Chapter 6
CY
“So, Cyrus—”
“Cy. Please call me Cy,” I correct.
Roman, the host of the show, looks like he’s spent too much time at a tanning salon.
That or his spray tanner accidentally added too much orange into the mix.
He looks like an Oompa Loompa without the green hair.
And the way his blindingly white teeth flash against the tangerine shade only makes it worse.
If he’s really the host of the show, it’s no wonder it’s in the toilet.
Despite my inner thoughts, the cameras are rolling, so I shoot the one in front of us a smirk.
“Only my mother calls me Cyrus. And even then, it’s only when I’m in trouble.”
Roman chuckles. “That’s a great segue to my next question.
The ladies will be pulling up in just a few minutes, but before they do, the Searching for Love nation is dying to know.
You had a bit of a reputation during your Boys Next Door days, so many are probably surprised that you’re seriously looking for a fiancée. How would you respond to that?”
With a shrug, I swallow my natural response, which is to adamantly deny that I have any intention of settling down right now. Maybe ever.
That thought is followed by a flash of Sydney’s strawberry blond hair and dark sunglasses. I shove it away quickly.
Am I attracted to her?
Yes.
But there’s no way I’m leaving this fiasco with a fiancée. Although I wouldn’t be opposed to making out with these women. Maybe more.
Stop thinking with your dick.
Yanking myself from that path, I clear my throat. Thank fuck I learned early on how to keep my thoughts from showing on my face. It’s a must when a person is in the spotlight.
For now, I have a job to do.
“I can’t deny the reputation I earned when I was with the band. But I was practically a kid. I’ve done a lot of growing up. And let’s be honest, I’m not getting any younger. I’m ready to settle down, to start a family, to share my life with someone special.”
Roman nods, his bright eyes making it clear he’s buying what I’m selling.
Good.
“Do you think you’ll meet your future wife tonight?” he asks.
My stomach rolls with the need to hurl.
Hell no. Not happening.
Again, I swallow that sensation and turn on the puppy dog expression I perfected years ago, then look at the camera.
“I can’t say for sure. But I hope I do.”
“Any final thoughts before the first limo pulls up?”
First? How many of them are there? And will I finally see the eyes Sydney was hiding behind those sunglasses? All night, I’ve been wondering about their color.
As well as imagining what she’ll look like in the dress Danny assured me was returned to her.
I don’t get the chance to respond to Roman before headlights cut across the cobbled driveway.
“Looks like the first limo is here. Good luck, Cy.” He gives me a wink and walks off.
Fuck.
“Here we go,” I mumble, fidgeting with my tie as the limo approaches.
As the limo glides to a stop, I take a deep breath and tune out the cameras and people scattered throughout the courtyard. I fasten on my publicity smile, the one I learned to hide behind when Boys Next Door made it big, and wait for the door to open.
All the while, I silently lecture myself. Your movie depends on your ability to play the genuine searcher. And if you fail, you’ll be back to Boys Next Door.
An hour later, a handful of names swim through my head like a rainbow school of fish.
Brielle. Twenty-five. A fashion designer from Las Vegas whose confidence, silky hair, and bedroom eyes are killer turn-ons.
Renee. Thirty-two. A nurse from Kansas City. Older than I am, but I’ve never let that bother me before.
Cassidy. Twenty-three. Her blond hair was a frizzy mess and her eyes were swollen and red rimmed despite the thick layer of makeup covering her face. She leaned in, whispering that she was from Florida.
Simone. The physical trainer from San Diego. She could bench press me, so I think I’m more scared of her than attracted to her.
Kendall came next, spouting off some cute line I can’t remember, then immediately laying her lips against mine.
As she pulled back, she chirped about how she’d claimed the first kiss for herself.
I have no idea how old she is, where she’s from, or what she does for a living, but I admire her balls.
Or whatever it is that gives women the confidence to go for what they want.
With every limo that appears, my hopes soar, only to crash again when the back door opens. All I can think about is finally discovering what color Sydney’s eyes are. It’s like that itch between my shoulder blades. One I can’t quite reach, one that is slowly driving me insane.
Sure, the kiss with Kendall was nice. She’s attractive, and she’s obviously up for a good time.
But as good as the kiss was, she isn’t the person I want to share a kiss with.
Minute by minute, my patience frays. Each time a woman appears, I look for a flash of white silk—a hint that I’ll finally satisfy my burning curiosity.
Why am I so focused on her? She’s not the first woman I’ve ever met. Obviously, she won’t be the last. So what is it about her that has me itching to know more?
Another limo. Sparkly sea green fabric comes into view, and disappointment swamps me again. Josie. The talkative elementary school teacher with light brown hair and a dusting of freckles across her nose.
The fidgety sensations get worse. Limo number seven rolls up, and I roll my shoulders, preparing.
But the black-silk-clad beauty who slides out of the back seat and strolls confidently toward me is not the woman I’m looking for.
Jade doesn’t seem to notice my distraction, telling me with full, kissable lips that she is fire and ice and if I wanted to know more, I can find her inside with a glass of whiskey.
Fuck.
Did Sydney lie about being a contestant? Or is she part of a different show? Did I ruin her dress after all, forcing her to drop out?
Scanning the courtyard, I find Danny hovering off camera with several other assistants.
