Chapter Five
“I went on Love Shack to find The One. Obviously I’m devastated about what happened with Cassidy, but it’s for the best. I just hope that next time I fall in love, it’s for good.”
Peals of laughter split the air as I head down to the pool party. Off the entrance hall, I pass the locked control room and hear the giggles echoing over speakers inside. I shiver as I imagine the producers watching the pool party on dozens of glowing screens.
As I step through the sitting room and onto the pool deck, I see it for myself.
Around the enormous infinity pool, camera operators crouch like lions, capturing every splash, every laugh of the thirteen women and Roland.
I glance around, looking for Brooklyn, the fourteenth.
Norbert is carefully carrying her to the pool lift, his rusty beard quaking with nerves.
Dropping a contestant likely wouldn’t help his career prospects.
Brooklyn looks nervous too, and I can’t say I blame her.
Once she’s safely in the water, they both breathe a sigh of relief.
Roland lounges in the middle of it all, arms resting over the edge of the pool, his slick torso disappearing beneath the water. There’s a small tattoo of the Wimbledon logo on his upper arm, branding him with his five back-to-back victories.
His face lights up when he sees me. “Georgia!”
Heads and cameras swing toward me. Tucking my hair behind my ear, I try to appear confident, which is hard when half of the women look like they want to rip my throat out. And when my itsy-bitsy bikini leaves little to the imagination.
“I guess someone wanted to make an entrance.” My eyes dart to the speaker: Addison, shoulders lifted like she told a secret, but she clearly wanted everyone to hear. “Some people will do anything for screen time.”
“Sorry, I…” I begin. But I can’t get enough air. It’s like my lungs have been pumped full of the entire Pacific and I can’t catch my breath.
“Don’t be mean, Addison,” Olie-Ravioli says, winking at me. Her red hair is piled on top of her head as she snuggles against Roland’s side in a classy black one-piece. Why didn’t I wear a one-piece?
“I’ll be right back, just got to … grab my body mic.
I forgot it,” I mutter, which is true. Before the cameras can catch my blushing face, I turn to go back inside, but there are a few producers walking toward me.
Trapped, I hesitate for a split second, then walk purposefully in the other direction.
There must be another entrance to the mansion this way, right?
I round the corner of a tall hedge, but instead of a door back inside, I find myself facing yet another pool.
At least I’m safely out of view. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
I can’t let Addison get to me. Usually I’m not so sensitive, but something about being awake for twenty-four hours will do that to a person.
Another deep, shuddering breath. Everything will be better in the morning. It always is.
“Come to join me?”
I lose my footing as I spin around and let out a shriek. Stumbling, I careen toward the edge of the pool and fall, ungracefully, into the water.
A pair of strong hands pulls me to standing as I splutter.
“Are you okay?”
I cough, spitting water onto my savior. I rub chlorine from my eyes and squint at him or, more accurately, at his bare, gleaming chest and the tattoos snaking across it.
Dammit.
“Georgia?” Rhett asks. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I cough. “I—I’m good.”
He pulls me closer, the water still splashing between us. “You sure?”
I’m not sure. I’ve never been more unsure, but I force myself to nod. More gently than I mean to, I push him away, his muscles contracting beneath my skin. How is his skin so warm all the time? His jaw flexes at my touch and he steps back, running a hand through his disgustingly perfect hair.
“Did you get lost on your way to the pool party?” he asks.
“I could ask you the same question.”
He raises his eyes to the dark sky—he doesn’t roll them; Rhett Auburn would never roll his eyes—but the sarcasm is unmistakable. “Pretty sure the producers don’t want me there.”
“So this is what, your own personal dick?”
“I mean—”
“DECK,” I practically shout. “Deck.”
He smirks. I hate his smirk. I hate everything about his mouth.
Like the fact that right now his lips are working overtime not to pull up into an actual smile.
He rubs his jaw and sinks down onto the bench opposite me, arms propped up on the sides just like Roland.
“The private pool is collateral damage of the producer credit.”
“You’re a producer?”
He nods, lifting a shoulder half-heartedly. “In name only, but yes.”
“But you still have to live here like you’re at sleepaway camp?”
He scowls. “Everyone lives on the property. It’s just big enough that you’d never notice.”
I can’t tell if it’s a threat—if he’s implying that Lainey herself lives just around the next bend of the mansion’s gallant exterior. Better not risk it. I move to get out of the water, but my wet hair hangs in front of my face. Raising a hand to the soaked tangles, I curse under my breath.
“Did you hit your head?”
“No, I’m fine. Just … fifty dollars of hairspray down the drain.”
He purses his lips like he’s about to say something but thinks better of it.
“What?” If he’s going to rat me out, I should find out sooner rather than later.
I step toward him so I’m in the middle of the shallow pool.
My eyes wander from his face down to his tattoos.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen them, but they look different now, shimmering in the water’s reflection, some hidden beneath its funhouse mirror surface.
“It looks good,” he says, then clears his throat. “Your hair.”
I avert my eyes because looking into his feels dangerous.
“I should get back.”
“And tell them what?” he asks. “You fell in the pool on my dick?”
My mouth drops open and he laughs softly.
“Can’t I just go inside here?” I squint at the sliding door beside the pool.
He shakes his head. “No cameras out here, but once you get inside, they’ll be all over you. Just wait here, then you can go back when you’re ready. The pool party will be over soon.”
“They won’t notice I’m gone?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Depends how long you plan on staying.”
