“So, Marcy, tell us, how does it feel, now that the big day is finally here?”
The cameras whirred, the lights hummed, and Marcy scrambled to think of the usual platitudes as Amelia waited expectantly. “I can’t believe eight weeks have gone by so fast.” What else was she supposed to say? “I didn’t know what to expect when I began this process, I wasn’t sure I would find love, but now…”
Craig’s smoky black eyes rose up in her mind’s eye, gleaming with wicked invitation as they had that night. She hadn’t seen him since he slipped away in the morning when Amelia walked in on them still in bed—thankfully without cameras accompanying her. He hadn’t pled his case again, hadn’t said anything about how he felt. He’d simply grinned at her—all wicked and playful—and ducked out the door with a laughing, “See you at the altar.”
The Final Choice altar. In two hours she’d be standing there. Faced with one man and then the other. Presenting them with her choice.
A choice she still hadn’t made.
All day yesterday as they’d driven from Verona to the villa at Lake Bracciano where Tom Cruise had married the most recent of his wives, Marcy had stared out the window at the Italian countryside and waited for a sense of certainty that never came.
She knew she should pick Daniel. Anyone with half a brain would pick Daniel. But what about her heart?
She was in love with Craig. She knew that now with absolute conviction—what she didn’t know was whether he would ever be capable of loving her back. What sort of fool risked her heart on a man who had admitted he would only break it—even if he’d also implied that she might be capable of breaking his right back? Was she really such a masochist?
And what would America think of her if she picked him? She wished she was the kind of person who didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about her, but she’d never been that girl. The idea that America might scorn her—or worse, boycott her books—was like an ax hanging over her head.
She wished she could speak to her sisters and her parents, ask their advice, but they were thousands of miles away and it was still early morning in the States.
If she did pick Craig, would her father worry? Would it throw him right back into another heart attack?
No, she couldn’t. She couldn’t risk doing that to him.
But with Daniel…
“Marcy?”
She blinked, coming back to the present—the whirring cameras, the expectant producer. “I’m sorry, what was I saying?”
“You weren’t sure you would find love when we started. Are you in love now?”
Yes. She couldn’t pick Daniel. It wouldn’t be fair to him. Or to her.
It just wasn’t there. She liked him. She respected him and valued him, but love? Her stupid heart was engaged elsewhere.
She almost laughed, remembering what Jack had said when he broke it off with her. I’m sorry, Marcy… my heart is engaged elsewhere. She really ought to give Jack and Lou a call. See how they were doing. They’d survived a reality television show. Maybe they could help her save her sanity when she got home.
“Marcy?”
“I need to talk to Miranda.”
Amelia frowned, taken aback. “Miranda will be here shortly to hear your choice so we can arrange the arrival order of your two remaining Suitors, but while we’re waiting for her, let’s get a little more on how you’re feeling today, shall we?”
“Yes, I’m in love,” she snapped impatiently. “I’m also about to reject a man who doesn’t deserve it and make one of the most difficult decisions of my life, so forgive me if I can’t remember the appropriate platitudes about the culmination of the journey or my life with Mister Right finally beginning.”
Amelia’s lips pursed. “I’ll get Miranda.”
Five minutes later, the executive producer walked into the room and waved the cameramen out. “I hear you’re being difficult.”
Marcy stood. She needed to be standing for this—like the words were too big to get out of her mouth any other way. “I’ve made my choice.”
Miranda nodded, satisfied. She couldn’t suspect what was coming. “Good. We do the rejected party first, so how do you want me to schedule them?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve decided to pick neither.”
Miranda didn’t even blink. “Neither.”
“It just isn’t there with Daniel and I… I just can’t with Craig.”
Miranda nodded, still displaying none of the shock Marcy had anticipated. “Daniel’s hotel is closer. We’ll have him in the ten o’clock slot. Craig will arrive just after one. We’ll get your reactions afterwards and you’ll be done by four.”
She made it sound so simple. So easy.
Marcy tried to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry. “Have you had anyone refuse to pick in the past?”
“It’s not unprecedented,” Miranda said calmly. “You should prepare yourself for some negative push-back from the audience. They are ravenous for a happy ending and can react unpredictably when denied one—but we’ll do our best through editing to show that you made the only choice you felt you could. Which would be easier if you would sit down with Amelia for some more confessional footage.”
Marcy nodded, dazed by how straightforward she made it sound. How final. Decision made. Done deal. She couldn’t seem to process it though.
“I’ll just send Amelia and the crew back in. Take your time getting your thoughts out. Wardrobe will be here to change you into your Choice gown in a little over an hour.”
“Miranda,” she called when the producer would have left. “I’m sorry I couldn’t…”
She paused with a hand on the door. “You don’t have to apologize to me, hon. But be really sure this is what you want, okay? For yourself. You never struck me as the kind of girl who was afraid of leaping off a bridge.”
Leaping off a bridge. The memory of bungee jumping with Craig came back with a vengeance.
Had Miranda said that on purpose? Was she trying to say something? Trying to tell Marcy to pick Craig?
Marcy dropped her head into her hands. She was going to drive herself crazy with all these doubts, but it would be over soon. And she’d be alone again. Easier that way. Safer.
#
Craig stared in the mirror, adjusting his tie for the hundredth time. This was it. The big day. The big choice. Marcy would make hers and he would make his. Pendleton had been clear. He couldn’t let her get the word out one way or the other. Whether Marcy would choose him or not, he had to interrupt her and pick the job over her before she made her choice or the offer vanished.
Love or money.
The producers weren’t subtle.
He’d known as soon as he woke up beside her yesterday what his choice would be. Waiting twenty-four hours for all the pomp and circumstance had been a serious pain in the ass, but the producers demanded their pound of flesh.
He didn’t wake up beside women. He wasn’t that guy. It was too much the mark of a relationship, spending the night. Too intimate. He always crept out in the night, leaving a note to make her smile and think of him fondly when he was gone, but always waking up by himself in his own bed.
He wasn’t the relationship guy. It wasn’t how he was wired.
But with Marcy, maybe he could be.
It was strange to want that. Strange to want anything beyond his career. Strange and scary.
When you wanted things, you made yourself vulnerable, exposed yourself so people could use them against you—the same way the producers were trying to use his unabashed fixation on his career against him. It was safer not to want anything—but safe wasn’t life.
He wanted his success and he wanted Marcy. And waking up beside her, with the curve of her arm flung over her face and her hair a tangled mess on the pillow, he had known with shattering certainty that there would be other jobs, other opportunities, but there would never be another Marcy.
Craig rubbed at his chest with his fist.
So this was love. Jumping off a fucking bridge. Opening yourself up to getting kicked in the teeth. It kind of sucked. But for all the terror, it was exhilarating. Like walking across a high wire after handing someone at the end a giant pair of scissors.
The door to his dressing room opened. Linus poked his head in. “Fifteen minutes and we’ll get you in the car. You good?”
“As good as I’ll ever be,” he said, clinging to the confidence that had gotten him this far. Fuck it, if he was going to go for it, he’d better go all the way. “Linus,” he called when the producer started to shut the door. “I need to make a phone call.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“I’ll have to clear it with Miranda.”
Craig snorted. “Trust me. She’ll let me make this call.”
Fifteen minutes later, Craig had a cell phone in his hand. The first one he’d held for weeks. A gruff voice answered on the third ring.
“Mr. Henrickson? It’s Craig Corrow. I’m sorry to call so early, sir, but there’s something I need to ask you.”