Page 95 of Most Eligible
I already have, I think. But I nod and let her strap me into my body mic. If this is happening, I might as well get it over with as quickly as possible.
And making it to the finals will all but guarantee that someone will want to publish what I plan to write.
After all, sex sells.
The circular driveway is baking in the sun as I wait for Roland to sweep me away to whatever erotic paradise awaits us. I raise ahand to shade my eyes as a hum starts down the long road and grows steadily louder.
There are cameras on me—lots of them. Lainey is typing something on her phone, and Jules anxiously fluffs up my loose hair. I scoot away from her, pulling my hair around my neck where the hickey hides like a tattoo of a scarlet letter.
The hum turns into a red Vespa that rumbles down the cobbled driveway and comes to a halt in front of me. When I rip my eyes away from the beautiful bike, they come to rest on Roland, who dismounts, takes off his helmet, and shakes out his dark hair, which is longer now than on the first night in Malibu. About ten cameras catch this magazine-worthy moment. They also catch the moment when he steps toward me and pulls me up against his leather-jacket-clad chest to kiss my forehead.
I bite back a frown. Why isn’t he kissing me like usual? Does he—could he possibly know?
“Come on, kiss her like a man,” Lainey yells. I flinch at her tone and at the expression on Roland’s face. His brows are furrowed, eyes bloodshot. He and Addison must’ve had quite the night.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. I take a deep breath and draw his mouth down to mine, holding our unmoving lips together for what feels like an eternity.
“Another minute,” Lainey calls. “One more angle.”
I wonder if this will be the Kiss Shot, the one that gets whittled down to a silhouette, plastered with theLove Shacklogo, aired before and after every commercial break. I wonder if anyone will be able to tell how little I want this.
Behind us, the hotel door opens and shuts. I hear a ragged breath that sounds like Rhett. I squeeze my eyes more tightly shut, wrap my arms around Roland’s neck to keep myself from falling down. In response, he moves his lips from mine, pecks me on the cheek, and is about to draw back when Lainey yells, “More!”
“Lainey,” I hear Norbert say, but she shushes him.
Roland doesn’t come back to my mouth but instead kisses his way down my face to my neck, and I grab his head, pressing his lips to my throat over the spot of makeup. He hesitates for a second but seems grateful for the direction and kisses my neck harder. When he pulls away, his lips curl into a smile. I quickly swipe my fingers across his lips, removing the smudge of tan makeup before anyone can see. I don’t turn around. I cannot look behind me at Rhett.
Roland sets a cream-colored helmet on my head and inspects my neck. He taps a finger to the base of my throat and winces.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Don’t be.” I try for a flirty smile, but it feels more like my body is burning from the inside out.
He runs his tongue over his lips and winks, eyes darting up to the boom mic looming overhead. “I’ve got more where that came from.”
My face flushes as Lainey chastises him. “Roland! We’re creating a family program here.” She bustles forward and arranges us in front of the scooter, instructing the camera operators to capture the hotel’s sign behind us. “Rhett,” she barks. “Up here. What are you waiting for?”
Rhett runs his hand down his face. His eyes barely leave the ground as he steps forward into the sun. He looks terrible. His face is pale, his blue shirt wrinkled and untucked.
Roland, arm around me, catches a glimpse of him and chuckles. “Looks like someone had a fun night in Italy.”
The look Rhett gives him could crack stone.
When the cameras roll, Rhett puts on a dim smile. “This is an important moment in your relationship. You get to spend time together without cameras. Without producers. Just the two of you.” He keeps his eyes fixed above my left shoulder. I’m surprisedthe air doesn’t combust. “Today—tonight—is about getting to know each other on a deeper level, breaking down your barriers, and getting closer as a couple. It’s about learning whether you trust each other enough to be compatible long-term.”
Roland and I hop onto the Vespa and zip out of the hotel’s driveway. I’m clinging to the back of his jacket, desperately hoping someone taught him how to drive this thing. But after a few uneventful minutes, he pulls over.
“Just for the cameras,” he tells me as we dismount. A black SUV pulls up beside us and we get in, leaving the bike with a few local PAs on the side of the road.
The driver brings us up the coast, orange groves and ocean dimly visible outside the tinted windows. Soon, we turn into a long driveway. Past rows of cypress trees lining the property, there’s a tiled swimming pool and, beyond that, a villa.
As I climb from the SUV, the villa’s white stucco walls bounce the sunlight back at me. We walk up the path slowly, since it’s harder (and louder) for cameras to roll backward on a shell path than on concrete.
Jules, lugging a giant suitcase, leads me into the house, and we part ways with Roland. She escorts me into a bedroom with a view of the inner courtyard, filled with citrus trees and alabaster fountains.
Turning from the gorgeous architecture, I unzip theLove Shack–provided suitcase that Jules hoists onto the bed. The top flops open onto the ornately embroidered duvet.
Inside are four bathing suits, a few robes, dresses, lightweight satin pants, a tank top, and about eighty sets of lingerie. Okay, maybe forty. Fine. Maybe ten. But still. It’s more lingerie than I’ve ever seen outside of a Victoria’s Secret. As I’m dangling one particularly scary lace contraption in front of me, Jules gasps.
