“Are you ready for the adventure of a lifetime, Marcy?”
Marcy hooked her arm through Josh Pendleton’s and strolled with the host along the path that would lead them to the Suitors’ Mansion. “Actually I was thinking that you and I could run away together. What do you think? You’re a good looking guy. We’d make a cute couple.”
Josh shot her a look that was equal parts amused, confused, and horrified. “I can never tell if you’re serious or not.”
“I could be. What do you say? Wanna blow this joint and run away to Vegas?”
It was entirely too tempting to run. Not because Josh was handsome—which he was, though he was also rumored to be hot and heavy with a supermodel, so Marcy wasn’t holding out much hope for a romantic future with him. No, it was tempting to flee because she was scared out of her ever-loving mind about what she was about to put herself through for the next eight weeks. Scared she wouldn’t find love. Scared that she would. Scared that America would grow to hate her as they sometimes did the second time someone came on the show. Scared that they would all see what a fraud she was, peddling true love for a living when she wasn’t sure she believed in it herself.
So fucking scared.
So she did what she always did when she was petrified. She cracked jokes. She smiled pretty. And she pretended everything was hunky dory when all she really wanted was to run.
Sadly, Josh wasn’t taking her proposal seriously. “You realize ninety percent of the reason I got this job was because my wife and I are a shining example of matrimonial bliss, don’t you?” he asked conversationally before redirecting the conversation back to her journey with the poise of a pro. “In the next few minutes, you could be meeting your own future husband. How are you feeling? Nervous? Excited?”
Is nauseated an option? “Eager,” she lied brightly. “I can’t wait to get started.” Run. Run away now.
“Right this way. The adventure of a lifetime is about to begin.”
Save me.
#
Being Miss Right was not entirely full of awesomeness.
Blisters, yes. Awesomeness? Not so much.
On the plus side, her initial panic had abated. On the not so plus side? Everything else.
The tape securing the mic pack to the small of her back itched, a constant irritation, and scratching was absolutely out of the question thanks to the decades it had taken the wardrobe people to be satisfied that the little box was sufficiently hidden in the pleats of her gown.
Her cheeks ached from smiling, a knot of pain was growing between her shoulder blades from holding them so tense, and she was already starting to lose her voice—and the introductions were only half over.
Marcy picked her way across the flagstone patio on the way to meet Suitor Number Sixteen. Her feet hurt like a bitch and the designer heels rubbed, but unlike when she’d been just one of a bevy of Suitorettes, tonight she couldn’t just wait her turn and then escape out to the side terrace to claim a chair and avail herself of the open bar until Mister Perfect was done with the marathon introductions. No, this time it was her marathon.
Thirty handsome guys all dying to meet her. Thirty guys set up at various locations around the mansion, each one designed to show off their unique talents and help Marcy keep them straight.
When Marcy had been a Suitorette, the producers had put her in the library, surrounded by stacks of her books. Katya, the swimsuit model, had been, predictably, lounging by the pool—though in an evening gown, of course. One of the other girls had baked cookies, Marcy seemed to remember, though she couldn’t recall who. Whatever your gimmick was, that was your chance to show it off. Like a cross between speed-dating and the Miss America talent competition.
So far tonight Marcy had heard a Shakespeare professor recite Romeo’s soliloquy while she stood on a balcony—and tried to ignore the comparison to a fourteen-year-old brat who knew infatuation and obsession more than love. She’d been roped in the garden by a cowboy who pulled a lariat from beneath his tuxedo jacket and flicked it around her, bragging that he’d caught himself a good one—Marcy tried to ignore the comparison to a heifer.
She’d sipped wines in the cellar with a man who oozed upper-class upbringing and gazed at the stars in the gazebo with an amateur astrologer who told her he’d done their charts and they were destined to be together. And then there was the Latin lover who had somehow claimed one of the premium fireplace locales, who had kissed both her cheeks and cooed to her in Spanish—while Marcy tried to ignore the scent of alcohol that wafted from him even though he hadn’t even made it up to the open bar yet.
Good television. The promo spots practically edited themselves.
She kept her smile determinedly in place, well aware that America would be swooning—and tried to ignore the little voice in the back of her head that whispered there must be something wrong with her because she wasn’t feeling the urge to fall into any of these undeniably sculpted arms.
They were hot. There was no denying that as they flashed their matinee idol smiles and displayed their chiseled features, but instead of feeling like a kid in a candy store, like she’d expected, she found herself wondering in the cynical recesses of her mind if they would all be the kind of asshole who always had girls fall into his lap without any effort at all and therefore resented having to work for love and had never learned to treat one right.
It all felt so rehearsed. So forced.
She would enter whatever set-up they’d been given—library, balcony, gazebo—and the men would stand, if they weren’t already on their feet. They would introduce themselves—those who weren’t so nervous they forgot their own names—and the camera crews would zoom in to capture The Moment They First Saw One Another for endless replay during highlight reels throughout the season.
Then the guys would launch into their pre-rehearsed attempts to woo Miss Right. Sixty seconds was all they got and then the producers waved them off and Marcy excused herself. Off to meet another cliché of masculine hotness.
