Marcy eyed Craig, trying to figure out what he was getting at. Was he jealous? He didn’t look it. He was staring down at their linked hands and looked almost nervous. Weirdly unsure. She felt the strangest urge to reassure him. “Daniel was a perfect gentleman.”
“I thought sex was a natural part of falling in love?”
“I thought you weren’t going to try to influence my decision.”
“Is it really a decision?” he challenged, the cockiness returning to his posture. “I mean, between me and Perfect Danny, I would think there would be no argument. I’m obviously superior.”
She laughed. “You are such an ass.”
“That’s why you love me.”
She frowned—he said it so casually, as if he didn’t even realize he’d dropped the “L” bomb, even if he hadn’t done it in the I-love-you context. Was it just a figure of speech? A Freudian slip? Was he trying to get her to reveal her feelings for him? She wasn’t allowed to acknowledge any sort of decisive feelings for him, but even if she could, she didn’t know what she would say to Craig.
Did he feel something for her? Was he fishing for confirmation? Or was this just another game? Another ploy to win?
Either way, she couldn’t go down that rabbit hole with him. Not today. She stood, only noticing when the cameramen shuffled to accommodate the movement that she’d forgotten they were there again. Craig was dangerous that way. She was too comfortable with him. Not careful enough about who she needed to be for America.
“Do you want to get out of this garden and go white water rafting or something?” she asked.
He grinned, coming to his feet as well and taking her hand. “I have a better idea. Come on.”
#
The hotel rooftop was devoid of fairy lights, plush cushions, and electrical outlets. The picnic of items collected at shops they’d passed along the walk back—fresh bread, olives, cannoli and red wine—was completely unplanned. All Craig, without the Romancing Miss Right puppet-masters pulling the strings.
The segment producer, Amelia, had fussed at them when Craig pulled a sheet off one of the beds in his suite and carried it up to the roof to spread it out on the uneven tar as their picnic blanket. She’d resorted to calling Miranda to complain when Craig just ignored her, but the uber-puppet-master must have given them the okay on the impromptu roof picnic, because now the conversations Marcy overheard from the camera guys were all about how to get power run up to the roof and what the fuck they would do when they lost the natural light. Better than their earlier threats to bodily carry Marcy and Craig downstairs to the five star meal that had been prepared for them.
Part of her wanted to feel bad for the crew members having to scramble because of them, but a much bigger part appreciated the reality of a moment that wasn’t planned and scripted. She’d been missing the real.
“Milady.” Craig bowed with a flourish.
“You know they have a whole gourmet meal planned for us somewhere tragically romantic.” Marcy knelt on the improvised picnic blanket, tucking her skirt around her legs. The roof was a just a smidge too hard to be comfortable for long, but the view more than made up for any slight discomfort. Swathes of orange, pink, and gold painted the sky as the sun dipped toward the hills that surrounded the city. Its orangey light gilded the Roman ruins and the rooftops of eighteenth century villas alike.
“We aren’t gourmet people. This is us,” Craig argued, deftly uncorking the wine. He frowned into the bottle. “I seem to have forgotten the glasses. Sit tight and I’ll run down and steal some glasses from the suite.”
Marcy plucked the bottle from his hand and brought it to her lips, taking a long drink of the dry Chianti. She didn’t spare a moment to wince at what her mother would say when she saw that. Marcy extended the bottle back to Craig with a grin. “Glasses are overrated.”
He took it with a grin. “I knew you were my kind of girl.”
She broke off a wedge of bread, passing it to him and grabbing a chunk for herself. “I never pegged you for the rooftop picnic type. I thought you wanted the fame and fortune and everything that went with it. The best things in life.”
“I do want the best things—for my mom. I want her to be able to have caviar for breakfast, escargot for lunch and truffles for dinner if she wants, but I think no matter how rich and famous I become I will always want pretty much the same things. Hard to compete with beer and pizza. Or hanging out with a hot girl on an Italian rooftop with bread and wine.” He took a swig of the wine and passed it back to her. “What about you? You want the truffles?”
She shook her head. “Nah, the truffle life has been fun for a few weeks, but I think I’m a pizza girl at heart.”
He stretched out beside her on the blanket, lolling as if the rooftop wasn’t uncomfortable as hell. “That’s not much description. Paint me a picture, writer girl. Tell me what you want. What’s your perfect life look like?”
The words shuddered through her like an earthquake, leaving a blank confusion in their wake. She didn’t know how he always seemed to know the exact right question to ask when she needed to hear it. Not that she had the first idea how to answer.
“Honestly? I’m not sure I know what I want anymore. I thought I wanted the picket fence life, but do I really?”
“This sounds like a conversation that calls for more wine.” He handed over the bottle and waved for her to take a sip. “So what’s wrong with the picket fence life?”
“It just feels so final. I want kids, yes, but I’ve seen how much they suck up your life and I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet. Someday, absolutely, but within the next couple years? I don’t know. And yeah, I wanted to have a house with a yard in a suburb for my kids to play and ride their bikes in the cul-de-sac, but when I think about the kind of place I might want to move after the show is over, I see a loft in a city.”
“So no mortgage in suburbia.”
“Not right this second. I want that, I do, and I thought I was ready for the happily-ever-after, I really did. But that life, it doesn’t feel like an exciting new adventure, the way it should, it feels like a destination I’ll get to eventually, but right now I want to enjoy the journey. I’m not ready for it to be over.”
