Page 100 of Most Eligible
“Night.”
I turn around, unsure if I’ve imagined it, but her eyes are open and she’s looking at me expectantly.
“Good night.” I smile at her.
“The pictures are a little overkill now, don’t you think?” She points to the posters of shirtless Roland on the walls.
I laugh. “Yeah, I think they were overkill to begin with.”
“I mean”—she hedges—“now that we’ve seen it all…” She sits up and glances at me out of the corner of her eye. She’s asking if I slept with Roland. I could tell her what I know, that I’m confident he’ll propose to her in a matter of days, but one glance at the ceiling cameras and I clam up.
“Yeah,” I say. “Though in real lifethisdefinitely isn’t here.” I point at the hand-drawn tattoo of a tennis ball on Roland’s lower back, penned by Philippa all those weeks ago.
Monica snorts and rolls over. “See you tomorrow.”
Instead of Roland, Rhett greets me and Monica in the sitting room the next morning. The sun peeks over the distant hills, spilling through the windows and across the carpeted floor.
Monica frowns as Rhett plants himself before us. I stare at him, trying to make my eyes burn through his skull to tell just how much he hates me. His body is stiff, his hand pulling through his hair every few seconds. His eyes dart everywhere but my face, maintaining a resolute perimeter like we’re opposing magnets.
“Where’s Roland?” Monica asks.
Rhett glances at the producers, then sits down next to me on the couch. It’s so choreographed that it catches me off guard. It’s something Lainey would insist on, except…
I frown. “Where’s Lainey?”
“Roland sent me to talk to you,” Rhett says. “You were each supposed to have one final date with him.”
Monica brings her hands to her mouth as if she’s waiting to hear life-or-death news.
“But he’s choosing to cancel those dates,” Rhett finishes, sighing heavily. “He really enjoyed being with both of you in Italy, and he doesn’t feel that he needs any more time with you to make his final decision.”
Monica shakes her head. “No, this can’t be right. I need to see him. I need that date. What if—”
“His decision is final.” Rhett winces at the harshness in his own voice, glances at the cameras. “Let me try that again. I’m sorry, but Roland’s decision is final,” he says more gently. But his tone doesn’t placate Monica, who stands with her hands balled into fists.
I’m not too surprised, though—and I’m positive that this decision wasn’t all on Roland. Just like Lainey decided not to have my parents on the show, she must’ve decided that it will spike the drama if Monica doesn’t see Roland until the finale.
“Where is he?” she asks. “I have to talk to him.”
Rhett cuts his eyes to the producers, then back to Monica. “He’s not on the property at the moment.”
I frown—even if this was Lainey’s doing, it seems extreme that she would forcibly sequester him. Unless Roland has taken my advice and gone public with his secret, in which case things will certainly get more dramatic.
Monica huffs and stalks from the room, leaving Rhett and me on the couch. There’s at least a foot between us but I can feel the heat radiating from his body like we’re naked, curled up together in Palermo.
He leans forward, arms resting on his thighs. “Georgia, how do you feel about losing this time with Roland? Are you confident in your relationship with him?”
I blink at him. I’d almost forgotten that the cameras are feet away, that this isn’t a conversation between us, but for them.
“I—yeah, I am. We…” I press my hands to my eyes. “Can I start over?” I sit up straighter, taking a breath as I glance at the producers. “It’s disappointing not to have more time with him. But I was confident in what we had.” I look into Rhett’s eyes, trying to catch any trace of an apology. “Ultimately, though, it’s his decision. He knows how I feel and it’s up to him to choose what he feels is right.” I let out the last words in a gush, lost in Rhett’s shadowed green eyes. I doubt he knows what Roland told me—that I’m only here as a formality—and his expression gives nothing away.
He runs a hand through his hair, breaking our eye contact, and stands. “That should do it,” he says curtly. Without a backward glance, he sulks from the room.
“Georgia!” The whisper comes from above, and I look up to see Monica’s face peeking over the landing. “Come up here!”
I sprint up the stairs and meet her in the bunk room. Wordlessly, she pulls me into the bathroom and pulls something out from behind the toilet. A laptop.
“What the…”
