by Lizzie Shane
Chapter Two
“It’s like a dream come true. Or a fairy tale! That’s it. I feel like Cinderella getting ready for the ball. Or the heroine in one of my books about to meet her hero for the first time.” Marcy beamed and twirled, the skirt of her designer gown flaring out around her legs.
“Cut!” The segment producer, Linus, stepped forward through the small cluster of camera and sound people, grinning with patronizing approval. “Got it.” He caught both of her hands, giving them a squeeze. “That was perfect, sweetie. You’re a natural.”
“Do you need me to model any more of the outfits?” She’d been playing dress-up for nearly two hours—twirling and primping and laughing for the camera in the Miss Right wardrobe, furnished this year by the most recent winner of Project Runway in a cross promotional stunt. Thank God the winner knew how to make a girl look good rather than like a piece of abstract art.
“No, we’re all set.” Behind Linus, the camera and sound people were already packing up their cables while the hair, make-up and wardrobe people hovered behind, waiting for him to be done with her so they could descend. “You have about an hour before you need to be back in wardrobe for tonight. Miranda will arrive just before sunset to shoot the intro exteriors, then you’ll have your official anticipation interview with our own Josh Pendleton. After that it’s inside the mansion to meet your Suitors! Get some rest—you probably remember how grueling the first night is, but tonight will be five times worse because it’s all about you this time. You won’t get a moment’s break with all the men vying for your attention.”
Marcy grinned. “Poor me, exhausted because there are too many men fighting for me.”
Linus laughed, flashing the gap between his front teeth. She was never sure if he really thought she was clever or just thought it was his job to make her feel entertaining. “Take a nap if you can. You won’t have another chance for eight weeks.”
As soon as Linus turned away, her dressers swarmed around her, stripping off the couture gown with brisk efficiency. Marcy had never been a squeamish person, but the show had divested her of what modesty she had. A year ago she might have flinched at being in a crowded room, bared down to her strapless bra, underwear and heels, but thankfully one of her sisters owned a gym with her husband back in Murphysboro and she’d designed a punishing training schedule to hone Marcy down to her most sexy self for the show.
The dressers—sisters named Claudia and Eunice Yu—handed her a light-weight button up blouse and a pair of shorts. Apparently with civilian clothes she was allowed to dress herself. The hair and make-up geniuses cautioned her to sleep carefully and not destroy all their good work, and then, with a mass exodus, the hive of people who made her into Miss Right left her alone in the spacious guest bedroom that now housed her extensive Miss Right wardrobe.
Marcy stepped out of the heels that she knew she was going to hate by hour two tonight and wriggled her toes in the plush carpet for a moment before tugging on the shorts and the blouse.
“Cinderella?” the dry voice floated from the open balcony door. “Really?”
Marcy turned as her youngest sister Dinah pushed back the gauzy curtains and strolled into the room. “You’re here to squee with me over the clothes, not mock the process.”
“I squeed for the cameras, right on cue.”
“You did, thank you. How long have you been hiding on the balcony?”
“I wasn’t hiding. I was trying to sneak a peek at the man-flesh buffet next door through the hedges.” Dinah flopped gracelessly onto the overstuffed white chair the set people had brought in so the room would look complete. “You really should have a word with the landscape people about trimming back some of the roughage. You can’t see a thing.”
“I’m not supposed to be able to see a thing. Ruin the surprise and all that.”
“Screw surprises. I want a view. What’s the point of having the Suitors’ Mansion and the Miss Right Mansion next door to one another if you can’t watch the muscles rippling by the pool from your bedroom window?”
“I believe the original point was convenience, but these days it seems to be more so the Suitorettes can be caught on camera trying to sneak over the wall and into Mister Perfect’s bed during the flip seasons.”
Dinah grimaced. “Like that awful Michele.”
“She wasn’t the only one. She was just the only one the producers decided to use in the final cut of the show.”
Dinah sat up sharply. “You’re kidding. How many? Did they ever actually get as far as his bed? Did you ever sneak over for a little illicit nookie?”
Marcy sank down to sit on the squishy carpet and began massaging her already aching feet. Tonight was not going to be fun for her arches. “Five that I know of. None successfully. And no. I played by the rules. Didn’t want to spoil the process.”
Her sister rolled her eyes. “The process. I can’t believe you call it that. You already talk like one of them.”
“If we call it a show, it makes the audience think it might be fake. It’s always the process, the experience, the journey.”
“God forbid anyone thinks it’s fake,” Dinah drawled.
