Chapter 1 #2
A movement across the bar catches my eye. I see a blonde woman waving at me from a high-top table near the windows. She’s got that look. The kind of smile that says she remembers more about our night together than I do. I wave back because I’m not a complete asshole, then lean toward Jay.
“Is that… tequila girl?”
Jay follows my gaze and snorts. “That’s Claire. She’s a middle school teacher.”
I screw up my face. “That doesn’t help.”
“She’s one of Calla’s friends. You met her here? She made you French toast the next morning.”
Calla is his bubbly raven-haired wife. That does help; I have a vague memory of Calla introducing me to a blonde. But when I pulled my usual shit and never called the number my hookup left for me, Calla scolded me. Something about not breaking teachers’ hearts.
My bad. It was just one night…
“Right.” I take another sip of beer. “Tequila. I kind of remember now.”
“Jesus Christ, Ryan.” Jay shakes his head. “You know, for a guy who’s about to go on a show specifically designed to help you fall in love, you sure have a shitty track record with actual human connection.”
“I connect just fine. We had a good time. We spent the night at her place. She made excellent French toast.”
“You didn’t even remember her name.”
I point at her. “I remembered the French toast.”
Jay stares at me for a long moment. I can practically see him gearing up for one of his lectures. Being friends for so many years means I know all his tells. The way he’s drumming his fingers against the table means he’s about to get philosophical.
Shoot me.
“You know what your problem is?” he says finally.
“I can’t wait for you to tell me.”
“Your problem is that you treat dating like a drive-through. Quick, efficient, no lingering afterward to see if you actually liked the experience.”
I laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. “At least I don’t pretend it’s more than it is. I’m honest about what I want and what I can give. People say ‘love’ when they mean ‘you’ll regret this later.’”
“You’re like a Waffle House,” Jay muses. I notice he is just straight up ignoring my cynicism. “Open all night, zero emotional ambiance, but somehow people keep coming back.”
“But the food’s good, right? You’ve never personally been stabbed there.”
“Depends on your definition of good. Safe, too.” He pauses. “Speaking of safe, at least I sleep easy knowing there’s one woman in the world you’ll never corrupt.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Just one? I’m losing my touch.”
After a long pause, he says, “I know I probably don’t need to say this, but keep your dick in your pants when it comes to my baby sister. I don’t need you messing with Wren’s head. She’s not one of the girls you usually hook up with.”
My eyebrows rise and I feel heat creep up my neck. The idea of me and Wren together is heinous.
“Come on. You know I’d never?—”
“No, I don’t. You’re reckless when you’re bored. So I’ll say it again. Don’t touch her.”
“Jesus, man.” I squint at him. “Wren hates me. So I’m pretty sure you’re safe there.”
“Thank God,” Jay says. His voice takes on that protective big brother tone that always makes me want to mess with him. “I never want to have to worry about you trying to sleep with her.”
The mention of Wren sends an automatic spike of irritation through my system. She’s a pretty little redhead with a serious attitude problem when it comes to me. “She would rather marry a ferret.”
“And you’d probably still flirt with the ferret.”
“Only if it had good French toast-making skills.” I lean back in my seat, already feeling the familiar pattern of our Wren-related banter settling into place. “Besides, your sister made it pretty clear what she thinks of me last Christmas.”
“Oh, you mean when she called you an emotionally bankrupt caveman?”
“She also told me she’d rather wax her own bikini line with duct tape than be caught dead flirting with me.”
“Jesus!” Jay sputters, spitting out foam and beer. “Don’t talk about Wren’s bikini line. And she’s not wrong. You do have the emotional depth of a puddle.”
“A very attractive puddle.” I flex my biceps. “A puddle that gets a lot of women.”
His lips twitch. “With good puck handling skills.”
“And excellent taste in beer.”
We’re both grinning now, falling back into the easy rhythm that’s carried us through college.
Through the NHL draft, my hockey career, and Jay’s Instagram influencer business blowing up.
This is what I’m going to miss most about the next two months.
This kind of normal. No scripts, no cameras, no producers asking me to dig deeper into my feelings for the sake of good television.
I have the impression that asking “What feelings?” will not exactly get me a gold star from the producers.
A familiar voice cuts through my thoughts like a white-hot knife through butter. “Are you talking about me?”
I look up and there she is. Wren Rustin, in all her schlubby glory.
Oversized cardigan that probably belongs to someone twice her size, jeans that could fit another person in there with her, and those thick-rimmed glasses that make her look like she’s cosplaying a librarian.
But even buried under all that fabric, there’s no hiding the fact that she’s pretty.
Flame-red hair that falls in waves around her face and those ridiculous green eyes that are currently narrowing at me with suspicion.
And fuck me, but I can’t help thinking about Lake Lanier.
Our annual group trip where she shows up in some tiny bikini that makes it impossible to look anywhere else.
Not that I should be thinking about that.
Not that I want to be thinking about that.
But the brain wants what the brain wants, and apparently my brain wants to remember exactly what Wren Rustin looks like in a swimsuit.
It shouldn’t matter that she’s pretty. That she grew up and got sharp-tongued and sharp-eyed. That she hates me. But it does. And I hate that.
“Wren,” Jay says, sliding over to make room for her in the booth. “Perfect timing.”
“Is it?” She settles next to her brother, her eyes still fixed on me. “Because Ryan looks like he just swallowed something unpleasant.”
“That’s just my natural reaction to your presence,” I say. I have no defense other than that poking the dragon is apparently hardwired into my DNA.
Scratch that. I’m a giant teddy bear to everyone else. But with Wren, messing with her is just too much fun.
Her lips curve upward. “How sweet. You have all the charm of a pit viper.”
