Chapter 4
CY
Stifling a yawn, I try to ignore the growl of my stomach as the photographer shouts directions and the assistant producer—Megan? Molly?—runs through the schedule for the day.
“Great. Yes. One hand tucked into your pocket,” the photographer says. “Yes, lift the compass for the camera.”
“Ten a.m. photoshoot. Make that eleven,” Megan/Molly mumbles as she taps the screen of her iPad.
It’s not my fault that they scheduled this at ten after I made it clear that anything before noon wasn’t happening. I spent the first fifteen years of my life getting up early for chores on my family’s ranch in Texas. And the next sixteen sleeping in.
When another yawn catches me off guard, the photographer sighs and lowers his camera.
“Okay, drop your chin, Cy. Look up slightly. There. Like that.”
Every time he hits the shutter, a flash covers everything around me in a haze of white. Megan/Molly becomes a disembodied voice, and the lack of food mixed with the temporary blindness threaten to take me out.
“Eli has you scheduled to meet with Roman before the ladies show up to the mansion tonight, and we still need to get your first interview once you’re dressed,” she says.
Who the fuck is Eli? And Roman?
“I am not finished, Mara,” the photographer says. “Julian was very specific about the shots he wanted.”
Mara! That’s her name.
And who the fuck is Julian?
When my vision has finally cleared, Mara is looking up at me expectantly, pushing her oversized glasses up her nose. The three or four pens sticking out of her hair remind me of an office-supply version of Medusa and her snakes.
“What? Who is Julian?”
“Julian Thompson. He’s the director. Has your assistant given you the interview questions? Your agent was clear that all interview questions had to be provided to you in advance.”
“I haven’t met my assistant yet,” I tell her.
Eyes widening, she ducks and taps at her iPad again.
“Just texted him. Sorry, he’s new. Roman’s questions are pretty basic,” she says, swiping at the screen.
New? Is this assistant the bodyguard Rhett and James promised? Since the two of us aren’t alone, I keep that question to myself and instead ask the other floating around my brain.
“Who is Roman?”
“Roman?” she asks, her brows lifted in surprise, like I should know exactly who he is. “Roman Hart. The show’s host.”
I snort a laugh. “Is that his real last name? Hart? Are you fucking kidding me?”
A furrow forms between her brows. “As far as I know it’s his real last name. Anyway, his questions,” she says with a dismissive wave. “Question one, why are you looking for love?”
I’m not.
“What are you looking for?” she asks next.
Nothing.
“What excites you most about this process?”
Hey, I can answer this one.
Eight attractive women all vying for my attention.
Show me a straight red-blooded man who isn’t interested in that, and I’ll show you a flat-out liar.
Actually, I can’t answer it. I can’t admit that the best part about this whole thing is being surrounded by eight women who all know I’m dating multiple women.
Not if I want Featherlight to green-light my movie.
This has to look legit, so it’s time to get into character. My hardest acting job to date. A man who’s looking for love.
Because today is it.
D-Day.
Or whatever the hell one would call the day they whore themselves out on a reality TV dating show in order to have a screenplay turned into a movie.
Like they do so often, thoughts of Scarlett resurfaced.
Will she really be here?
I doubt she’d use her real name. She hasn’t sent another letter since the one we showed James. Since before Rhett demanded a bodyguard. They all think I’m concerned about my safety.
Newsflash.
I’m not.
Bringing up concerns about the overzealous fan was supposed to get me out of this.
Joke was on me, though.
Now I’m not just a man searching for love. I’m a man concerned about his safety on the quest to find my forever.
The outer door flies open, the backlight casting the figure in the frame in shadow until the door closes again.
The photographer sighs, mumbling about getting more pictures later—great, can’t wait—and stalks off.
I step away from the white backdrop, loosening the buttons on the royal blue button-down they shoved me into when I got here this morning. It’s at least a size too small. Every time I move, I feel like I’m going to shred the damn thing.
Snagging a water, I wander to the craft services table.
I pick up a donut and shove the maple-iced confection into my mouth in one bite, hoping to quickly soothe the hunger gnawing at my gut.
Then I uncap the water bottle. I down it in one long gulp, then aim for the trash can on the side of the table, already feeling better.
“Mr. Darby?” The man approaching is fit, with a buzz cut and wearing a cheap three-piece suit.
A bodyguard if I’ve ever seen one.
About fucking time.
“Yeah?” I wipe my thumb and forefinger along my mouth, clearing the crumbs and water droplets.
“Danny Fields. I’ll be your assistant on the show.” His voice is deep and his grip is firm, no-nonsense.
I half expect to see a crimped wire running from his ear to an electronics pack, connecting him to the rest of his world.
Mara appears, frowning. “You’re late.”
“Sorry. Traffic.” Danny shrugs.
He leaves it at that. In LA, that’s explanation enough.
Mara taps away at her ever-present iPad, then looks up at me.
“We need to get you in a car. We’ve got to get you to the interview, as well as to hair and makeup.” She checks her watch and blinks her owlish gray eyes from behind her thick frames.
I frown back at her. This is news to me. “I don’t have any of my stuff.”
I rolled out of bed and headed for the soundstage.
“Danny can fetch your things. There’s a new tux at the house. We got your measurements from Rhett.”
“I haven’t packed yet,” I admit.
Figured I’d have time today.
Guess that’s now Lois’s problem.
