Chapter Nine
Tune in tonight to see the shocking finale of Rhett Auburn’s season. Will he choose Cassidy, the blond from Boston, or Katie, the surgeon from Seattle?
[Image description: Rhett Auburn in a dark gray suit, looking pensively at the ocean and holding a ring]
—@LoveShackOfficial, Instagram, two years ago
I’m up at dawn the next day. I dress silently—jean cutoffs, lacy white tank top, a silk paisley overshirt Serena tried to talk me out of bringing—and slip out of the bunk room before the others wake up.
Since I’m going off on my own, I leave my body mic lying on my bed—conspicuous enough that I could have just forgotten it when I went downstairs for breakfast.
My mission is simple: Find Lainey. If she lives on the property like Rhett said, she can’t be far. She can hardly hang upside down like a bat whenever the cameras are off.
I head downstairs, my flip-flops thwacking on the tiled floor.
The silence in the house is eerie. As I walk through the empty living room (pillows thrown on the floor, call sheets crumpled in the corner, shades hanging half down from the windows), I trip over a pair of feet sticking out from behind the giant sofa.
Kevin, Love Shack’s balding bartender, is face down on the plush carpet, snoring like his life depends on it. I pull a blanket off the couch and drape it over his body, then step over his legs and make my way to the mansion’s front doors.
When I push them open, the sun hits me with full force. I squint against the glare, but I don’t have time to go back in and get sunblock if I want to spy on Lainey before the others wake up.
I head in the direction of a shady path on the left of the sloping lawn. There are more trees here than I’ve ever seen so close together in Southern California, and vines catch on my arms as I step between them. I know I’m on the right track when I hear a soft putt-putt noise from down the hill.
“Thirty-love,” a man’s voice calls. Roland, if I’m not mistaken. And Lainey wouldn’t let him out of her sight for too long.
A few more yards down the winding path, a clearing opens before me, complete with a tennis court and, off to the side, a little cabana with a thatched roof.
I hover behind a tree, looking down at the court to get my bearings.
On the side closest to me, raising his racket to serve, is Roland.
He’s wearing all white, a sweatband pushing his dark hair back from his face.
This is the only way I’d seen him before my first night in the mansion: sweaty and focused, lunging across a dark green court.
He brings his racket slashing down and the ball whistles over the net, ricocheting off the chain-link fence. As he bends down to adjust his knee brace, a twinkle of light catches my eye: a camera, swinging under the eaves of the cabana to film Roland’s every move.
Then I see Lainey stretched out on a pool chair in the shade. She raises her sunglasses to look at Roland.
“Do you want to stop and ice it?” she calls. “Do you need to take something?”
Roland shakes his head. “Let’s do one more shot.” He rubs his knee again, his face screwed up in pain.
I knew his injury was bad, but not the full extent of it.
I don’t know how he expects to compete at Wimbledon in a few months if he can’t even beat—I glance across the court, expecting to see a trainer or maybe one of his tennis friends.
But no, it’s Rhett, which only reinforces my confusion.
How can Roland expect to sweep Wimbledon when he’s in pain from playing against a fake cowboy?
At the sight of Rhett, I back up quickly, but I step on a twig and the sound echoes on the court.
Roland turns toward me and his face lights up. “Georgia!”
Caught, I plaster on a smile. Glancing nervously at Lainey, I let myself through the gate as Roland jogs over and folds me into a sweaty hug. Over his elbow, I sneak a look at Rhett, who’s bouncing his tennis ball grumpily, as though it’s deeply disappointed him.
“Been teaching this guy a thing or two,” Roland says. “He’s not half bad.”
I smile sweetly and meet Rhett’s eyes, though my words are directed to Roland. “Sounds like you’re winning though. I’m not surprised.”
Roland grins his goofiest grin in the beat of silence that follows. Sweat trickles down my neck. I meet Rhett’s eyes, but he just sets his jaw and glowers at me.
Then Lainey stands and the moment is broken. Arms crossed, she walks onto the court, her white jumpsuit glowing neon against the dark ground. “Let’s run that entrance again, and then you can get back up to the house.” Her raised eyebrows leave no room for negotiation.
“My … entrance?”
She nods. “Go back to the fence and come up to Roland again—make it a little more energetic this time. And remember”—she taps the sides of her face—“smile!”
