Romancing Miss Right (6 page)

“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.

Chapter Seven

Miranda sat in the editing
bay, scrolling through the footage from the previous night. Miss
Right and all the Suitors had retreated to their respective
mansions and collapsed after shooting had finally wrapped close to
five a.m., but there was no rest for the wicked. And Miranda was
pretty sure she qualified as wicked. Anyone who made her living
manipulating people’s emotions had to fit the bill.

On screen, Daniel swept Marcy into his arms,
gallantly carrying her across the lawn, and Miranda made note of
the time-stamp on the footage. That was a money shot right there.
The reality TV gods had been smiling on her when they gave her
Daniel.

In a few hours, Marcy would wake up and start
getting ready for her first private date. It hadn’t been hard to
make sure Marcy “picked” Daniel for the first date, setting him up
as the early favorite. The viewers tended to be like baby
ducks—imprinting on the first Suitor out of the gate who was
remotely promising. And Daniel was
very
promising.

He had a real chance to win the whole thing,
but Miranda almost hoped that he didn’t because using him as the
next season’s Mister Perfect would be pure, undiluted ratings
gold.

The casting team had dug him up out of
nowhere. A school teacher from the Midwest, nominated by the
mothers of several of his students. Went to church. Loved his
parents. Wanted to have kids, but just hadn’t met the right woman
yet.

The poor bastard hadn’t known what he was
getting himself into, signing up for
Romancing Miss Right
.
His homespun values and innate chivalry were for real. Completely
uncoached. You couldn’t train that kind of sincerity.

If only Marcy seemed to like him more.

She’d been good last night—composed and
elegant when needed, fun and flirty when called for—but those
emotional walls were still an issue. The viewers wanted all the
emotional ups and downs of falling madly, wildly, foolishly in
love. They weren’t going to get that if Marcy was too reserved.

Miranda scrolled through the footage, pausing
again when she saw a flicker of uncertainty on Marcy’s face. There.
That was human. That was real. But who was she looking at?

Miranda’s cell phone rang and she reached for
it absently as she pulled up additional angles of the same moment.
“Miranda Pierce.”

“Why are you still awake?”

At the sound of that voice, she stopped
seeing the screens in front of her, going blind as her entire being
seemed to lean down the line. Only Bennett Lang could do that to
her. Her former mentor and current lover was the only thing that
could so completely swallow her focus. “Bennett.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still working.”

“All right, I won’t tell you.”

He made a small disapproving sound. “You need
to take care of yourself. Or better yet, let me take care of you.
Come over tonight.”

“We’re filming tonight.”

“And your minions can take care of it,” he
argued. “That’s the benefit of being EP. Delegation.”

“The first few episodes are crucial. They set
the tone for the entire season. I can’t just decide to take a night
off. Not right now. I warned you that for the first couple weeks I
practically live at the mansion.”

“You’re looking through raw footage right
now, aren’t you?” he accused, proving yet again that he knew her
entirely too well. “You have story producers and editors for a
reason, Miranda. Use them.”

“They don’t see what I see. This is how I got
where I am. If I don’t stay vigilant, Wallace will give my job to
someone else.”