Page 97 of Most Eligible
I’ve had more than enough of Roland’s surprises, but I just smile, trying to look excited as he leads me around the terrace to the other side of the villa, where the balcony overlooking the Mediterranean is bathed in sunset light. Before we round the corner, he stops and tells me, “We’re getting a private concert.”
Dread spins through me as we turn the corner.
Under twinkling fairy lights and large TV beams is a large, patterned outdoor carpet with a microphone.
And there, in the center, looking at me like a wounded animal, is Rhett. His eyes are wide and pitiful as Roland wraps me in his arms and starts to sway. They’ll probably cut the music out and relayer it in later, but even so, Rhett starts singing, plucking out a lonely melody on his guitar.
At first, I don’t recognize the song, but as Roland pulls me closer, his body flush against mine, I recognize some of the lyrics. Rhett didn’t write this song—he’s set someone else’s lyrics to a slow country melody.
Roland’s chuckle rumbles through his chest as his hands press into my back. “Fitting,” he whispers. Something hot settles in my stomach like an ember escaping a fire. Rhett is singing “Georgia,” by Vance Joy, but much slower than the original recording.
I press my face into Roland’s shoulder so no one can see the frustrated tears welling in my eyes. Rhett doesn’t get to do this. Not when we both know it’s too late for us.
Roland lets out a low, rasping breath and his fingers tense against my back. We spin so we’re right in front of Rhett now, and I draw Roland’s head down so his forehead rests on mine. Istare into his gray eyes, tangling my fingers into his dark hair. I hope the pain in my eyes looks like love, lust, anything but what it is.
When we break apart, I don’t have to look at Rhett to see the effect I’ve caused. I can hear it in his voice, the edge that’s crept in. The cameras loom closer, nearly bumping our faces, and for the first time, Roland’s eyes flick to our observers.
“Georgia,” he whispers, as Rhett sings the same word, but with a very different tone. “I’m falling in love with you.”
If Roland had spoken a second sooner, his words would have been drowned out by the music, but the music stops just as he opens his mouth. I can’t pretend I didn’t hear him.
What happens next will be a turning point: I either reciprocate or go home.
My eyes skate briefly to Rhett, and I feel sick with what I’ve done to him. I focus back on Roland, his liquid-gray eyes wide and anxious. If the words had come from Rhett, the silence pressing into me like shards of glass would be kinder. It would be gentle, soft, like the spilling quiet in my bedroom when the vinyl I’d put on ticked into silence. I could look into his eyes and not know, be okay with not knowing, instead of knowing full well what I have to say. I search the crowd of cameras for a heartbeat and catch on an all-too-familiar face.
Lainey arches a brow expectantly.
Swiveling my gaze back to Roland, I choke out the words. “I’m falling for you too.”
After everything I said to get here, all the bullshit I’ve spewed, this lie hits differently. My eyes slide to Rhett. The moment is refracted, my words glancing off Roland’s suit and bending like light toward the man they’re really about.
But it’s not good enough. I haven’t convinced Roland, whose forehead is still scrunched and anxious. And I haven’t convinced Lainey, who coughs quietly in the crowd of producers.
As much as I know it’ll hurt Rhett, I’m doing this for him. To fix the mess I’ve made.
So I take a deep breath and whisper into Roland’s expectant face, “I’m falling in love with you.”
“I won’t lie—this whole journey has been really challenging. I was looking out for so many people’s hearts that sometimes I forgot to take care of my own. But I ended up where I needed to be. Sometimes, it takes a while to figure out what’s right in front of you.”
—Roland Marchetti, season 20 lead ofLove Shack, in a postseason interview withPeople
Chapter Thirty-Three
As soon as we’re out of view of the cameras, Roland and I rip off our body mics. The next logical step would be to rip off each other’s clothes, but instead he picks me up and sprints through the marble-floored foyer into the belly of the villa. I let out a shriek of laughter as he deposits me on a plush fainting couch in the sitting room.
Roland looks at me as I kick off my shoes, his expression hesitant. Slowly, he leans down and plants a featherlight kiss on my lips. His hands are still at his sides, our lips the only point of contact between us. After a second, he pulls back.
“Our first real kiss,” he whispers. “You know, off camera.”
I try to smile, but my heart is pounding, back sweating. I wrap my arms around myself. “Why don’t I change into something a little more comfortable?”
Leaving Roland in the sitting room, I head down the hall to the bedroom I changed in earlier. The suitcase now sits behind a gilded folding divider in the corner. I crouch down to look through my options. After some debate, I strip off the dress and pull on the loose red lingerie set that Jules thought was more my style. She was right. I get a glimpse of my reflection in thedark window and blink. My hair is loose, falling in waves over my shoulders. My eyes are huge. The hickey on my neck has been thoroughly stripped of makeup. I place my hands over my stomach and rub them up over my chest. In the hazy, distorted reflection, I imagine they’re Rhett’s hands, burning up and down my body.
“You okay in there?”
My hands drop to my sides at the sound of Roland’s voice.
“Yeah!” I call, high-pitched, too fast. “Just a few minutes.”