I wipe my palms on my shorts and nod. “Uh, okay.” I retrace my steps and at Lainey’s signal, jog toward Roland, a huge grin on my face. He lifts me enthusiastically, and I wrap my legs around his waist.
Before I can overthink it, I lower my face and drop a kiss on his lips. As I pull back, I glance at Rhett, who’s still scowling, the line between his eyes more pronounced than ever.
“Gorgeous,” Lainey says. I tear my gaze from Rhett and dismount from Roland. “I want a few more shots of Roland—nothing too strenuous, don’t worry. Rhett, can you walk Georgia back up to the house?”
I stiffen, annoyed that yet again I’ve ended up kissing Roland instead of getting intel. I glance at Rhett, who nods, despite the caged-tiger vibes he’s giving off. He leans his racket against the fence and slings a small towel over his shoulder before setting off through the gate.
For a few awkward minutes, we trudge up the path and then onto the sun-drenched lawn. He cuts off to the side and leads me around the back of the house.
“Why aren’t you with the others?” He doesn’t slow down as he speaks, and I have to jog to keep up with him.
“Wanted to get some extra time with Roland,” I huff.
“Cutthroat,” he says. He slows incrementally, hooking a half-smile. “I thought you were friends with the other women.”
We round the back corner of the mansion and make our way toward the pool deck. It’s shaded back here and I stop for a moment, catching my breath, as sweat drips down my face.
“We are friends,” I mutter. But in a few short weeks, they’ll find out why I’m really here, and any bridges I’ve built will be burned. Any friendships I make will disappear. It’s better not to get too attached.
Rhett stops a few feet ahead and looks back at me as I lean down, still gasping for breath. I should’ve taken Serena’s cardio tips more seriously.
“You’re going to have to increase your stamina if going uphill leaves you out of breath,” he mutters as he keeps walking.
Scowling, I follow him up the steps to the deck.
“If Roland wants stamina, he should just propose to Monica now.”
“Not sure he could keep up with her,” Rhett says. He cuts a path around the stagnant infinity pool and turns to face me when we get to the mansion’s back door.
I cross my arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He flips his sunglasses up on his head and leans against the doorframe, blocking my path. “Seems a little unfair that they already know each other, doesn’t it?” he says absently. He drums his fingers on the wall next to my face, wiggles his jaw from side to side.
I shrug. “I guess.”
Truthfully, I don’t mind that Monica and Roland have known each other for years, having toured together on the professional tennis circuit.
It makes it less likely that he’ll fall for me, more likely that he’ll go for the safe option, the woman he already knows, who shares his interests. It’ll be one less heart I’m breaking.
“But maybe good relationships are built on history,” Rhett says.
The cool air from inside the house drifts out, drying the sweat clinging to my skin. I flick my gaze to his and narrow my eyes.
“Are you flirting with me, Rhett?” I ask, then clamp my mouth shut. I don’t have a body mic on, but who knows how many are hidden in the rosebushes around us.
His eyes pop wide like I’ve surprised him.
“Just making a comment,” he says lightly. “And how are things going with Mr. Marchetti?” he adds. “All you hoped?”
“Never better,” I retort. “He kisses like a dream. He certainly seems to be able to keep up with me.”
Rhett smirks, reaches up and presses two fingers to the side of my neck like he’s checking my pulse.
But it’s not sterile, not medical. My chest flutters as the Old Spice and citrus scent of him swirls into my nose.
He tilts his head, eyes searching my face—is he about to kiss me?
My legs aren’t ready—but then he pulls his fingers away, slick with sweat.
“You might want to shower. Sweat doesn’t look good on camera.” He inclines his head, his breath tickling my ear. “Not that I have a problem with it.”
His words drag me back to the night I met him, the sweat between our bodies a kind of heady aphrodisiac.
Sticking to my chest, my palms. His hands as they held my thighs, held me as I came undone.
And then, just as quickly: sitting on the floor of my shower, scrubbing him from my skin, hating that just hours before I’d run my tongue over the sheen on his upper lip.
It felt like my skin was no longer mine, like he’d peeled it off my bones as he left.
With that, he stalks back inside the mansion. All I can do is watch, my own fingers drawn up to the spot on my neck that’s still tingling from his touch. Like my sweat was gasoline and his fingers held a flame.