Page 10 of Most Eligible
I bite my lip, hoping she won’t ask any follow-up questions. I can’t afford to tell her about my mistake last year, not when her fighting for my job hinges on the success of this assignment.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll ask around—I’m sure I can find something. You know famous guys—there’salwayssomething.”
“Right.” The shower is starting to get cold, and I hop from foot to foot. “I’ve got to go.”
“Good luck, G, you’re going to be amazing,” she says. The nickname, a private joke between us (Georgia or Gracie? Or both!), feels like a slap in the face, a reminder of just how foolish I was to trust Rhett when I met him. “Youareamazing. And G?” She already sounds far away from the phone. “Be careful, okay?”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. As far as I’m concerned, this mansion is about as safe as a den of wolves.
“Try to have a little fun,” she says. “Who knows, maybe you’ll fall in love!”
But her words don’t have the intended effect. Falling in love is the last thing I plan on doing.
“I went onLove Shackto find The One. Obviously I’m devastated about what happened with Cassidy, but it’s for the best. I just hope that next time I fall in love, it’s for good.”
—Rhett Auburn, season 18 lead ofLove Shack, in an interview withUs Weekly
Chapter Five
Peals of laughter split the air as I head down to the pool party. Off the entrance hall, I pass the locked control room and hear the giggles echoing over speakers inside. I shiver as I imagine the producers watching the pool party on dozens of glowing screens.
As I step through the sitting room and onto the pool deck, I see it for myself. Around the enormous infinity pool, camera operators crouch like lions, capturing every splash, every laugh of the thirteen women and Roland. I glance around, looking for Brooklyn, the fourteenth. Norbert is carefully carrying her to the pool lift, his rusty beard quaking with nerves. Dropping a contestant likely wouldn’t help his career prospects. Brooklyn looks nervous too, and I can’t say I blame her. Once she’s safely in the water, they both breathe a sigh of relief.
Roland lounges in the middle of it all, arms resting over the edge of the pool, his slick torso disappearing beneath the water. There’s a small tattoo of the Wimbledon logo on his upper arm, branding him with his five back-to-back victories.
His face lights up when he sees me. “Georgia!”
Heads and cameras swing toward me. Tucking my hair behind my ear, I try to appear confident, which is hard when half ofthe women look like they want to rip my throat out. And when my itsy-bitsy bikini leaves little to the imagination.
“I guess someone wanted to make an entrance.” My eyes dart to the speaker: Addison, shoulders lifted like she told a secret, but she clearly wanted everyone to hear. “Some people will do anything for screen time.”
“Sorry, I…” I begin. But I can’t get enough air. It’s like my lungs have been pumped full of the entire Pacific and I can’t catch my breath.
“Don’t be mean, Addison,” Olie-Ravioli says, winking at me. Her red hair is piled on top of her head as she snuggles against Roland’s side in a classy black one-piece. Why didn’t I wear a one-piece?
“I’ll be right back, just got to… grab my body mic. I forgot it,” I mutter, which is true. Before the cameras can catch my blushing face, I turn to go back inside, but there are a few producers walking toward me. Trapped, I hesitate for a split second, then walk purposefully in the other direction. There must be another entrance to the mansion this way, right?
I round the corner of a tall hedge, but instead of a door back inside, I find myself facing yet another pool. At least I’m safely out of view. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I can’t let Addison get to me. Usually I’m not so sensitive, but something about being awake for twenty-four hours will do that to a person.
Another deep, shuddering breath. Everything will be better in the morning. It always is.
“Come to join me?”
I lose my footing as I spin around and let out a shriek. Stumbling, I careen toward the edge of the pool and fall, ungracefully, into the water.
A pair of strong hands pulls me to standing as I splutter.
“Are you okay?”
I cough, spitting water onto my savior. I rub chlorine from my eyes and squint at him or, more accurately, at his bare, gleaming chest and the tattoos snaking across it.
Dammit.
“Georgia?” Rhett asks. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I cough. “I—I’m good.”
He pulls me closer, the water still splashing between us. “You sure?”
