Chapter Fourteen
Sometimes, when two contestants have a particularly intense rivalry, they will be sent on a two-on-one date. Think of it as a fight to the death. Only one can win.
—Shacking Up: The Definitive, Unauthorized Guide to Winning Love Shack
The card arrives early the next morning.
All ten of us are seated on the U-shaped couch, and since I was the last to come downstairs, I’m squashed in the corner between Addison, who’s leaning so far forward I’ll hardly be visible on camera, and Olie, who smells suspiciously like Roland’s cologne.
I wouldn’t put it past her to never shower again after their one-on-one time yesterday.
Norbert hands the creamy-card-stock invitation to Chloe, who bounces up from the couch to stand in front of us. She unfolds it, and her pink lips drop open in surprise.
“Georgia and Addison,” she reads.
I sit up as Addison whirls around, staring at me like I’m an annoying younger sibling with pudding on my face. I must have heard wrong.
Chloe looks nervously at us and keeps reading. “Georgia and Addison, let’s take things up the coast.—Roland.”
Addison marches over to Chloe. “Let me see that.” She grabs the card and scans it, then hands it back. “She’s right,” she says. “It’s both of us.” Taking a breath, she steadies herself. She didn’t enjoy being out-sexual-compatibilitied by Olie, and this is another hit to her pride.
“What do you think you guys are going to do?” Philippa asks.
“Maybe we’ll go sailing,” Addison says, tilting her head to smile down at me. “Can you swim?”
“Yeah.” I laugh lightly. “Were you hoping I’d drown?”
“That would be too much to hope for,” she grumbles, then sweeps from the room to get ready.
Once she’s gone, Olie turns to me, looking scared. “If you’re anywhere near water, you be careful, okay?” Next to her, Brooklyn is wearing a similarly terrified expression.
“Relax,” I say. “She’s not going to drown me. It’s just a two-on-one date. I’ll be fine.”
But as I head to the bunk room to change, my heart is pounding. Two-on-one dates are infrequent but not unheard-of. Usually, they’re designed to pit rivals against each other, with only one woman making it to the next week.
I didn’t think Addison and I rose to quite that level, but there might be more to it than I’m aware of.
She could be trashing me in interviews while I’ve been wasting my time blathering on and on about Roland’s teeth or whatever the fuck Jules asked me last time.
Maybe I’ve been too distracted to remember that this is, first and foremost, a competition.
Only one can win. And I’m sure Lainey would rather it wasn’t me.
For the date, I decide on high-waisted jeans and an orange halter top that reminds me of the sunset. The straps make it difficult to find a bra that won’t show, so eventually I give up and put boob tape over my nipples, then slip into flat sandals so I can’t be accused of being too tall for Roland.
“Let’s take things up the coast” could mean any number of things, but I’ve been told a car will collect us at noon, so I wave goodbye to Nina, who’s video-calling with her daughter Sofia in the living room under close supervision. She blows me a kiss and points the screen to me.
“Mija, wish Georgia luck!” she says, waving me off.
I head out the front doors, expecting to be ambushed by cameras, but to my surprise, there’s no one here.
Not even Addison. I’m on the verge of going back inside when I hear a rumbling engine, and a vintage convertible pulls into the drive.
I plaster on my best so happy to see you!
face and wave as the car slows to a stop in front of me.
My hand freezes midair, smile sliding off my face like mud.
Rhett looks at me over the top of his sunglasses, one hand still on the wheel.
“Hop in,” he says, but I hesitate. My eyes linger on the car, which is gorgeous.
Creamy white, not a scratch on it, top folded elegantly down to reveal light coffee-colored seats and red highlights.
On the back, little accents pop up like wings.
Its sleek mid-century vibe has me salivating.
Is it possible to be attracted to a car?
“You coming?” Rhett’s voice snaps me back to attention.
I must be attracted to the car because I can’t let myself be attracted to its driver, even as his eyes slide up and down my body, making me more aware than ever that I’m not wearing a bra.
“I’m driving you up the coast to meet Roland,” Rhett says.
“He’s already there. They’ve been doing interviews all morning. ”
“What about Addison?”
He laughs stiffly. “They picked her up a few minutes ago. She, uh—she refused to arrive with you.”
Too infuriated by this to focus on avoiding Rhett, I open the door and slip onto the bench seat.
“This car is amazing,” I breathe, unable to hide my awe.
Pulling my fingers from the silky-smooth paneling on the door, I glance at my driver.
He’s wearing dark jeans and cowboy boots, his hair slicked back with one treacherous lock spilling onto his forehead.
