Page 12 of Most Eligible
We were skating toward danger before, but with just a few words, he’s eviscerated me completely.
Just a one-night stand? That’s all it was to him?
“Of course that’s what I want,” I snap. “Isn’t that what you want? Or am I finally interesting now that I’m on reality TV?” I try to sound accusatory, but my voice catches.
The corners of his mouth pull tight.
“Look.” I inject as much venom as I can into the word. “What I want is for you to not be here. What I want is to do what I came here to do and—”
“And date America’s Most Eligible Bachelor,” he finishes.
Scowling, I try to get my steam back. “Marry him, actually.”
Heat shoots across his face, his green eyes dilating, and suddenly I feel him everywhere like he’s water, lapping at my back, trickling down my neck, slipping between my legs. His eyes narrow and I have the horrible feeling that he can see right through me, that he knows exactly why I’m here and what I’m doing. At any moment a producer will jump out of the bushes and shoutGotcha!, brandishing my Gracie Hart articles for hidden cameras.
“And when you marry him, will it be as Georgia?” Rhett’s brows flick up ominously. “Or Gracie?”
I meet his gaze as fear coils within me. He must’ve Googled me last year. I wonder if he was disappointed to find only a shadow of a person—someone who existed only in writing.
He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip. “Relax,” he mutters. “It’s more than my job’s worth to tell on you.”
“So not much then?” I smile sweetly, then backtrack. Even if he deserves it, I shouldn’t get on his bad side. “Anyway, I don’t do that anymore. I’ve moved on… professionally.” It’s not quite a lie since I haven’t published as Gracie in over a year, but that was all so I could prep to be here, do this one last assignment, and get out for good.
“Telling Lainey you’re Gracie Hart would mean I’m gone,” Rhett says. “I can’t afford to explain… this.” He waves his hand dismissively between us. “I don’t care why you’re here. Journalist? Hitwoman? Looking for love? It’s all the same as long as you don’t mess this up for me.”
Seething, I cross my arms. “Yeah, I’ll try not to mess this up foryou.”
“I can’t afford to lose this job,” he says.
“You mean you’re not here to relive your glory days?”
The shadow of pain that crosses his face is brief. His brows draw together, his jaw flexes, and he looks out at the ocean. “I can’t fucking believe I’m back here.”
Images flash in my mind, plucked from the hundreds of hours ofLove ShackI watched as research: Rhett standing in the mansion’s driveway, face clean-shaven, greeting twenty prospective wives. When Serena joined me, she would pause the TV occasionally, pointing out each woman’s flaws:See how she falters there?Or:Not nearly enough confidence. He’s already a celebrity; he wants someone who knows who she is.
She didn’t know how personal her words were.
“Hoping to pick up Roland’s leftovers, then?” I prop my arms on the edge of the pool, enjoying watching him squirm.
“I fell in love in this mansion once,” he says, voice rough as sandpaper. “I won’t make that mistake again. You know how it ended.”
I do. I’m not a complete novice. I know the details of hisLove Shackcourtship, televised wedding, couples press tour,subsequent tabloid divorce, and rumors of cheating—all in the months before we met at the Pink Iguana.
“I hope you and Roland do better.” The stony look on his face transforms into an unpleasant smirk. “I’ll be rooting for you. Until you ride into the sunset on matching white stallions.”
“Maybe.” I push myself to stand. I need to get out of here. “Or maybe I’ll be gone by next week, and you can forget I was ever here.”
“You won’t,” he murmurs. “I won’t.”
It’s so quiet I almost don’t hear it. When I blush, I hope it looks like the rising curl of sunrise reflecting on my skin. Because I shouldn’t be blushing. I’m here for a job, an assignment most journalists would kill for. More accurately, I’m here to date Roland, stunning athlete with abs of steel.
But I’m not most journalists. Undercover investigation isn’t what I want to do, and it never has been. I’m just good at slipping into other people’s shoes.
I force myself to meet Rhett’s gaze, his skin iridescent orange with the shards of brightening sky. When I blink, it’s like tipping forward into his dilated pupils. A year ago, he was stretched out across my patchwork quilt, hair flopped back from his head, lips parted. The streetlight from outside wandered across his neck, his bare chest, his golden eyelashes.
He wants someone who knows who she is.
I guess I didn’t.
