Chapter 19
SYDNEY
The universe has a twisted sense of humor.
It’s unfair that my mortal enemy is so attractive.
Is he your mortal enemy?
Yes. I’ve hated him since the night Katie and I snuck backstage to meet him and he blew me off. And by acting like he has since then, he hasn’t done himself any favors. He’s still a manwhore, based on the way he’s been messing around with Kendall. And others, maybe, if they’re willing.
Isn’t that what he’s supposed to do? He’s searching for love. He has to make sure there’s chemistry.
That rational voice sounds suspiciously like Jessie.
I don’t want to be rational. The idea of him kissing other women hurts, and I don’t want to explore that too deeply.
Because you’re worried you’ll realize you like him.
Shut up.
I spent the entire thirty-minute drive arguing with myself, so by the time the car stops, I’m exhausted.
We’re parked near a beautiful meadow with a view of an entire valley lit up by the late-day sun.
And there, standing at the edge is the man I want so badly to hate.
At the sight of him, my body—traitor that she is—hums to life.
He might as well be a masterpiece crafted by a renaissance sculptor.
All carved jaw and tight muscles visible beneath the gray henley and the threadbare jeans that wrap around him like a lover.
“How is this fair?” I mumble.
Why does my body have to be attracted to Cy Darby when the rest of me is so repulsed by him?
Are you really—
I cut off the question. No more arguments.
“We’re here,” the driver says, shifting the SUV into park.
Like I haven’t figured that out yet.
As I push open the door, cool air rushes in, and goose bumps erupt all over my body.
Don’t these shows usually film in more tropical locations? I am not a cold weather fan. But here we are.
“Don’t you dare trip,” I tell myself.
“What was that?” the driver asks, peering over his shoulder.
“Nothing.” Or at least nothing I want to admit to.
The light on the camera hooked to the seat in front of me blinks off and the member of the crew who rode along with us climbs out of the passenger seat.
She checks the microphone beneath the collar of my sweater, then ensures the pack is securely clipped to the back of my jeans.
Then she’s urging me to make my way over to Cy.
It’s slow going as I work to remain steady on the uneven ground. He watches my every move, and his smile brightens when his eyes lock with mine.
Once again, without my permission, the butterflies hurricane through my stomach.
“No. Quit it,” I whisper, hoping the mic doesn’t pick up my demand.
As attractive as he is, he’s still Cy Fucking Darby. I need to remember that.
“Hi,” he says, reaching out.
I pull my hand back and tuck it into my pocket.
His smile fades, his eyes dimming. “You probably think the worst of me, huh?”
His question surprises me. I didn’t think he’d be perceptive enough to really even notice.
His insight—especially into my thoughts and feelings—reminds me that maybe I’m not giving him enough credit.
Maybe my conscience is right and he isn’t exactly who I thought he was. Not that I would admit to that.
A scathing response forms in my mind quickly, but I keep it to myself. I doubt any of what I have to say is suitable for television.
“I guess I deserve that. I’m sure you believe what Kendall said the other night.”
Damn straight I do. “Can you blame me? You’re not known for being a boy scout.” I spit the words out through gritted teeth.
He’s always been a fuck boy. I witnessed it firsthand when I was sixteen.
I don’t have time for fuckboys—on or off the show.
You don’t have to be interested in him. You’re supposed to be finding his stalker.
My muscles twitch with the urge to move, so I turn and walk into the meadow.
Cy falls into step beside me. “I deserve that. But Sydney—” He grasps my arm, stopping me. “Kendall lied.”
I scrutinize him, looking for answers in his expression. “What do you mean she lied? You didn’t sleep with her? You didn’t kiss her?”
I shouldn’t even be asking him these questions. This only proves exactly how deep I’m already in.
But I can’t pull them back now.
The grimace on his face makes my stomach twist in knots.
“I kissed her. Twice. Once the first night in the mansion. And the second time in the theater. That was it. Her lips aren’t the ones living rent free in my head.” The last part is mumbled, and the second they’ve escaped him, his eyes widen, as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
The anger that began building the other night breaks apart, scattering in the cool breeze that blows around us.
My heart stutters and my throat gets thick, but I force myself to ask the question on my mind. “Whose lips do live rent free in your head?”
His eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t have to.