Lois spent decades working as a housekeeper in LA, but she’s old enough to be my grandmother. She shouldn’t be scrubbing floors and bathtubs. So I turned her into a house manager and hired staff for her to boss around.
Which actually works out well for me. If she’s busy bossing them around, then she isn’t bossing me.
“Danny.” Mara’s focus shifts back to my assistant. “Head to Mr. Darby’s house and get him packed.”
“Lois can help. She’s my house manager,” I add.
More like she’ll do it all herself because she won’t trust anyone she doesn’t know to touch my stuff.
I pull my phone from my pocket and shoot a text to her.
She may be in her seventies, but she’s more tech savvy than I am.
Assistant coming for stuff for me.
LOIS
Good thing I just finished packing for you.
What would I do without you?
You better hope you never find out.
Be a good boy on the show.
And don’t worry about anything here. I’ve got it covered.
Just take it easy. Let Nina and Joe do the actual work.
And let Joe take you to dinner.
My groundskeeper, Joe, has been asking Lois out for three years, but she keeps turning him down, saying she’s too old for him.
Quit stirring the pot, Cyrus James Darby.
I am not a cougar and don’t intend to accept any invitation from that man.
With a bark of a laugh, I pocket my phone. Then I pour myself a cup of coffee for the ride to the mansion.
“Ready?” Mara asks.
No, but I don’t think that matters.
So with a sigh, I nod and lead her to the door. Danny trails us, focused on his phone.
I push the handle, shoving the door open a little harder than I anticipate. The abrupt movement has me bobbling my cup of coffee, and in slow motion, the disposable cup filled with the life-giving nectar of the gods goes flying.
Right into the woman on the other side.
Shit.
Her more strawberry than blond hair is piled into a messy knot on top of her head, her eyes covered by large dark sunglasses. Her pouty lips form a perfectly round O, but only for half a second.
“Fuck me,” she mutters, tugging at her white shirt now doused in coffee. “Excuse you. Couldn’t you have come out of the door a little less fucking aggressively?”
She looks up, breathing heavily.
Amusement rolls through me. Her tirade is more cute than intimidating. “Sorry about that, gorgeous. I didn’t know there would be an angel on earth on the other side of the door.” I shoot her the grin that makes women puddle at my feet.
Most women, at least.
But not this one. She clamps her jaw shut with enough force to make a muscle in her jaw tick. Then she swallows and takes a deep, audible breath.
I’m completely locked on her. Captivated. Maybe that’s why I notice the change in her expression.
“I—that is—it’s okay. No harm done.” She gives me a bright smile.
I’d bet the rights to my movie that it’s fake, but I don’t call her on it.
“Oh no! Your dress. Was that for tonight?” Mara steps forward and lifts the dress the angel has been clutching to her chest.
Tonight? The word hits me like a blow to the solar plexus. Is she one of the women I’ll be dating?
Fuck, yes.
Belatedly, I notice the large coffee stain covering most of the dress.
Without the garment to block her wet shirt, it’s impossible not to catch a teasing glimpse of breasts outlined in hot pink lace.
If she’s concerned about the dress, she doesn’t show it.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got more. I can go get—”
More? But I want to see her in the dress she’s holding. Or in nothing at all.
Baby steps.
She may not even be a contestant. I’m getting ahead of myself. There could be any number of reasons she’s carrying a fancy dress into the soundstage. On top of that, I don’t know her.
Yet.
For all I know, she’s Scarlett.
God, I hope not.
No. She can’t be. I’m not getting that vibe from her.
“Danny,” I say.
“Yeah?” He steps closer, having been watching the scene silently.
“Could you take…” I trail off, hoping to get my angel’s name.
“Sydney,” she supplies.
“Could you take Sydney’s dress to a one-hour dry cleaner? Here.” I slip my wallet from my pocket and pull out my black card.
“I couldn’t—” Sydney starts.
“It was my fault. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t barreled through the door so carelessly. Isn’t that what you said?” I ask, wishing she’d take off the sunglasses so I could see her eyes.
“Something like that.” She nods, though she doesn’t blush like I assumed she would.
She’s no shrinking violet.
That’s another tick in the “things that intrigue me about Sydney” column.
“You’re right, I should have been more cautious. I will be next time,” I promise.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, a little ice peeking through the polite mask she’s wearing.
Why?
Maybe because she’s doused in Folgers, dumbass?
“Here.” I undo the last couple of buttons on my shirt and shrug out of it, then hold it out to her.
When she hesitates, I shake it gently, inching closer.
“It’s the least I can do since your shirt is covered in coffee.”
She glances down, grimacing, and takes the shirt. Her fingers brush mine as I pass her the soft cotton, the simple touch sending electricity zipping along my arm.
Mara is standing three feet away, my empty disposable cup in her hand and her head bouncing back and forth between us like she’s a spectator at Wimbledon.
“Thanks,” Sydney says.
“W-w-we should probably go. Your interview,” Mara stutters.
“Okay.”
She nods once and walks away, Danny on her heels. Instead of following, I hold the door open for Sydney.
“Are you one of the contestants?” I blurt out. The need to know is overwhelming.
The pause as I wait for her answer is agonizing.
Her chest rises and falls again when she lets out a long breath. Then she nods. “Yeah.”
A thrill rushes through me. Fuck yes.
“Good. I look forward to seeing you tonight, sweet Sydney.”