“And you’re still exactly as tall as I remember,” I shoot back. “What are you, five two? Five three on a good day?”
“Five four, thank you very much. And you’re still exactly as observant as ever. Really putting that college education to good use.”
“Cut it out.” Jay snorts. “You know, it’s weird. Wren’s shy around literally everyone except you.”
I’m not sure how to feel about that, so I volley back a joke.
“That’s because her hatred overcomes her natural personality defects,” I say.
“My natural personality defects?” Wren’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s rich coming from someone whose personality is basically ‘hockey stick with legs.’”
“At least I have a personality. You spend most of your time hiding behind books and computers.”
“I prefer the term ‘selectively social.’ Not all of us can survive on pure ego and protein powder.”
Jay looks between us like he’s watching a tennis match. “This is actually kind of entertaining.”
“Glad we can provide you with quality programming,” I say. Then I turn back to Wren. “So, your brother tells me you’re going to be working on my show.”
Something flickers across her face. “It’s not your show. You’re just the guy they’re paying to look pretty and say scripted things.”
“Right. Well, maybe the producers will give you the really important job of fetching my bagels and being my personal assistant. You know, something that matches your skill set.”
Her face goes pale, and for a second, I think I’ve actually crossed a line. “I’m going to try to stay as far away from you as possible, actually.”
“Good. That works for both of us.”
Jay motions to Wren to let him out. She gets up and he stands up, tossing a twenty on the table. Wren sits down across from me again, eyeing me with uncertainty. We’re not usually alone together. Is that what she is thinking?
I’m certainly not forcing her to be here. The door is right there.
Jay says, “Okay, children, I’m going to leave you two to your mutual destruction. Early morning tomorrow.” He looks at me seriously. “Take care of her, Ryan.”
Great. Just what I need. Jay’s little sister reporting back to her big brother every time I get within ten feet of a bikini. Or a cocktail. Or literally anything that could be construed as inappropriate behavior.
“I’m pretty sure she’ll tase me if I get out of line.”
“She owns a taser,” Wren confirms cheerfully. “And knows how to use it.”
“Atta girl.” Jay leaves, shaking his head.
Wren and I stare at each other across the table. The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife. Then something in her expression shifts, goes softer, almost vulnerable.
“Can I ask you something?”
“I don’t know. Does this question count as asking me something?” I quip.
“You’re terrible.” She narrows her eyes, biting her lower lip. She is clearly annoyed and trying to battle through it. Shit, she must really want something from me.
Drawn in like a magnet, I lean forward with a grin. “Shoot, kid.”
I expect her to react to me calling her a nickname, but she doesn’t. Her eyes pin me in place. She looks… worried?
“You’re not going to blow up my spot, are you?” she asks quietly. “On the show, I mean. Tell them we know each other?”
The question catches me off guard. There’s something almost fragile in her voice and it makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t like. Does she think I’m a monster?
“No. I wouldn’t do that. We won’t even have to interact. You’ll be behind the scenes; I’ll be in front of the cameras. Different worlds.”
A smile flickers across her face, quick and genuine. For a split second she looks almost grateful. Then the moment passes and she’s back to her usual self. She sits back against the booth.
“Good. Because the last thing I need is America thinking I’m associated with someone whose biggest accomplishment is putting a piece of rubber in a net.”
“It’s called a puck, genius. And it’s harder than it looks.”
“I’m sure it is. Almost as hard as remembering the names of the last five women you slept with.”
I give her a cocky grin. “You know, jealousy is a good look on you. Goes with your eyes.”
“Jealous!” Wren’s jaw drops and she scoots out of the booth. “You’re the last man I would ever be jealous of, Ryan Haart.”
“You’re turning green.”
“Yeah, right.” She scoffs. “Have a nice night. And don’t forget, from this moment on, we’re strangers.”
Wren walks away without waiting for a response, weaving between tables toward the exit.
I’m left alone with my beer and the weight of tomorrow’s departure.
I watch Claire finish her drink and leave with her friends.
That bridge has definitely been burned. I catch the waiter’s eye for one more round and try not to think about the next two months.
Somewhere in Atlanta, twelve women are probably packing their bags, preparing to compete for my attention.
At her bedroom in Jay’s house, Wren Rustin is probably doing the same thing.
She’ll be armed with her clipboard and her attitude and her complete conviction that I’m exactly the kind of man who’ll eventually disappoint everyone.
She’s going to be behind the camera. I’ll barely see her. And even if I do… so what? It’s Wren. I’ve seen her a thousand times. This won’t be any different.
It won’t.
But as I sit here, staring at the empty booth where she just sat, I can’t shake the feeling that something shifted tonight.
The way she looked at me when she asked me not to blow her cover.
The way her voice went soft and uncertain.
The way she said we’d be strangers from now on, like it actually mattered.
I take a long drink and let the beer work its magic, smoothing the sharp edges of my anxiety into something manageable.
As long as she stays behind the camera, I’m safe.
As long as I focus on the job (be charming, be available, be the kind of man America wants to fall in love with), everything will work out fine.
And if one of those ten bachelorettes turns out to be something real? Someone who surprises me, who doesn’t feel like she’s performing every moment we’re together?
Maybe this won’t be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.
The bar settles around me, familiar and forgiving, and I raise my bottle in a silent toast to whatever comes next. To brand growth and national exposure. To hot tubs and fantasy suites and the kind of love that looks good on camera.
To surviving two months in close proximity to Wren Rustin without either of us committing homicide.
I drain the last of my beer and head for the door, ready to face whatever fresh hell I’ve signed up for.
Tomorrow, everything changes. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can’t shake the feeling that Wren being there is going to complicate things in ways I haven’t even thought of yet.