“Hey, Miranda, what’s Marcy’s favorite drink?” Craig asked
“Amaretto sour,” Miranda said automatically, not even sparing him a glance, her attention consumed by whatever she was relaying over her headset.
Stefan had just been hauled through the house on his way to the rejection limo and Craig figured he had about two minutes before Danny Boy tattled on him and Marcy came to find him. If she did, he’d have her favorite drink ready as a peace offering. And if she didn’t, he’d take it to her. There was only so long a guy could wait to be sought out—but he wasn’t going to tell the other guys that. Perception was half the battle. If these guys were all panicked and insecure, it could only help his cause.
Craig collected an Amaretto sour from the bartender off camera and strolled back into the living room to wait.
“That’s your strategy?” John from Baltimore asked skeptically. “Just stand there with her favorite drink and hope she comes to you?”
“Dude, she’s already coming for me. I’m just prepared for her.”
He couldn’t have timed it better. Marcy entered the living room and didn’t even glance at the other men. “Craig, could I have a word with you?”
He smiled at her as if they had a secret. “Of course.”
She turned on her heel, probably intending to storm out so he would be forced to follow, but he moved quickly so it looked like they were sneaking away together. Perception. Nothing like it.
Once they were outside, but still in view of the other men, he extended the drink to her. “Amaretto sour? I hear they’re your favorite. Thought you might like something to help you unwind after the way Stefan was dragged out of here.”
She frowned at the drink, but accepted it. “Did you intentionally sabotage Stefan?”
He blinked innocently. “How would I do that?”
“By encouraging him to drink more than he could handle.”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t the one pouring the shots, sweetheart. You can take that up with the production team.”
She frowned. “You aren’t supposed to mention them. They’ll have to edit that out.”
He glanced around, reminded that the conversation they were having now was on camera. It was disturbing how easy it was to forget the constant presence of the cameras and that everything he said now would be fodder for the viewing public in a few months.
Marcy kept walking, around the pool deck to the fire pit. When she shivered, he shrugged off his jacket, dropping it around her shoulders as she settled onto one of the plush loungers around the pit. She accepted the jacket, shooting him a speculative look as she tugged the lapels.
From across the pool came the distinct sound of someone retching into the bushes. Aidan, most likely.
Marcy groaned. “I suppose you had nothing to do with that either?”
“If I did, could you blame me? It improves the odds for me.” He sank down beside her, close enough that his leg pressed against hers.
She sighed—whatever irritation had carried her inside to seek him out had melted into a sort of resignation. She eyed him. “You’re trouble, aren’t you, Craig Corrow?”
“That depends.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Do you like trouble?”
Her lips twitched. It was answer enough. Marcy may be America’s Sweetheart, but she was just as susceptible to bad boys as the next girl.
“It’s a little early to be gunning for the role of villain, isn’t it?” she asked. “Aren’t you concerned you should make a good impression?”
“Why should I be?” He reached up and wound one of her brown curls around his finger. It was softer than he’d expected. “Good girls like you can’t resist a bad boy like me.”
She lifted one eyebrow, the naughty gleam in her eyes going straight to his groin. “What makes you so certain I’m a good girl?”
The air ignited, seeming to sizzle between them as her tongue snuck out and wet her bottom lip. Craig went half hard before his brain had time to catch up to what he was seeing.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he rasped, his voice suddenly huskier. “Who’d have suspected Miss Right is a bad girl? That’s a relief.”
Her other eyebrow lifted to meet the first. “A relief?”
“Hell yeah. Good girls can’t resist me, but bad girls can’t get enough of me.”
#
She was in trouble.
Craig grinned, wicked and inviting and sexy as hell, and leaned in. His gaze dropped to her lips.
Oh Lord. He was going to kiss her. She could feel the weight of that imminent kiss pressing against her skin, charging the very air in her lungs with an expectant electricity.
She’d told herself she wasn’t going to be the Miss Right who kissed all the Suitors at the drop of a hat, but something about Craig took all of her good intentions and burned them to a crisp. Her eyelids were suddenly unreasonably heavy, falling over her eyes as he leaned in... closer…
“Marcy? Is everything all right out here?”
She stiffened, jerking back, eyes open wide. “Daniel.”
“Of course,” Craig muttered. “Captain America to the rescue.”
He didn’t try to stop her when she rose. She shrugged out of his jacket and handed it back to him as Daniel stepped into the light around the fire pit, the camera crews shifting to accommodate his arrival.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Daniel thrust his hands into his pockets, frowning severely at Craig.
“Absolutely. We were just heading back to the house.”
“We were?” Craig still lounged in front of the fire, its light casting intriguing shadows across his handsome face. The man was too good looking for his own good. And certainly too good looking for hers.
“We were,” she said firmly.
Craig shrugged, as lazily confident as a lion, and came to his feet. He slipped his jacket back on and held out his arm to her. “Milady?”
Daniel watched the interplay, frowning, but Marcy couldn’t see a reason not to take Craig’s arm, so she rested her palm against the firm curve of his biceps. He was all rock hard strength beneath that jacket—a fact she felt oddly guilty for noticing with Daniel looking on.
They walked back toward the house and as they went the rest of the men who had been outside joined them until she felt like the pied piper of masculine hotness, leading them all back to the living room. As soon as they entered the house, she became aware of the production crews swarming around—always careful to stay out of the camera sightlines—ushering everyone into the living room.