Given that Rhett seems to have spent his past life charting the mansion’s camera blind spots, I’m in no position to argue. The water is cool but just warmer than the air, so I snuggle down like it’s a quilt, crossing my legs under me as I take in the view of the ocean.
“Look,” Rhett says. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
My eyes catch on the flower tattooed over his taut chest and my fingertips ignite, the warmth of his skin flaring in my memory.
“Lots of people have one-night stands,” he says. “We can just move on.” He chews his lip, runs a hand through his hair. “If that’s what you want.”
We were skating toward danger before, but with just a few words, he’s eviscerated me completely.
Just a one-night stand? That’s all it was to him?
“Of course that’s what I want,” I snap. “Isn’t that what you want? Or am I finally interesting now that I’m on reality TV?” I try to sound accusatory, but my voice catches.
The corners of his mouth pull tight.
“Look.” I inject as much venom as I can into the word. “What I want is for you to not be here. What I want is to do what I came here to do and—”
“And date America’s Most Eligible Bachelor,” he finishes.
Scowling, I try to get my steam back. “Marry him, actually.”
Heat shoots across his face, his green eyes dilating, and suddenly I feel him everywhere like he’s water, lapping at my back, trickling down my neck, slipping between my legs.
His eyes narrow and I have the horrible feeling that he can see right through me, that he knows exactly why I’m here and what I’m doing.
At any moment a producer will jump out of the bushes and shout Gotcha!
, brandishing my Gracie Hart articles for hidden cameras.
“And when you marry him, will it be as Georgia?” Rhett’s brows flick up ominously. “Or Gracie?”
I meet his gaze as fear coils within me. He must’ve Googled me last year. I wonder if he was disappointed to find only a shadow of a person—someone who existed only in writing.
He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip. “Relax,” he mutters. “It’s more than my job’s worth to tell on you.”
“So not much then?” I smile sweetly, then backtrack.
Even if he deserves it, I shouldn’t get on his bad side.
“Anyway, I don’t do that anymore. I’ve moved on …
professionally.” It’s not quite a lie since I haven’t published as Gracie in over a year, but that was all so I could prep to be here, do this one last assignment, and get out for good.
“Telling Lainey you’re Gracie Hart would mean I’m gone,” Rhett says. “I can’t afford to explain … this.” He waves his hand dismissively between us. “I don’t care why you’re here. Journalist? Hitwoman? Looking for love? It’s all the same as long as you don’t mess this up for me.”
Seething, I cross my arms. “Yeah, I’ll try not to mess this up for you.”
“I can’t afford to lose this job,” he says.
“You mean you’re not here to relive your glory days?”
The shadow of pain that crosses his face is brief. His brows draw together, his jaw flexes, and he looks out at the ocean. “I can’t fucking believe I’m back here.”
Images flash in my mind, plucked from the hundreds of hours of Love Shack I watched as research: Rhett standing in the mansion’s driveway, face clean-shaven, greeting twenty prospective wives.
When Serena joined me, she would pause the TV occasionally, pointing out each woman’s flaws: See how she falters there?
Or: Not nearly enough confidence. He’s already a celebrity; he wants someone who knows who she is.
She didn’t know how personal her words were.
“Hoping to pick up Roland’s leftovers, then?” I prop my arms on the edge of the pool, enjoying watching him squirm.
“I fell in love in this mansion once,” he says, voice rough as sandpaper. “I won’t make that mistake again. You know how it ended.”
I do. I’m not a complete novice. I know the details of his Love Shack courtship, televised wedding, couples press tour, subsequent tabloid divorce, and rumors of cheating—all in the months before we met at the Pink Iguana.
“I hope you and Roland do better.” The stony look on his face transforms into an unpleasant smirk. “I’ll be rooting for you. Until you ride into the sunset on matching white stallions.”
“Maybe.” I push myself to stand. I need to get out of here. “Or maybe I’ll be gone by next week, and you can forget I was ever here.”
“You won’t,” he murmurs. “I won’t.”
It’s so quiet I almost don’t hear it. When I blush, I hope it looks like the rising curl of sunrise reflecting on my skin.
Because I shouldn’t be blushing. I’m here for a job, an assignment most journalists would kill for.
More accurately, I’m here to date Roland, stunning athlete with abs of steel.
But I’m not most journalists. Undercover investigation isn’t what I want to do, and it never has been. I’m just good at slipping into other people’s shoes.
I force myself to meet Rhett’s gaze, his skin iridescent orange with the shards of brightening sky.
When I blink, it’s like tipping forward into his dilated pupils.
A year ago, he was stretched out across my patchwork quilt, hair flopped back from his head, lips parted.
The streetlight from outside wandered across his neck, his bare chest, his golden eyelashes.
He wants someone who knows who she is.
I guess I didn’t.
Like he can read my mind, his face flickers with a smile and I clench my fists under the water. He’s not allowed to smile about that night. As far as I’m concerned, the only acceptable response is for him to curl up like a pill bug and die.
He crosses his arms over his tattoos, making his pecs contract. “Well, I’m here if you need me.”
“Trust me, I won’t.” I back up, the water splashing against my thighs as the cold air sucks on my skin.
Rhett’s eyes are heavy, pinpointing every nerve in my body, sending heat sparking in my fingers, toes, straight between my legs.
“I should go,” I stammer. I clamber out of the pool and wrap a discarded towel around myself. Without looking back, I stalk away, dripping, and scuttle past the now-empty contestants’ pool.
The exhaustion is a haze I can barely see through, but I know one thing for sure.
Rhett Auburn is the last person I should trust, but right now my fate hinges on him keeping my secret.