“So she lied.” It’s a statement
“Yep.” He pops the P, emphasizing his response. “Got the reaction out of you she wanted to. She’s not the first one to lie about me. She probably won’t be the last.”
In theory, I get that.
But when it comes to him, logic goes out the window.
How many of the news articles and gossip columns covering him are inaccurate? Probably quite a few.
Though my firsthand experience is the most damning evidence.
Yet suddenly, it doesn’t seem to matter so much.
Call me a sucker, but the earnestness in his expression begs me to believe him. And I do.
Yet I remain cautious. “Let’s say I believe you. Why are you telling me this?” As we stroll, my fingers, now free of the pocket I shoved them into earlier, brush his.
Instead of one massive jolt, each time we touch, small arcs of anticipation roll through me. The calm that exists in the silence before a massive storm amplified by every microscopic brush of skin against skin. I should pull away—but I don’t want to.
“I-I don’t want lies between us. I want us to be honest with each other. Something tells me you don’t have a problem being honest.”
Guilt gnaws at my stomach. In any other situation, he would be right. But I’m not being one hundred percent honest now. Not about why I’m here. And I haven’t bothered to mention that we’ve met before—a lie by omission.
A dark cloud blots out the sun and the wind chills further. Shivering, I shift closer to Cy whose larger frame pumps out heat as well as blocks some of the wind.
At the edge of the clearing, a blanket and a picnic basket come into view.
“What’s this?” I point to the setup.
“I asked production if we could do a semi-private picnic. I know you’re not a huge fan of the cameras and the people and the circus.”
Really? The thoughtfulness is a surprise. So much so that it takes my breath away.
This man actually thought about me when making arrangements. About what I would appreciate. And the damn butterflies are at it again, spinning with delight.
“There aren’t any cameras?”
He points to the tree line, where a camera guy I hadn’t seen is standing.
“They’re here—one, anyway. And I insisted he give us space. Production wanted to send more, but I put my foot down. Got into a massive argument with Julian over it. Eventually Mara got him to agree. I want to get to know you. The real you. And I have a feeling you’re a really private person.”
The camera guy waves. Has he been filming us the whole time? How did I miss him?
And you’re the one they sent to sniff out Scarlett?
“No director?”
Cy shakes his head. “That guy’s an asshole,” he says.
That’s something he and I can agree on. How that guy is in charge of a dating show is beyond me.
“What about Alicia and Mara?”
He laces his fingers with mine and guides me to the blanket, then tugs me down beside him.
The tension between my shoulders relaxes a little. How the hell does he read me so well? Why does he always seem to know what I need?
“They usually don’t come on the one-on-one dates,” he tells me.
He would know. This is the first one-on-one I’ve been on. And I feel special. Cherished.
He studies me, his thumb grazing my wrist. The air between us charges. My heartbeat trips, then takes off as an ache blooms in my core. Since when is my wrist an erogenous zone?
I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone the way I want to kiss him now. I angle forward, eager to experience the electricity we create when his lips touch mine.
There’s no one here to watch. To judge.
He lifts a hand, dragging his index finger along the column of my throat. “You should stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” The words escape me on an exhale.
“Like you want to kiss me,” he murmurs.
A thrill runs up my spine. “Is that a bad thing?”
Duh. This is totally a bad decision. Stop thinking with your pussy and think with your head.
“I’m afraid that won’t be enough. That if I kiss you again, I’ll only need more of you.” He cups the back of my neck, pulling me forward gently.
“We may be alone, but that doesn’t mean I’ll sleep with you.” My words are barely a whisper, yet they’re forceful enough to break the spell his gaze held me under.
How’s that for honesty?
He throws back his head and laughs, the sound echoing off the trees.
“Fuck, that mouth of yours, BB. I know that. I’m not asking you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. Let’s start with a picnic. Some conversation. Sound good?”
Annoyance threads through me. Why does everyone have to be so rational lately? First Jessie, now Cy.
It’s fucking irritating when I’m being led around by the emotions crashing through my body.
I nod. “I just wanted to make sure we were clear.”
“Crystal.”
He releases my hand and tugs the basket closer. One by one, he pulls out containers. One filled with grapes, one full of assorted melon, and several others that include cheese, nuts, and olives. After those clear containers, he pulls out a white box.
“Is that a Mary Poppins bag?” I ask, surveying the containers. How in the hell did they all fit in that smallish picnic basket?