“Studies have shown life ends the second you move to the surburbs. It’s science.”
She chucked an olive at his face and he dodged it, laughing. “I just feel like the show is rushing us—me—all of us, I don’t know—toward the happy ending because they need the resolution for their season, but I don’t want it to end. I want a beginning with someone. You know?”
“So make it a beginning. Who says you have to play by their rules?”
Marcy took another swallow straight out of the bottle, sprawled out on the roof with Craig, who always played by his own rules—as evidenced by the non-sanctioned picnic. He made it sound so simple, but for him everything was simple. He put his mom first, his career second, and everything else was a casualty to his ambition. But Marcy couldn’t operate that way.
What if this was her only chance for the mythic Happily Ever After? What if this was the moment she would look back on for the rest of her life and wonder what would have happened if she had just chosen differently?
If there even was a choice to be made…
Craig had said flat out that he would break her heart.
“How am I supposed to break their rules?” she challenged him. “Am I supposed to choose neither of you?”
“Of course not,” he said, all cocky confidence. “You’re supposed to choose me.”
“Oh really? Right before my father got sick, you were ready to walk away. You said you would break my heart if I picked you. You’ve told me you would hurt me if I let myself care for you, so why would I ever want to pick you?”
“Because you might be able to break my heart too.” He said it softly and her heart lurched achingly in her chest—then the words penetrated her hearts-and-flowers moment, cracking it in two.
Might be.
Craig could teach a master class in having walls up around his heart. He made her emotional defenses look downright amateur. This was probably as close as he was ever going to get to admitting he cared for her. That he might even love her.
Unless he was playing another game with her. Semantic back-flips so he could never be accused of lying to her even as he tricked her into thinking he felt more than he did. Marcy sighed, looking away over the Verona skyline. The sky was darkening rapidly now. They wouldn’t be able to see their own picnic in another fifteen minutes and the cameras would be completely blind unless the crew got the night-vision gear up here.
She sighed. “I’m tired of all the games and guesswork.”
“You’re tired?” He laughed. “You’re not the one who nearly had a heart attack waiting to be the last one picked at every single Elimination Ceremony. Be honest—did the producers put you up to that?”
“Honestly? Not after the first night. It was me. I was never sure I should keep you.”
“Should is a dirty word.”
“So is might.”
He frowned, clearly not catching her meaning. That was Craig. He might be in love with her, but it would never occur to him that she would be pissed at him for his inability to even commit to the words. Women let him get away with too much. And she was just as guilty as the rest of them. She let him get far too far on charm.
She rose, smoothing her skirt. “I’m going downstairs.”
He quickly came to his feet. “Should we check out our suite?”
“I’m not going to sleep with you, Craig.”
“Did I say you would?” He trailed after her toward the roof access door, the cameramen scrambling to track them. “You think I can’t be a perfect gentleman like Danny Boy?”
“I think you don’t know when to stop pushing and an overnight date is a bad idea,” she said over her shoulder.
“So you don’t trust me, is that it?”
“Not really.”
“That’s not really it or you don’t really trust me?”
“I don’t trust you.”
He stopped in his tracks for a moment, stunned, but as soon as she said the words, she realized how true they were—and how big a lie. She trusted him to be completely himself, to push her and challenge her and try to get everything he could for himself. She just didn’t trust him to take care of her, to look after her, to cherish her the way Daniel would without even thinking about it.
She kept walking.
“Marcy.”
She ignored Craig’s irritated call behind her as she pushed through the door and wended through the maze of stairs and hallways to get back to the main part of the hotel. She moved quickly, wanting to put some distance between her and her latest mistake, but she could hear his footsteps on her heels. He was only a few feet behind her when she realized she must have taken a wrong turn.
She stopped, glaring at another hall that looked exactly like the one she’d just left. “Shit.”
“Do you trust me to at least help you get to your room?” he asked behind her, irritation thrumming through his voice.
She turned around, a refusal already on her lips, prepared to ask the nearest PA for directions rather than give in to him even that much—but they were alone in the hallway. No cameras, no producers. Just them.
Of course the one moment she actually wanted the cameras on her, they would be tangled up in their own cords on the freaking roof.
“Which way is it?” she asked grudgingly.
Craig jerked his chin and they started back in the direction they’d come. She wasn’t sure what she expected—definitely some sort of long-winded diatribe, no doubt; he wasn’t the strong silent type—but he didn’t say a word as he guided her through the maze of halls. They reached a cream colored door with Palazzo painted on it in flowery gold script and Craig stopped with a mocking half bow.
A single cameraman appeared at the end of the hallway, the red light gleaming above his lens.
“Do I at least get to know what I did wrong?” Craig asked, defensive acidity coating the words.
“It isn’t you. It’s me.” I realized you were never going to change. Never going to magically become the man who can let himself love me.
“I deserve more than a cliché, Marcy,” he growled.
“And I deserve more than a man who might feel something for me someday.” She plucked the key from his fingers, unlocked the door and slipped inside, keeping one hand on the door to make certain he knew he was not invited in. “Good night, Craig.”
The door shut with a definitive snap. Closure. That was it. The end of her last date with Craig Corrow. The next time she saw him would be the day of her Final Choice. She would tell him that she couldn’t be with him, pick Daniel, and be officially Daniel’s Girl for the rest of her life.
She’d never kiss another man.
She’d never kiss Craig again.
“Shit.”
Marcy whirled, throwing open the hotel door.
His name came out a panicked yelp. “Craig!”