It was time, she realized, a bolt of nervousness striking her stomach. The moment of truth. Time for the Elimination Ceremony. God, she hated these things. She’d never enjoyed them when she was on the other side and she couldn’t imagine that being the one making the choices was going to make it any more pleasant.
As soon as everyone was settled in the living room, Josh Pendleton, the long-time host of the show, stepped into the room, tapping his champagne class with a fork to call the room to order. “I’m afraid it’s that time, gentlemen, Marcy,” he said.
She tried not to grimace, taking Josh’s arm and letting him lead her out of the room. He escorted her to a small room where Miranda waited along with headshots of all the Suitors.
The producer tucked her iPad under her arm and waved Marcy toward one of the room’s two chairs. “Have a seat. Hair and make-up will be here momentarily to touch you up and then we’ll take just a few minutes to hear how you’re feeling, whether you think there might be long term potential with some of these guys, and something about how important this decision is for you. Josh will walk you through the interview and then leave you alone with the photos to deliberate. Take all the time you need,” Miranda glanced at her watch, “as long as it’s not more than fifteen minutes. We’ll be getting the guys set up and you know how restless the natives can get right before the Elimination Ceremony. If you’d like suggestions, that list,” she pointed to a piece of paper tucked amid the photos, “has ten of our recommendations—including suggestions for who to pick first and who to pick last. When you’re ready, let Linus know, he’ll cue Josh to give the boys the speech and then we’ll walk you. You good?”
Marcy nodded. “Great.”
Miranda’s speech settled her, reaffixing both of her feet firmly on the ground. It was surprisingly easy to forget why she was here. Even with the camera crews swarming around like bees, she found herself getting caught up in the moments. It was good to have the reminder of why she was here—the show element of it, to entertain America with her emotional upheavals. A neatly edited, carefully choreographed version of her love life.
She was Miss Right. That was her role and she knew her lines. She had a feeling Craig would be on the recommended list—his inflammatory tendencies would make for great television while the viewers were still getting to know the “nice guys” and picking their favorites. But he was trouble and she didn’t need someone like Craig around tempting her to break character.
Miranda and the show’s teams of matchmakers and psychologists laid out their picks for her, but she wasn’t required to look at them. And ultimately the decision was hers.
Her stomach clenched. She’d thought this would be the easy part. She was good at decisions—she trusted her instincts, never got mired in self-doubt. But now that it came down to the moment of truth, she could only stare helplessly at the sea of faces staring back at her from the photos.
It was too early to know who she would pick in the end. Too early to know which hearts would get broken, which guys would turn into jealous monsters and which ones would try to use her.
Josh Pendleton sank into the interview chair. “Shall we get started?”
#
“Darius, will you accept this token of my favor?”
“Of course.”
Craig watched as Marcy pinned another of the little ribbon thingies to the lapel of another of his competitors, his own lapel irritatingly bare.
On the other side of the semi-circle of Suitors, Daniel reached up to pat his own ribbons, looking insufferably smug. Even Drunk Aidan had one of the little knots. And there Craig stood, watching the pile of favors dwindling down to fucking nothing, without so much as a glance in his direction.
There was something between them. He knew there was. So why wouldn’t she even look at him? What had the producers said to her when they whisked her away? Had they warned her away from him?
He should have kissed her. Fucking Danny Boy and his shitty timing. If he kissed her, he’d have a favor.
Darius returned to his place in the semi-circle and Marcy picked up another favor, leaving only one on the pedestal beside her.
“Mark L.”
Next to Craig, another Suitor cursed under his breath as Mark L. moved forward to accept his favor. Josh Pendleton had gone through a whole speech at the beginning of the ceremony, explaining the symbolism of a lady bestowing her favor on the knights vying for her hand, as if they didn’t all know what hearing their names called meant. Mr. Perfect gave out slim gold rings—not big on subtlety, this show—but Miss Right’s version of the golden ticket to stick around for one more week was a fancy knot of multi-colored ribbons pinned to the lapel.
Mark L. received his pin and returned to his place.
Last favor.
Fuck. He couldn’t go home on the first night.
Eight of the original thirty never made it past the first night, but he’d never even considered that he wouldn’t go deep into the competition.
Craig smiled, trying to project calm and confidence for the cameras as Josh Pendleton stepped forward into the view of the cameras.
“Gentlemen, as you know, this is the last favor of the night. If your name is not called, I’m afraid your journey for love ends here.” He turned to Miss Right and nodded. “Marcy.”
She reached for the last favor. Her gaze lifted, locking on Craig’s. Her hand hesitated, hovering over the pedestal. He realized he was holding his breath—and not just because of what this decision could mean for his career. He wanted Marcy to admit she liked him, to admit there was something there. Chemistry, fire, whatever she wanted to call it. He held the stunning green of her gaze and willed her to admit she wanted him, willed her to say it.
She wet her lips. “Craig.”
“Thank God,” he muttered under his breath, stepping forward to receive her favor. She mumbled the official words and he nodded his consent as she reached up and pinned the ribbons to his lapel. Her hands shook a little as she worked the pin and he bent his head toward her, lowering his voice. “Good choice.”
Her eyes flicked up to meet his and she smiled ruefully, shaking her head. “Cocky punk.”
He just grinned, and she grinned back, and that moment was theirs—the cameras, the other Suitors, the millions of American viewers who would see it, they couldn’t touch this.