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When Serena was helping me prep for this assignment, asking me everything from my sixth-grade teacher’s name to my first boy band crush, I was supposed to tell her the whole truth. She already knew most of it, but there were little things that had slipped through the cracks of our friendship. Since I started writing freelance forVivid, the lifestyle magazine where she’s the pop culture editor, and my writing really started to take off, she’d become more of a boss and less of a friend. Our weekly coffee meet-ups turned into monthly pitch sessions for new articles, and somewhere between her interrogation about my workout routine and the deep dive into the time I accidentally attended a Mosquitoes Aren’t Real convention, I decided she didn’t need to know about my night with Rhett. The job she was promising if I did this was too good to risk.
But now? Now it could ruin everything.
“Hello?” bellows a voice.
“Shit.” I pull myself up and check my face in the mirror.
“Is there a woman in there?” It’s Norbert, banging on the door. When I don’t answer right away, he shouts, “I’m breaking down the door!”
I lunge across the bathroom and open the door before Norbert can do any damage.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just freshening up.”
Norbert looks skeptical but nods and walks away, leaving me in peace.
“Georgia?”
I whirl around, expecting another producer, or even Roland. But Rhett is standing at the end of the hall, looking at me.
I stare at him for a few seconds, registering that he’s said my name. That he even knows my real name.
He glances up into the camera-free hallway corners and steps forward, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his microphone battery pack. Flicking it off, he runs a hand over his perfectly manicured topiary of stubble.
I want to speak first, but I don’t know what to say. What do you say to someone who gave you the steamiest night of your life and then evaporated with the dawn?
“Or Gracie?” he says, more softly. My heart drops. The only other time he’s spoken my pseudonym was when we were pressed up against the sticky muraled wall of the concert, his breath sliding down my neck as sweat slicked my back and heat thickened my tongue.
He opens his mouth to speak but I back away, frantically ripping at the cord running down my back.
“My microphone.” I try to unzip the back of my dress, but Rhett steps forward and tucks a finger under my neckline. Heat races up my chest as my back hits the wall. “What are you—”
Deftly, he tugs up the tiny microphone, squints at it, then pinches it hard between his fingers. “Listen to me,” he says. “We don’t have much time.” We don’t have muchspaceis more likeit. At most, there’s a few inches between us, and those inches are doing nothing to stem the tide rising in my chest. “You can’t let them know,” he whispers. “It would jeopardize both of our positions here.”
My mouth drops open, all the resentment I’ve held for the past year on the tip of my tongue. But he’s right, we don’t have time. At any moment a producer could scuttle around the corner, canceling out whatever safety this camera blind spot is providing.
I set my jaw and nod. “Wasn’t planning on it, but thanks for the reminder.”
He glances over his shoulder and steps, if possible, closer. So close that when I take a breath, my sequin-covered nipples brush his lapels and he inhales sharply.
“What should I call you?” he asks, eyebrow cocked.
I meet his eyes. “Georgia. If you—”
“Don’t worry,” he mutters. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Good.” I try to sound confident, but my voice is a bundle of nerves. I pull away from him, grab my microphone, and pinch it between my own fingers. “We should get back now. Wouldn’t want them to think you’ve pulled a fourAMwalkout on your host duties, would you?”
He jerks his head back like I’ve slapped him, but his face remains impassive.
I spin on my heel and stalk away before he can see how badly I’m shaking. He can promise anything he wants, but that doesn’t mean I believe him.
After all, the last promise he made me vanished with the morning.
Pick a tragedy—any tragedy. Big or small, it will make viewers sympathize with you.
—Shacking Up: The Definitive, Unauthorized Guide to WinningLove Shack
Chapter Three
