Chapter Twenty-One
One perk of going on Love Shack is traveling.
Usually starting in the third week, the cast will travel either domestically or internationally, to test contestants’ connections with the lead in different environments.
Act excited, but not too excited. You don’t want anyone to think you’re only there for a free vacation.
—Shacking Up: The Definitive, Unauthorized Guide to Winning Love Shack
Nashville comes into view through the dense clouds below us. The chartered plane lurches lower, and my stomach clenches, hands tightening on my armrests. Next to me, Brooklyn is blissfully asleep, her hair puffed out on her headrest. I take a last gulp of my prosecco.
This will be my fifth visit to Nashville.
The first time, I was twenty-two and fresh off college graduation.
Back then, Serena and I were inseparable.
We got last-minute plane tickets on one of those airlines where the seat belts cost extra and arrived without a plan or a place to stay.
Four days later, after seeing dozens of cover bands and drinking more beer than a frat boy on Super Bowl Sunday, we returned to LA, still giddy from the rush of the trip and, in my case, nearly passed out from the amount of Xanax it took to get me back on the plane.
I came back jet-lagged but on fire. For the next few months, I didn’t go more than a few days without going to a concert or dive bar with live music.
It was thrilling to me, so many people pressed together, the same current running through all of them.
Losing myself in a crowd, hundreds of veins pumping to the band’s heart.
Putting it on the page so others could experience it too.
It was the ideal cover for my investigative reporting, and somewhere along the way, it became my lifeblood.
The small plane crunches onto the runway with a deafening roar. I let out a long breath. The worst of the flight is over. Getting back on the plane later this week will be a problem for future (and hopefully very sedated) Georgia.
“Welcome to Nashville,” the pilot says, her voice crackly over the speakers. “Also known as Music City, USA.”
“How many times are we gonna have to hear that?” Olie grumbles as she wakes up in the row behind me.
Once the plane rolls to a stop, I stand, itching to get out of this metal death tube.
I climb over Brooklyn, offering to get her suitcase down, and walk a few rows up to where our bags are stashed.
When I pop open the overhead compartment, my duffel bag falls squarely on top of my head, sending me flying backward into the row opposite.
A pair of strong hands grasps my waist, breaking my fall, but my back jams into the armrest and soon I’m horizontal.
“Whoa there, Georgia Peach,” Roland says. His hands. It’s his hands that are steadying me, laying me across his lap like a goddamn damsel in distress. Again. “You all right there?”
“Yeah,” I groan. I look up at him, realize he’s in the window seat, and then glance down, giving myself an egregious double chin.
Rhett. It’s Rhett’s hands on my waist. Desperately, I try to pull myself up, but my abs are on a break and I fall back, head hitting Roland’s crotch.
He lets out a grunt and twists his face in pain.
“I’m sorry!” I scramble up, using Rhett as a ladder, and try not to think about what my head just touched.
“It’s fine,” Roland says through gritted teeth.
I move to get up and get a faceful of Rhett, whose eyebrows are so close together they could be connected.
After spending the entire flight avoiding even looking at him, this is far too close for comfort.
Plus, he smells fantastic. Like cinnamon and whatever lemony drink is in his tiny airplane cup and—
No. I can’t be thinking like that now that we’ve both made it abundantly clear where we stand.
“Uh, hi,” I mumble, trying to get back up, but it’s more difficult than it should be.
As I shift my weight, Rhett grunts, and I realize that my backside is pressed fully into his crotch.
Cheeks burning, I yank myself up. Nice going, Georgia.
I managed to headbutt one man in the balls and give the other a hard-on.
Rhett clears his throat, adjusting his leather jacket. “Good flight?”
“Excellent,” I lie. Because that’s way sexier than saying I spent the first twenty minutes in the tiny bathroom with anxiety diarrhea.
Across the aisle, Lainey is eyeing us, probably trying to determine if I’ve permanently damaged Roland’s goods.
Under her watchful gaze, I scramble to my feet and blow Roland a kiss over Rhett’s head.
I don’t stick around to watch Rhett scowl.
I grab my bag and Brooklyn’s and get off the plane before anyone else, winding down the twisting, portable ramp until I’m finally in the fresh air.
I wait for Brooklyn at the bottom of the ramp, and she emerges several minutes later after almost everyone else has already disembarked.
“Thank goodness,” she whispers to me. “I was so worried it would take forever to put my chair back together again. It’s happened before and it’s a nightmare.”
Brooklyn doesn’t talk much about her disability to the other women.
But if history is any indication, when this hits TV screens, it will be something that defines her.
I’m sure Lainey has already asked her about it in their interviews, pressed her to bare all with Roland.
I just hope the producers leave in the rest of her: the quirky jokes, sweet personality, the way she snorts when she laughs too hard.
She shakes her head and smiles. “But it’s not important. As long as we get picked up soon and I can take a nap, everything will be fine.”
“It is important,” I say, hoisting our bags higher on my shoulder as we wait for the remaining producers to deplane.
“Well, yeah,” she says, her face falling. “I know. I just worry about it getting in the way with me and Roland.”
“Have you talked with him about it at all?”
She bites her lip, staring down at her hands.
“A bit,” she confesses. “And he was really kind about it. But it’s …
well, I guess it’s always something I struggle with when I’m dating.
Sometimes it’s easier if I’m friends with someone first, you know?
They get used to it. But jumping right into a relationship, like with Roland—or whatever this is … I don’t want to overwhelm him.”
I nod and put on my sunglasses. The sun is, if possible, brighter than it was in LA.
“Not that I’m kidding myself thinking it’ll definitely be me or anything,” she adds. “But that’s the end goal of this, right? An engagement—and marriage means taking care of each other, so I’d understand if it’s intimidating to know that I need a little more care than someone else.”
“Roland would be the luckiest guy in the world to end up with you,” I say, nudging her foot with my own.
“Thanks.” She smiles, then hesitates. “I’ve also been a bit … well … I’m the only one who hasn’t had a one-on-one yet. So, I haven’t had as much time with him.”
“Maybe he’s saving the best for last,” I say. The hopeful look on her face fills me with guilt. But honestly? Roland’s not nearly good enough for her.
A fleet of black vans drives toward us on the tarmac, and Brooklyn and I stare, though everyone else seems to have expected this.
“I thought only celebrities got picked up on the tarmac,” she whispers.
I grin as a hand comes down on my shoulder.
The last to come off the plane, Rhett flips his sunglasses down over his eyes. I glance toward the others, but they’re all occupied. Brooklyn is heading up a shallow ramp into the middle van, and Lainey seems to be giving the driver a stern talking-to. I turn back to Rhett and lower my voice.
“Sorry about before,” I say. He raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t mean to give you an in-flight boner. The SkyMall catalogue probably didn’t advertise that.”
His mouth falls open, and I turn on my heel to head for the vans, a sweet pride rippling through me at getting the better of him.
Take that, Rhett Auburn.