Page 23 of Most Eligible
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Rhett says, running a hand through his hair. A harassed-looking PA runs over and combs it back into submission as Rhett stands, body tense, until they’re done.
“I wonder what Rhett’s tattoos are,” Nina whispers.
My traitor of a stomach dives straight between my legs, and I cross my arms, shivering. “Maybe something related to music?” It’s not like I drew a diagram, but I remember every last one.
“Maybe,” Nina says. “I don’t really like his music, do you?”
I shrug, squeeze my hands together to distract myself from the heat that’s coursing through my body. “It’s all right—country’s not really my thing. I’m more into indie music, something a little more original.” I say this last bit louder, hoping Rhett can hear. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him glance our way. His lips twitch. The way this makes my stomach flip is inappropriate, unacceptable, but unavoidable. Part of me wants to keep going, drag country music through the mud, just to get a rise out of him.
What I don’t tell Nina is that before I met him, I had both of Rhett’s albums on vinyl. Something about his smooth voice, the folky rather than twangy vibe of his second album, made him the only country artist who regularly filled my apartment. Itwasoriginal, no matter what I’ve told Nina.
That night, he’d leaned down, plucking his records from a crate. “You’ve got good taste.” He held up the most recent record, letting the older one fall to my bed. Seeing him standing there, holding that piece of himself—mypiece of him—felt impossible.
Rhett clears his throat and begins his speech. “Right now, there are fifteen of you. In a few hours, there will be only ten. During the cocktail party tonight, you’ll have the opportunity to talk to Roland, and I suggest you make the most of it.” He adjusts his cuff links, glancing at the cameras. “At the end of the cocktail party, Roland will tell you who he’s moving forward with. The rest of you will pack your bags.”
A chill runs down my spine at his words.
Lainey’s script for him is as different as possible from the lyrics on his first record. That one was filled with phrases like“sweet tea,” “bottle on the shelf,” and most memorably, “is there a heaven for horses?” The second album, though noticeably less country, still had its fair share of “back roads” and “truck tires.” Even before I knew him, that album had seemed more authentic. From the unwieldy metaphors to the cliffhanger dissonances, it was like watching a live feed of his life—the beautiful, the ugly, the haunted, the sparkling—it was all there. And now it’s all here, right in front of me, bottled up in his body.
When he reached up under the beating sun, brushed sweat from my neck, jaw ticking as I asked if he was flirting with me,thatwas the Rhett of his second album. Cocky, pitch-perfect, daring. But also unsure, leaning on the guitar chords in case his voice wasn’t enough.
“Imagine having to leavetonight.” Brooklyn shudders, crossing her arms as she shakes her head. “And never seeing Roland again.”
The thought of packing my bags is nauseating. If someone had told me a week ago that I’d be determined to stay, and not just to finish my assignment, I wouldn’t have believed them. But here I am, and the trickle of fear that slides through me has nothing to do with my job.
A few of the other women nod and I mirror them, even though my feelings aren’t exactly the same. Leaving tonight is the last thing I want to do. But it’s a differenthimthat I’m reluctant to leave behind.
Roland joins us outside, and before he even starts talking, Olie gets up from the couch. Black velvet dress hugging her curves, she hurries up to Roland and holds out a glass of Scotch I assumed she was saving for herself.
“I got you a drink,” she says in her huskiest voice. Addison goggles at her like her flaming-red hair has caught fire, but I smile; Olie knows how to play the game.
Giving the lead a drink is usually reserved for when the lead is a woman being wooed by twenty-odd men. But when the lead is a man, it hardly ever happens. Maybe the producers figure it’s too old-fashioned—the ’50s housewife presenting her husband with a dirty martini the second he gets home from hisMad Menoffice job, lips still swollen from kissing his secretary. But Olie uses it to her advantage. Roland grins down at her and takes the drink, murmuring something I can’t hear. When she sits back down beside me, she’s flushed, hands clasped elegantly in her lap.
“Nice,” I whisper. I hope she knows I’m being genuine. Addison looks like she’s about to take an axe to Olie’s head. Even Monica is glaring at her, blinking back tears.
Roland takes a sip of the drink and gives Olie a quick smile.
“I’m excited to talk with each of you tonight,” he says. “As you know, I have some big decisions to make, and I don’t take that lightly. Whatever happens, I’m grateful to every one of you for being here. Shall we get started?”
Immediately, Monica leaps up, tugging down the hem of her dress, and walks to Roland.
“Can I have the privilege of speaking to you first?” she asks. The rest of us have barely had a chance to blink, and she’s already leading him away.
“An ace if I ever saw one,” Olie jokes. Seeing the confused look on my face, she rolls her eyes. “Tennis reference,” she says. “You better brush up if you want to hit his balls.” She raises her eyebrows meaningfully and strolls inside, leaving me and Nina in a fit of giggles.
Two hours into the evening, I’m starting to understand why people on this show drink so much. There’s truly nothing else to do.
I sidle up to the bar and order a Bloody Mary from Kevin. Wordlessly, he makes the drink, sticks a piece of celery in it, and slides it across the counter to me. Maybe it’s in his contract that he can’t engage.
“Hey, Georgia.”
I turn to see Philippa and Chloe standing at the other end of the bar. Philippa waves me over. “How many of us do you think Roland will kiss tonight?” she asks, her dark eyes alight with mischief. She bites off a maraschino cherry and drops the stem back into her empty glass.
“Uh, I don’t know.” I take a careful sip of my drink, avoiding the celery. My honest guess would beas many as he can, but I don’t want to seem disrespectful.
From the neckline of her lilac dress, lines of a tattoo curl across Philippa’s dark skin. They look almost like tentacles, but before I can ask her about them, familiar footsteps make us all stiffen.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lainey approach us, standing a few feet away with her hands folded primly in front of her. She clears her throat with a tiny sound that makes Philippa’s hands shake as she bites off yet another maraschino cherry. Beside her, Chloe averts her eyes, like if she doesn’t look at Lainey, she can’t possibly exist.
