Chapter Thirty-Two #2
Turning from the gorgeous architecture, I unzip the Love Shack–provided suitcase that Jules hoists onto the bed. The top flops open onto the ornately embroidered duvet.
Inside are four bathing suits, a few robes, dresses, lightweight satin pants, a tank top, and about eighty sets of lingerie.
Okay, maybe forty. Fine. Maybe ten. But still.
It’s more lingerie than I’ve ever seen outside of a Victoria’s Secret.
As I’m dangling one particularly scary lace contraption in front of me, Jules gasps.
“I told them to leave that one out!” She marches forward and snatches the white bodysuit out of my hands.
“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I told them you’d never wear that one.
Honestly, you’d need an army just to get into this thing.
I thought this was more your style—for later.
” She rummages through the remaining lingerie and pulls out a sleek red satin bralette and matching pajama shorts.
“I know it’s awkward,” she adds. “Let me know if there’s anything I can help with. ”
“Wanna have sex with Roland for me?” I joke, then clamp my mouth shut. “Just kidding,” I stammer. “Totally joking, obviously.”
Jules cackles. “No chance.” She pulls out a bathing suit. “Lainey suggested this one. She says it’ll go with Roland’s suit. Want some help?”
I nod and undress, then let her untangle me from the body mic. She switches it off, and then pulls down her own headset. “Seriously,” she says quietly. “Can I do anything to help?”
I look at her, feeling pitiful in my underwear that’s nowhere near as fancy as the ones now festooning the bed.
“No.” I shake my head. If she could turn back time, I might take her up on it. “Just make sure I don’t look ridiculous out there.”
“Noted.” She grins and turns around briefly while I pull on the navy-blue monokini. “But I don’t think I’ll need to do much. This is hot,” she says, looking me up and down. “We should give the wardrobe department a raise.”
“Do they get paid more for providing less fabric?” I look down at my barely covered body, twisting around to see just how much of my ass is exposed. A lot.
“I’m just going to…” Jules reaches into her fanny pack and pulls out a tube of concealer, matched precisely to my skin tone. She starts dabbing it on my neck and looks at me apologetically. “Sorry—Lainey’s orders.”
“No problem,” I mutter. “Wouldn’t want Lainey to be displeased.”
She frowns. “I know she can be … a lot,” she says. “But I hope you know I don’t always agree with her.”
“So why do you do it?” It comes out more accusatory than I intend, so I try to soften my tone. “I just mean—I’m sure there are a ton of jobs you could get with less … abusive bosses.”
She shrugs, putting the concealer away, then tucks a stray lock of purple hair behind her ear.
“Believe it or not, working on Love Shack looks really good on a résumé,” she says.
“And I thought—well, it’s kind of silly, but I thought maybe if I worked here, rose up a bit, I could actually help change things.
Make sure contestants are treated well, help increase diversity in casting, that kind of thing.
But I think all I’ve helped with is propping up a horrible system. ”
She grabs a designer silk robe and hands it to me.
“You helped me,” I tell her. “Seriously. Thank you.”
She smiles a little shyly and leads me outside to the large in-ground pool surrounded by orange trees.
Naturally, Roland is already shirtless, and when he sees me, he does a double take.
I glance at the cameras to make sure they’re running (not because I care, but because I don’t want to do this twice) and step barefoot onto the hot concrete.
Slowly, I pull the robe from my shoulders and drop it onto the lounge chair beside me.
Roland lets out a low whistle, gathers me up in his arms, and tangles his fingers in my hair.
Even if it doesn’t make it on TV, now there’s footage of him grabbing my ass. Save that for my funeral.
We swim in the cool water and redo kisses over and over until our fingers are puckered and our skin is covered in goosebumps. We kiss so many times that my lips stop tingling, my legs go numb, and I don’t feel anything at all.
When his fingers brush the tattoo on my hip, I get a jolt up my spine.
I wish it were Rhett here with me now, swimming until our limbs hurt, flopping onto the hot pavement when we’re finally allowed out of the water.
But just as quickly, I realize it can never again be Rhett. We’ve both made sure of that.
Later, dried off and dressed up, Roland and I eat Margherita pizza on the deck and then sit in front of a fussy seafood dinner for the cameras. As the food sits untouched, Roland takes my hand. He looks at the sunset, then to me.
“Georgia, you’re so beautiful,” he says. I liked it better on Rhett’s lips: You’re fucking beautiful. The words were harsh enough to wrench their way into my heart—but it hurts even more to let them go.
