Chapter Three #2
For a second, the room is silent except for the shuffling footsteps of the cameraman, trying to catch my reaction.
Then Rhett lets out a hastily stifled laugh.
It must be him, that deep cough, the way his voice has just enough scruff around the edges to leave a burn.
Why the hell is he even here? Surely he has better things to do than watch me flail my way through one-on-one time with Roland.
“Pretty close,” I say, forcing a laugh. “It’s the smallest state.”
“Huh.” Roland looks thoroughly bamboozled by this. “The more you know.”
“Georgia,” Lainey interrupts. “Try to smile more, okay? You don’t want to seem bitchy.”
I blink at the crowd of producers, too stunned to reply, before turning back to Roland.
“Right,” I say, dialing up my smile. “Um, I’m a music journalist.” In the brief second of silence, I hold my breath.
There are dozens of music articles scattered across the internet that back up my story and not a trace of my investigative work behind the scenes.
There’s no reason anyone would know that I’m Gracie Hart.
Except Rhett.
Roland’s face lights up. “What kind of music do you like?”
I open my mouth to answer, but Lainey cuts in.
“Roland, why don’t you tell Georgia what you’re looking for in a partner.”
He nods and leans toward me. “Well, the reason I came on Love Shack was to find The One. When I tore my ACL last spring and I had to stop playing, it was really hard. But then I started thinking of it as a blessing in disguise—it’s a little hard to focus on finding a partner when you’re training twenty-four seven.
” My ears perk up at this little slice of honesty.
“I’m really hoping this works out and that when I’m finally back to playing on the professional circuit, my partner will be there to support me. ”
I imagine myself, sitting in the stands at the US Open or Wimbledon, in a pretty linen dress, bored out of my mind. Maybe if I invested in big enough sunglasses I could sleep through it and no one would know.
“I’ve always been really inspired by my parents,” Roland continues. “They’ve been married for forty years and still kiss each other every time they get home from work. My whole life I’ve wanted that.”
I bite my tongue as a sour response pops up: Really? Your whole life? Even when you were a baby?
As he talks, I zone out, wondering how many times he’ll say these exact words tonight.
I try to look interested. He’s delivering the hell out of the lines, even if they are scripted.
I wonder which shot of his speech they’ll use—if they’ll cut his delivery to me on top of his conversation with someone else: a Frankenbite confessional.
“What about you?” he finally asks. “Are your parents together?”
“I…” I don’t know why I trail off. I expected this. In fact, Serena assured me that my parents’ divorce was probably one of the main reasons I’d been cast. You have trauma, she’d said, like it was something to covet.
“They’re divorced,” I tell Roland. “They split up when I was in middle school.”
He nods, his mouth pulled into a tight, empathic frown.
“They fought a lot,” I continue, slipping into the script ingrained in my memory. “It was really hard for me when they divorced—but I know I want a better relationship for myself.”
I should lay it on thicker, maybe shed a tear or two, but being in front of the cameras is more intimidating than I anticipated.
And it’s not my style to press on the bruises of my past. It was hard when my parents split up.
I do want a better relationship for myself.
But talking about it here feels more like exploitation than honesty.
Besides, all the Love Shack prep books and guide blogs suggest keeping some secrets on the first night.
Then you can do an emotional reveal on a later date or in an interview.
They say it’s more similar to a “real relationship” that way, but I’ve never heard of a real relationship that started with a twelve-page questionnaire.
“Have you ever had your heart broken?” Roland asks.
My breath quickens, pulse leaping so fast that I pull my hand away so he can’t feel it. To cover the awkward moment, I tuck my hair behind my ears, hoping no one can see the blush creeping up my neck.
“Once,” I say quietly. No point denying it. Especially when tragedy is the quickest IV to viewers’ hearts.
Roland studies me carefully. “How long were you together?”
One night.
“Long enough.” I press a manicured nail to the corner of my eye, catching a nonexistent tear, then plunge on. “Sometimes it’s not about the length of a relationship. Sometimes it’s short but … when you know, you know.”
Footsteps shuffle in the huddle of producers. I wonder if it’s Rhett. If he knows I’m talking about him. I hope it cuts deep.
Roland is staring so deeply into my eyes that I wouldn’t be surprised if he could read every lie etched on the back of my skull.
Everything on my application form, from my overly cheery personality at my interview to the Fun Barbie aesthetic I’d cultivated in my introduction video.
The shelter cat Serena had “borrowed” because Presley was having a bad hair day.
The heaps of records I’d shoved under my bed during our photo shoot because no one wants to marry a hoarder, Georgia.
I’d done cartwheels in the sand for goodness’ sake.
The woman with the ancient cat and vintage tapestries could get cast as an oddity, sure. But the woman Serena made me into could win.
“When you know, you know,” Roland murmurs, a ghost of a smile lifting his lips.
“I totally know—what you mean, that is.” He chuckles and takes my hand again, runs his thumb over my palm.
It’s a gesture so small that the cameras would never catch it, and that makes me pause.
I look down at our hands, then back up at him, wondering if he feels something, if I should too.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
“Louder!” Lainey shouts.
“Thanks,” I repeat. Don’t I have a microphone strapped to my boobs for a reason?
I take a deep breath and plunge on. “I’m looking for love.
I just hope this time, unlike the last time I put myself out there, I don’t get my heart broken.
” My voice catches and Roland brushes an all-too-genuine tear from the corner of my eye.
The room is silent except for the hum of the mansion’s huge generator. After a few seconds, footsteps echo off the vaulted ceiling. Through the crowd, I see the back of Rhett’s head disappear.
I guess even on camera, I’m uninteresting to him.
A woman in red satin approaches and taps Roland on the shoulder, not sparing me a glance. “Roland, can I steal you for a minute?” She says it better than I did.
It’s all I can do to keep my face impassive.
“Addison, right?” he asks. A spark of pride lights in me—she doesn’t have a nickname. He wasn’t even sure of her real name. But it’s squashed when he turns to me, tells me he’ll see me later, and Addison takes my spot on the love seat.
I can’t help feeling a tiny seed of jealousy.
Not so much over Roland himself, though he’s certainly more three-dimensional than I expected.
But his attention is the only thing that will allow me to stay, and seeing him turn it on another woman doesn’t ease my nerves.
If I don’t even make it through the first night, there’s no way Serena will hold up her end of our bargain.
I’ll do whatever it takes.