joggers.
He turns and smiles at me, holding out a glass. Even though he’s seen me in all manner of bathing suits, seams cutting up and down my ass like razor blades, I feel more exposed now than ever. Off camera, ass fully covered, but with an uneasy expectation of what happens now. With trembling fingers, I take the champagne and almost lift it to my lips, but then I hesitate, realizing that he’ll probably want to toast to “everlasting love” or my “fertile womb” or something.
Sure enough, he raises his glass and clinks it to mine. “To being on our own.”
I down my champagne in one gulp and he refills my glass. We settle on a couch with a view of the interior courtyard. The floor-to-ceiling glass doors are open and a breeze streams in, bringing with it the smell of citrus and fresh grass.
“I never thought I’d be here.” The words are out of my mouthbefore I can second-guess them. I flinch at my own confession, glancing instinctively around for cameras that aren’t there. The tension in my back eases, and I take another sip of champagne. Lots of people don’t have sex on the overnight dates and still make it to the finish line. I hold on to that thought as Roland puts his hand on my knee.
“Here onLove Shackor here”—he taps his finger against my skin—“with me?”
“Here with you,” I say, looking down at his hand. It’s hard to know what balance to strike. There are no cameras, sure. No producers, no need to prove myself to the future TV audience. But I’m still acting, still have someone to convince. The question is how far I’m willing to go.
He takes the champagne from my hand and sets it on the coffee table. Then he looks at me and traces his fingers over my collarbones, sending chills down my spine. Gently, he pushes my robe to the side, exposing the strap of the lacy red bra. He bites his lip, sucks in a breath.
Is this really happening? My mind is racing, heart pounding, and all I can think is that this isn’t fair to Roland or Rhett, and it certainly isn’t fair to me. I think about the few times I’ve had meaningless sex in my life, but that’s just it—it was meaningless for both of us, and here Roland is, thinking I could be his future wife. I’ve been so caught up with the producers and worrying about Rhett that I forgot there was another man whose heart I’ve been toying with all along.
I can’t sleep with him, nor do I want to. But I have to play it right and make sure it doesn’t seem like I’m rejecting him—just that I don’t want to be intimate when there’s still others in play. It’s a strategy that’s worked for contestants in the past.
He lets his hand fall to his lap, his chin trembling. Then, without warning, he starts crying.
“Are you—what’s wrong?” I ask, alarmed.
“I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I’m so sorry.”
I place a hand on his back and peer into his face. “What are you sorry for? You haven’t done anything wrong.”It’s all been me—I’ve been the one playing with you. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.
“I’m just under so much pressure,” he says, eyes frantic.
“I know,” I say gently. I grab a thin blanket from the back of the couch and wrap it around his shoulders.
“I… I can’t lie to you, Georgia, I can’t. I’ve been…” He trails off. “I’m in trouble.”
“I know about the drug test,” I tell him. His eyes go wide. “I know you’ve been struggling with your injury.”
He gulps, nodding along. “I just don’t want to do it anymore,” he says. “It wasn’t my idea, it was my trainer’s, and he… Well, I agreed to it.” He wraps his arms around his bare torso, shivering. “And if I don’t win at Wimbledon…” He squeezes his eyes shut, a single tear leaking out. “How did you know?” he asks, turning back to me.
“I overheard Lainey talking about it.”
He nods, running a hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry, Georgia, but… I can’t do this. I’m so sorry. It’s not you, I swear. It’s me.” The cliché isn’t lost on me, but now isn’t the time to tease him. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I slept with Monica.”
I nod. “I figured.”
“But then on my date with Addison yesterday,” he continues, “I couldn’t go through with it. She went home before we even finished dinner. And I thought it was just because things weren’t right with her, but it’s not the same…”
“Right,” I say slowly. But if he didn’t sleep with Addison, then who was laughing in the cottage next to me and Rhett last night? Did Olie sneak in and have a grand old time going solo?
“That’s why I wanted to come here—to get away from everyone else with you, so we could reset and have an amazing night. I really wanted to, but I just can’t. I’m so sorry.”
My heart breaks for him as he hangs his head. He deserves the chance to make things right. “I think you should go public about your injury—about the drug test. It’s going to come out anyway—I’m sure you know that. Better to get ahead of it, right?”
He gulps, nodding. “I know. It’s just… it’s hard.”
“I know,” I say gently. “I’ve had to make some hard decisions too.” Even more recently than he knows. “But it’s for the best. You’ll be able to compete again. You’ll probably get put on probation for a while, but after that, you’ll be healed, and you’ll be back before you know it. And if you take some time off, you can go on a nice extended honeymoon. With Monica.”