Periodically the producers would usher her to the nearest confessional booth to record her first impressions of each guy—which meant she got to sit for five minutes and stealthily sneak off her shoes, thank God Almighty. Then it was back to the grind.
How long had she been doing this? One hour? Two? None of the show’s participants were allowed to wear watches during filming—the producers said watching the clock kept them from being engaged in the moment—but Marcy figured it was more so they wouldn’t know how long the hours were and wouldn’t realize they were supposed to be exhausted.
The producers guided her outside again. She could dimly hear manly shouts from the upper terrace as more and more of the Suitors she’d already met gathered there, but she still had fifteen guys to meet before she could join them.
Suitor Number Sixteen waited at one of the many love seat set-ups with a cute little mailbox with her name on it set up beside him. Postal worker, maybe? He hadn’t seen her yet—she was still in the shadows and the lights were all hot on him as he waited.
Blond. Athletic. Classically good looking—as all the Suitors were, but there was something about him that seemed more real somehow.
He adjusted his tie, the gesture more nervous than cocky, and she felt a rush of sympathy.
She remembered how excited she’d been to meet Mister Perfect, how nervous. She’d stood up so fast when he walked in the room that she’d tripped over her own hem and fallen over an end table—too far away to fall gracefully into Jack’s arms. She’d risen laughing and luckily, Jack had smiled too. The fall hadn’t been intentional, but show bloggers were still praising the tactic. Jack had helped her up and she’d become an instant favorite. The screenshot of her face as she realized she was going down had been a popular internet meme for weeks.
She really didn’t want to think about the captions that were going to be spawned by being roped like a steer on national television.
“Whenever you’re ready, hon,” the segment producer closest to her murmured softly.
Marcy reached for her best smile and stepped forward into the light.
Sixteen launched to his feet and smiled, a sweet aw shucks sort of smile when he saw her. He met her eyes and the look he gave her wasn’t quite shy—thank God, because you couldn’t be shy and survive reality TV—but more earnest.
Wholesome.
Damn. Marcy nearly cringed. The show was going to eat him alive.
“Marcy, it’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m Daniel.”
She mentally filed away his use of her name—either he was a student of the show or he was a producer favorite and they’d told him who she was. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Daniel.”
He thrust out a hand when she approached and she took it, expecting an awkward handshake, but Daniel surprised her by lifting it to his lips to kiss the back. He didn’t seem like the uber-suave type who usually went for the hand kiss.
“I’ve been counting the seconds until I could meet you. It feels like I’ve been waiting my whole life to meet you and now I know the wait was worth it.”
And I bet you came up with that line just now, without any coaching from friends and family before you came. Though if he had been a student of the show, he would know the waiting-a-lifetime line had been used three times before, with varying degrees of success.
“I hope the rest of your time here doesn’t disappoint,” she said, meaning the words wholeheartedly. Poor sweet Daniel. She almost felt like she ought to protect the openness in his eyes from the show. Those eyes were the kind of blue that should have only been achievable with contacts, but she had a feeling they were all Aw Shucks Daniel. “The experience can be a lot to take in.”
“It’s all a little more than I’m used to,” he admitted, grinning with endearing self-deprecation. “I almost never wear a suit. Not much call for it as a third grade teacher.”
“My dad was a teacher before he retired.”
He didn’t react like he’d heard her, but she wrote it off as nerves as he segued into the next portion of his gimmick. “My students actually, well, they made something for you.” He turned toward the mailbox prop and opened it to reveal a bulging envelope. “It’s a petition. And the, uh, hand-kissing thing was their idea too. I promised them I’d do it.”
Marcy could practically hear the sound of two million American women swooning in front of their television sets when this aired. She tugged out the envelope. “Should I open it now?”
“Yeah, yeah, go ahead.” Daniel shifted nervously from foot to foot.
It wasn’t sealed, just folded over, so it only took her a moment to pull out the stack of loose-leaf paper with the large, careful writing of eight-year-olds scrawled across the top. Petition for Miss Right to Give Mr. P a Kiss Chance. Chance was the only word written in adult handwriting.
“Mr. P?”
“Pierzynski. It’s Polish. None of them can spell it. They asked for help from the sixth graders on the playground to spell petition.”
“I see something has been crossed out here.”
He shrugged. “They were lobbying for a kiss, but what I really want is a chance to get to know you.”
And the collective ovaries of America just exploded.
Marcy wanted her knees to go weak. She urged her heart to race. This man was exactly what she’d said she wanted. Handsome. Wholesome Midwestern values. Even a teacher, like her dad. So why couldn’t she let go of her cynical side? Why did his Petition of Ridiculous Cuteness feel exactly like being lassoed by a cowboy in a tuxedo? Just another cheap stunt.
But America would love him, and Marcy knew how to play to an audience.
“I can’t disappoint the youth of America.”
She caught him by his crooked tie and tugged him forward, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his cheek, just off the corner of his mouth—let the producers edit that how they would.
When she leaned back he was blushing. Actually blushing. She really ought to find that adorable.
“We’ll talk about the chance inside.”
“I look forward to it.”