Page 8 of Most Eligible
—Shacking Up: The Definitive, Unauthorized Guide to WinningLove Shack
Chapter Four
Electric tea lights line every inch of the path to the rose garden. There are twenty of us now, all arranged in a semicircle between bushes. Soon there will be only fifteen left.
My feet are aching, my back is killing me, and every time Olie-Ravioli exhales, I get a strong whiff of bourbon. I could probably get drunk off her fumes alone. The tight dress makes the situation infinitely more unbearable.
When Serena and I came up with Gracie Hart as my pseudonym, drunk on wine coolers in our senior-year apartment, neither of us expected I’d ever be in a situation so similar to the real Gracie’s inMiss Congeniality. But short of demonstrating self-defense skills, I feel every bit the undercover pageant queen.
The only thing making this worth it is the job waiting for me when it’s over.
One more freelance investigative assignment. That’s what Serena promised. One more time digging up dirt and she’d fight for me to get the job of my dreams atVivid. No more grueling research, no more losing myself in someone else’s life, no more forgoing any credit to stay anonymous. Just me and a column dedicated to what I love writing about: music.
Lainey and Rhett saunter out from the mansion—rather, he saunters and she struts, her tiny legs working double-time to keep up.
As the cameras finish setting up, Rhett sweeps his gaze over the crowd and finds me. He seems to be asking a silent question, but I raise my chin, refusing to answer.
Scowling, he shoves his hands in his pockets, hands that just a few hours ago were picking my mic from beneath my dress, skimming over my skin. Hands that once mapped my body like it led to an oasis. I ball my own hands into fists and drag my gaze away from him.
Another wave of nausea hits as he runs his fingers through his hair, just like he did as he stood back and watched the band play at the Pink Iguana. We were surrounded by surfers and college girls. Besides me, he was the only person who seemed to be alone. Until he wasn’t—and neither was I.
I don’t remember everything about that night, but flashes stand out so sharply they might as well be happening all over again for the cameras. His fingers pressing into my hips as I hovered above him. Him, licking a bead of sweat off my neck, murmuring words I couldn’t hear over the beating of my own heart. The soft orange light from my lamp leaving his face half in shadow. As we drifted to sleep, I considered asking for his phone number, but it seemed ridiculous. I could ask him in the morning, right after I told him my real name.
“Ladies.” Rhett’s voice startles me out of my head. If it weren’t for theson the word, I could pretend he was talking only to me. “What a magical night. During this ceremony, Roland will call fifteen names. Those women will get to stay. If he doesn’t say your name, you’ll need to pack your bags.” His eyes flick to me, something unreadable in his expression.
He was my mistake that night, but maybe I was his too. If I were him, I’d want me gone.
One by one, Roland calls out names and, one by one, women file up to him, thank him graciously (or in Olie-Ravioli’s case, tearfully), and head inside, escorted by Rhett.
When ten women have gone up, ten of us remain. More than halfway through and my name hasn’t been called.
Roland’s lips part. “Nina,” he says. A stunning woman with waist-length black ringlets kisses him on the cheek and walks inside.
Four to go.
Lainey hurries forward and whispers to Roland. Her hands are on her hips, her lips moving so quickly they’re a blur. When she steps back, Roland clears his throat.
“Monica,” he says and she files inside, her fresh athlete’s face showing no signs of fatigue.
Three to go.
Is there a chance I won’t make it? After everything, after telling him about my parents, after “Georgia Peach,” he’s going to cast me off like a stray hair on the highway?
“Georgia,” Roland says. And just for me, he mouths, “Peach,” and winks. Maybe I’m delirious from lack of sleep, because something in me bubbles up as I walk toward him. I have the compulsive urge to laugh, but I choke it down as exhaustion rolls over me.
“Thank you,” I whisper. And I mean it.
Briefly, his hands clasp my waist, fingers scraping over the sequins. Then he lets me go, and I give him one last smile as I leave the garden.
“Nice job,” a gruff voice says. Rhett places a hand on my back, his thumb grazing against the exposed skin at the top of my dress.
“Rhett—” I wobble on my heels but he steadies me, and my stomach swoops.
“This way.” He points up the path to one of the mansion’s doors, glowing with light.
I offer a tight smile—all for show, of course—and pull away. I blame it on the skimpy dress that my back is cold where he was touching my skin.
The postceremony pool party is in full swing by fourAM. Everyone else sprinted off as soon as they hopped into bikinis, so I’m the only one in the mansion’s dorm room now, surrounded by more bunk beds than I’ve seen since my brief stint at sleepaway camp in middle school—brief because I didn’t poop for ten days and had to be helicoptered out of Vermont.