His short-sleeve button-down cuts off just high enough that I can see the tattoos on his biceps.
In short, he looks like a goddamn movie star.
“How’d you get this glamorous job?” I ask as we shoot out of the driveway. “Shouldn’t a PA be taking me? Or have they demoted you?”
“No one else drives my car,” he says, caressing the steering wheel.
“You mean you don’t drive a pickup like all your country music brethren?”
“This is the same car as Elvis had.” His eyes cut to me, assessing my reaction.
“Elvis owned this car?!” I shriek, swiveling around like I expect to see Elvis’s hip-waggling ghost shooting out of the exhaust pipe.
“No.” He laughs, a short, abrupt sound. “Same type of car. Same year, same make and model. But not this exact one.”
I flip my sunglasses down over my eyes. “You didn’t answer my question—why are you driving me?”
He scratches his jaw. “I wanted to talk to you. Without cameras,” he clarifies. “About the other night—”
“Forget it,” I say. “It’s fine.”
“I wasn’t trying to mess you up.” He looks over at me. “I’m sorry if you missed time with Roland. I … I don’t know what you think of me at this point, but I wouldn’t do that.”
I’m hesitant to believe him, but the apology in his voice is genuine. “You won’t tell anyone, right? That I was with you instead of kissing Roland’s feet or whatever?”
“Didn’t know he was a foot guy.”
“Be serious.”
“Come on, Georgia.” He palms the wheel. My spine tingles from the juicy tang of my name in his mouth, the way he bites into it like a peach. “I’ve been pretty good at keeping your secrets so far. Why would I tell on you now?”
Relief unspools further in me as I turn this logic over in my head. He could’ve sold me out on night one, but he didn’t. That has to count for something, right?
“I don’t know,” I say, “to blackmail me?”
“Tempting. But I’m sure you’d get back at me somehow. Do you have any dirt on me?”
I glance at him, biting my lip, and wish I’d been able to call Serena again. “Last year?”
His jaw ticks. With those two words, I’ve disarmed him. But just as quickly, his guard goes back up.
“I’m sure you were supposed to disclose that to the producers, right?” I ask.
He coughs lightly and runs a hand through his windblown hair. “I’ve slept with a lot of women Lainey doesn’t know about.”
I scowl at his blasé attitude, despite the jealousy that seems to be coiling in my stomach. “But only one who’s currently fighting for Roland’s heart. I think.”
“And you’d tell Lainey about us? You want her digging through your drawers?” He takes his eyes off the road for a fraction of a second and glances at me, eyes masked behind his shades.
“She wouldn’t find anything,” I say, though the thought makes my palms sweat. Any number of Gracie Hart articles are strewn across the internet, but nothing links them to me. “I passed all background checks before I got cast, so why would now be any different?”
“No felonies? Light theft? Illegal fish?”
I shrug. “I have a cat. No fish.”
“I don’t remember a cat.”
“I was between cats last year.”
“Between cats? So, you’ve had this one—
“Presley.”
The name seems to interrupt him and his mouth twitches like he might smile, but he schools his face back to neutral.
“You’ve had Presley for what? Less than a year?”
Hearing him say Presley’s name is another jolt to my system because of how normal, how domestic it sounds, like he could just as easily slot into all the other empty spaces in my life.
Hearing it feels like a soft peck on the forehead when you’re still asleep or the warm smell of fresh coffee in the morning.
Neither of which I got last year, but maybe … No. I shake myself. Just no.
Back in my apartment, he’d tripped over my vintage Victrola, cursing as he fell into the pile of laundry on my bed. A few pairs of underwear flopped onto his face, and I snatched them off, blushing crimson.
“There better be something good on that record player to make up for it breaking my toe,” he’d grumbled.
I remember lighting a candle on the other side of my tiny bedroom, realizing he wasn’t as adept at navigating my piles of stuff, and blowing it out so we wouldn’t light the building on fire. I pulled the record off the machine and handed it to him.
When he looked up at me, his face was incredulous. “The Twilight soundtrack? Seriously?”
I shrugged, challenging. He stood and perused my shelves of records. I watched his fingers flick between them, plucking one from its place. “Titanic?” The disappointment in his voice was enticing. I wanted to disappoint him again just to hear it afresh.
“I guess I’m a romantic. Or…” Or I liked to believe there was a world where love—where romance—could conquer all. Even if I didn’t live in it.
He scoffed, and there it was again, that teasing disappointment.
“What,” I challenged, “are you not?”