The bright lights set up for filming are off as we wait for the last woman, giving me a moment of relief, though my toes scream from their cramped position in my dress shoes.
Ignoring the pain, I crook a finger in Danny’s direction.
“Yes, sir?” he asks, jogging over.
Electricity sparks through my legs as I shake them out, getting my blood flowing again. I’ve clearly been standing in one place for too long.
“You’re sure she’s on the show?”
He shrugs. “She was in hair and makeup when I dropped off the dress.”
“And the dress was one hundred percent clean?”
“Spotless,” he says with a nod.
Then what the fuck?
Mara pushes a button on a bullhorn, and everyone scurries back into place. My scurrying isn’t quite as quick, since I haven’t completely regained feeling in my numb legs and feet.
Surely this is her.
Right?
Why do you want it to be her so badly? The question buzzes around my brain like a mosquito near a lake.
Maybe it’s the way we met. Or the glimpses of frost from an icy demeanor she keeps hidden beneath the surface.
There’s more than meets the eye when it comes to her.
Not that she isn’t fucking stunning to look at too.
The strawberry blond hair, the fair skin that almost glowed in the dim light of the doorway.
She was intriguing.
And women have stopped intriguing me a long time ago.
What was it my brother called it?
Chemicals. Brain chemistry.
Pheromones.
Maybe that’s it.
And maybe they’ve dissipated by now.
Maybe I imagined the pull to her.
Regardless, I hold my breath as the last limo pulls in.
If it were my imagination, my palms wouldn’t suddenly be clammy, right?
And my heart wouldn’t be galloping in my chest. The air around me wouldn’t charge with electricity as the limo driver rounds the vehicle at a snail’s pace to the back door.
I release the breath, fighting the urge to run over there and knock him out of the way so I can do it myself.
The door opens and I strain my neck, looking around the door, squinting in hopes that I can see through the window. Anything to confirm it’s her.
A strawberry blond up-do comes into view just as a pair of sky-high white heels with laces that wrap around slim ankles touch the cobblestone. My dick surges to life as I imagine those ankles wrapped around me, the heels of those shoes pressing into my back.
She steps out from behind the door and pauses to allow the camera to capture her arrival, just like each woman before her.
It’s the moment I need to take her in. Her eyes that grab my attention quickly. The eyes I’ve been curious about all day.
They’re a green so bright they’re almost teal, and they’re full of intelligence and awareness as she surveys the landscape in front of her.
Qualities I haven’t seen in anyone else tonight.
While most of the women looked at me the second they stepped out of the limo, she looks everywhere but in my direction.
I want her attention the way I want to finally film Beneath the Broken Sky.
I whistle. A sound from my youth that used to rouse my brothers’ attention from across a field of cattle.
Finally, her focus drifts to me.
“Hello, angel,” I call out, turning on my smile.
She peers at the cameras, then with a thick swallow I can see from here, she moves my way, her stride graceful and purposeful.
All the other women are wearing long dresses, yet hers stops at the knee.
Another detail proving she’s different. The dress shows off gorgeous legs while her hips send the white silk swaying rhythmically as she closes the distance between us.
My dick kicks against the zipper of my dress pants.
Let’s fucking hope the cameras don’t pick up on that.
I go through set lists I memorized long, long ago. The progressions from tours otherwise long forgotten, and by the time she reaches me, I’ve managed to calm myself.
“We meet again,” I tell her.
“We do indeed.”
Her eyes are even more stunning up close, her makeup muted, with the exception of the vibrant red on her lips. A color I want to remove so I can see the natural berry color.
Fuck, say something, stupid.
“You look beautiful. I’m glad the coffee came out of the dress.” I hold out a hand.
The other women all greeted me with hugs. Even the one who barely spoke. Kendall fucking lip-locked me at first sight.
But she doesn’t do more than shake my hand, her grip firm. No-nonsense.
“Thank you.”
She doesn’t return the compliment. Doesn’t fawn all over me and tell me that Boys Next Door was her favorite band growing up.
“Do you remember me?” she asks, arching a brow, her challenge clear.
“Of course I do, angel,” I say. “It would be hard to forget a woman I doused in coffee, Sydney.”
She yanks her hand from mine, both eyebrows shooting up.
I’ve surprised her.
And fuck if I don’t like the sensation that knowledge brings.
“I guess we’ll see how long I hold your attention.” There’s an edge to her words, even as she pastes on a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
On the surface, her comment shouldn’t mean anything. Yet I’m suddenly even more intrigued.
Chuckling, I lean closer. “You’re hard to forget, Sydney,” I murmur, placing emphasis on her name.
The mask she’s trying so hard to hold in place slips just a little, but before she regains composure, there’s a flash of anger. Straightening her shoulder, she peers over my shoulder.
“I’ll see you inside. Let’s see if you remember me when faced with all these beautiful women.”
I hold back a huff. Forget her? Impossible.
As she walks away, I openly watch her, the view from the back almost as good as the front.
The dress hints at curves I want my hands on.
Right the fuck now.
A clap on my shoulder startles me, and I spin back around, blinking as my eyes adjust to Roman’s day-glow complexion.
“So, Cy, you’ve met all the women. What do you think?”
“I’m excited to get started,” I say.
And those words are the truest I’ve spoken tonight.