Roland runs his eyes up and down my (or rather Love Shack’s) mint-green satin dress. His gaze flickers momentarily but returns with a burning intensity. “Will you do me the honor of spending the night with me?”
My stomach drops. I can tell myself it’s the right thing to do a million times, but I’ll never be anywhere near wanting to do this.
I nod at Roland, my head moving entirely of its own accord. “Of course,” I say. I lean forward and plant a chaste kiss on his lips.
“Sit on his lap,” Lainey orders, startling me. I’d nearly forgotten she was there. Gritting my teeth, I slide off my chair and onto Roland’s lap, snaking my arms around his neck. He brushes a kiss against my lips but doesn’t take it further than a closed-lip peck.
“We’ll be staying here,” he says. “We have the whole place to ourselves.”
I gape at him. “Seriously?”
“Yup, only the best and biggest for you, Georgia Peach,” he says, winking.
The joke isn’t lost on me, especially since I can feel his best and biggest beneath my legs, but I barely laugh. He winks again, and this time it lands over my shoulder, but perfectly placed for the cameras to catch it.
“But first,” he says, helping me to my feet, “I have a surprise.”
I’ve had more than enough of Roland’s surprises, but I just smile, trying to look excited as he leads me around the terrace to the other side of the villa, where the balcony overlooking the Mediterranean is bathed in sunset light.
Before we round the corner, he stops and tells me, “We’re getting a private concert. ”
Dread spins through me as we turn the corner.
Under twinkling fairy lights and large TV beams is a large, patterned outdoor carpet with a microphone.
And there, in the center, looking at me like a wounded animal, is Rhett. His eyes are wide and pitiful as Roland wraps me in his arms and starts to sway. They’ll probably cut the music out and relayer it in later, but even so, Rhett starts singing, plucking out a lonely melody on his guitar.
At first, I don’t recognize the song, but as Roland pulls me closer, his body flush against mine, I recognize some of the lyrics. Rhett didn’t write this song—he’s set someone else’s lyrics to a slow country melody.
Roland’s chuckle rumbles through his chest as his hands press into my back. “Fitting,” he whispers. Something hot settles in my stomach like an ember escaping a fire. Rhett is singing “Georgia,” by Vance Joy, but much slower than the original recording.
I press my face into Roland’s shoulder so no one can see the frustrated tears welling in my eyes. Rhett doesn’t get to do this. Not when we both know it’s too late for us.
Roland lets out a low, rasping breath and his fingers tense against my back.
We spin so we’re right in front of Rhett now, and I draw Roland’s head down so his forehead rests on mine.
I stare into his gray eyes, tangling my fingers into his dark hair.
I hope the pain in my eyes looks like love, lust, anything but what it is.
When we break apart, I don’t have to look at Rhett to see the effect I’ve caused. I can hear it in his voice, the edge that’s crept in. The cameras loom closer, nearly bumping our faces, and for the first time, Roland’s eyes flick to our observers.
“Georgia,” he whispers, as Rhett sings the same word, but with a very different tone. “I’m falling in love with you.”
If Roland had spoken a second sooner, his words would have been drowned out by the music, but the music stops just as he opens his mouth. I can’t pretend I didn’t hear him.
What happens next will be a turning point: I either reciprocate or go home.
My eyes skate briefly to Rhett, and I feel sick with what I’ve done to him.
I focus back on Roland, his liquid-gray eyes wide and anxious.
If the words had come from Rhett, the silence pressing into me like shards of glass would be kinder.
It would be gentle, soft, like the spilling quiet in my bedroom when the vinyl I’d put on ticked into silence.
I could look into his eyes and not know, be okay with not knowing, instead of knowing full well what I have to say.
I search the crowd of cameras for a heartbeat and catch on an all-too-familiar face.
Lainey arches a brow expectantly.
Swiveling my gaze back to Roland, I choke out the words. “I’m falling for you too.”
After everything I said to get here, all the bullshit I’ve spewed, this lie hits differently. My eyes slide to Rhett. The moment is refracted, my words glancing off Roland’s suit and bending like light toward the man they’re really about.
But it’s not good enough. I haven’t convinced Roland, whose forehead is still scrunched and anxious. And I haven’t convinced Lainey, who coughs quietly in the crowd of producers.
As much as I know it’ll hurt Rhett, I’m doing this for him. To fix the mess I’ve made.
So I take a deep breath and whisper into Roland’s expectant face, “I’m falling in love with you.”