Page 6 of Most Eligible
Monica blushes deeply as I step forward. I haven’t thought about what I’ll say to get Roland on his own, but when I open my mouth the words tumble out.
“Roland, can I steal you for a minute?”
It tastes like vomit. I’m just like all the hopeful women I watched parade across my TV at two-times speed during my express marathon of the last nineLove Shackseasons.
I never thought I’d say it. Then again, I never thought I’d be on reality TV.
Monica’s blush fades as she stands, says goodbye, and smiles kindly—too kindly—at me. She and Roland look good together, two tennis stars in their effortlessly glamorous formalwear—like they’re striding through the pages ofSports Illustratedinstead of a moderately trashy reality show.
Roland stands and grins at me. “Georgia Peach.”
My stomach swoops with nerves. All the cameras are pointing at me. I guess they’ve gotten enough shots of Roland in this exact position, his lean, athletic build and dark hair making himlook like a 1950s movie star. He has just the right amount of stubble gracing his chin—a tiny bit less than Rhett. Not that I’m comparing.
Roland places a hand on my lower back, sending a ripple of unease up my spine, and leads me into the mansion. The cameras follow us to a bright room bursting with various attempts at indoor horticulture. I shiver as a breeze rushes in through the open French doors, bringing with it the smell of salt air.
Every surface in this room seems designed to encourage making out: the explosion of pillows on the love seat, the bejeweled beanbag chair in the corner, the oversized daybed under a potted palm.Bang zones, as Serena called them. The thought gives me goosebumps. Even if I’m supposed to ignore them, the cameras don’t exactly make for a cozy hookup vibe.
Roland chooses the love seat, and we sit down. He waits for a producer to give him a thumbs-up before turning to me. As I face him, my skin starts to itch with anxiety. I dig my nails into my palms before stopping myself; I can’t afford to seem rattled.
“I’m so glad we have this chance to talk,” Roland says smoothly. His gray eyes twinkle like the Malibu sky on a cloudy day. “I’d love to hear more about you.” His brow is puckered slightly like he’s really listening to me, something I honestly hadn’t anticipated. I can see why the other women like him, why America has embraced him as THE Most Eligible Bachelor in the History of the Knowable Universe or whatever the fuck it is. Too bad he’s not my type.
A movement in the crowd of producers catches my eye. I flick my gaze to them and notice the man leaning down to whisper something to Lainey, his red-brown hair, hands shoved in his pockets. Rhett straightens up and glances my way, his eyes catching mine. He does a double take before his face settles back into a scowl.
I refocus on Roland.
“Well,” I begin, a canned response, “I’m from Rhode Island. So I grew up by the ocean, but not this one. And now I live in LA.”
In the pause that follows, I train my eyes on Roland’s, engaging every bit of my willpower not to look over at the man who already knows I live in LA. Who knows exactly what street I live on, what convenience store my apartment is above, how the light outside my door flickers every few seconds. A shudder passes through me, Rhett’s face under that flickering light swimming before my eyes, leaning down, closer, closer, like it was a strobe and not faulty wiring.
“Rhode Island…” Roland scratches his jaw, jolting me back. “That’s, like, part of New York, right?”
Yup. Definitely back in reality.
For a second, the room is silent except for the shuffling footsteps of the cameraman, trying to catch my reaction. Then Rhett lets out a hastily stifled laugh. It must be him, that deep cough, the way his voice has just enough scruff around the edges to leave a burn. Why the hell is he even here? Surely he has better things to do than watch me flail my way through one-on-one time with Roland.
“Pretty close,” I say, forcing a laugh. “It’s the smallest state.”
“Huh.” Roland looks thoroughly bamboozled by this. “The more you know.”
“Georgia,” Lainey interrupts. “Try to smile more, okay? You don’t want to seem bitchy.”
I blink at the crowd of producers, too stunned to reply, before turning back to Roland.
“Right,” I say, dialing up my smile. “Um, I’m a music journalist.” In the brief second of silence, I hold my breath. There are dozens of music articles scattered across the internet that back up my story and not a trace of my investigative work behind the scenes. There’s no reason anyone would know that I’m Gracie Hart.
Except Rhett.
Roland’s face lights up. “What kind of music do you like?”
I open my mouth to answer, but Lainey cuts in.
“Roland, why don’t you tell Georgia what you’re looking for in a partner.”
He nods and leans toward me. “Well, the reason I came onLove Shackwas to find The One. When I tore my ACL last spring and I had to stop playing, it was really hard. But then I started thinking of it as a blessing in disguise—it’s a little hard to focus on finding a partner when you’re training twenty-four seven.” My ears perk up at this little slice of honesty. “I’m really hoping this works out and that when I’m finally back to playing on the professional circuit, my partner will be there to support me.”
I imagine myself, sitting in the stands at the US Open or Wimbledon, in a pretty linen dress, bored out of my mind. Maybe if I invested in big enough sunglasses I could sleep through it and no one would know.
“I’ve always been really inspired by my parents,” Roland continues. “They’ve been married for forty years and still kiss each other every time they get home from work. My whole life I’ve wanted that.”