Marcy narrowed her eyes at her little sister. “Be supportive or get out, brat. I have enough to deal with tonight without wasting my last hour of peace having another argument with my family about why you all think I’m an idiot for doing this.”
“We don’t all think you’re an idiot. That’s just Daddy.”
She winced. “Not helping, Di.”
“He’ll come around. You know how protective he is. He hated you going on the show the first time. You didn’t see him but he was a nervous wreck the whole time you were gone, worrying about you getting hurt on national television. He felt like you got away with a close shave because you didn’t fall in love with Jack and get your heart broken. And then you signed up to do it all over again.”
“It’s different this time. I’m in control. I get to pick. It’s virtually impossible for me to get hurt. And the exposure is a thousand times more intense than when I was one of thirty Suitorettes. The sales bump I got from going on Marrying Mister Perfect was fantastic, but this is going to make me a household name, Di. If my next book isn’t a New York Times bestseller after this, I might as well give up writing because I’m never going to get there.”
“So it’s all for the publicity?” Dinah asked dubiously.
“Not entirely. I do have all the power, and statistically Romancing Miss Right is four times more likely to end in a successful relationship than Marrying Mister Perfect is. Just goes to show it pays to have a woman in charge.”
“Or that men can be led around by their dicks for eight weeks before realizing they’re dating the Wicked Bitch of the West on national television.”
“That too.” Marcy looked around, taking in the glamorous trappings of life as Miss Right. “I’m not going to be taken in by it, Di. I have a level head on my shoulders, don’t I? I’m going to make good decisions and pick a nice guy with homegrown Midwestern values who wants to start a family.”
A guy just like her dad, even if he was threatening never to speak to her again because she was making a spectacle of herself on national television for the second time in two years.
“I’m never going to find the love of my life staying cooped up in Murphysboro, Ohio and keeping my heart in a box. Laurie already married the one eligible guy in a fifty mile radius. I don’t have the chance to meet men at work because I work from home and the few times I do go to industry conferences, they are almost entirely populated by women. Working in a female dominated industry is awesome, but it doesn’t put me in the path of very many eligible men. And these Suitors are handpicked to be incredible. I’m not saying I’m going find the love of my life tonight—but my odds are a hell of a lot better here than they are back home.”
At least those were all the rationalizations she gave herself when she was standing in front of the camera gushing about opening her heart and trusting the
process. She’d never really been emotionally invested the first time around.
Jack was a great guy—certainly qualifying for the appellate Mr. Perfect, or Dr. Perfect in his case—but while they’d gotten along wonderfully, something had always been a little off between them romantically. Then she’d seen him with his long time best friend and live-in nanny Lou and the scales had fallen from her eyes. The fool was in love with a girl who wasn’t even among his Suitorettes and he didn’t even know it. Thank God he’d figured it out before he’d proposed to the wrong person.
Marcy only hoped she didn’t make the same mistake—getting so wrapped up in following the producers' instructions and making the show a success that she stopped listening to her own heart and missed what was right in front of her face.
She didn’t think she was that girl. She had too fierce a thread of cynicism at her core to be swept away by the contrived romance of it all. She needed to trust her instincts, trust that she would know Mr. Right when he appeared—even if it was hard for her to buy the idea that a reality dating show really could lead to happily ever after.
It could certainly lead to sales.
She knew her part, knew all the lines to say to make America believe the love story—hell, she was a romance writer. She’d written half of those lines. But it was different now. Playing the heroine. Much less comfortable than sitting at home in her pajamas with her fingers on her keyboard. Everyone was watching and she had to give them a show.
Her stomach knotted and she was glad she hadn’t eaten much today. She didn’t think she would have been able to keep much of anything down.
Dinah lifted the untouched Mimosa from the pedestal table at her side and took a sip. “Look on the bright side—they’re all going to be hotter than crap. Thirty insanely hot men chasing after you? Where do I sign up?”
“You won’t hear me complaining.”
Dinah’s gaze veered back toward the open balcony. “You aren’t even a little curious?”
Frankly, she was dying. She just wanted it to be tonight so she could meet them already, but she pasted a blasé smile on her face. “I’ll meet them soon enough.”
“I guess,” Dinah grumbled, clearly disappointed by her unwillingness to climb the wall for a sneak preview. “And I guess even if they’re all douche bags, you still get a fancy new wardrobe.”
“And a wider readership.”
“Exactly.” Dinah raised her glass in a mocking toast. “To Miss Right, may she have her socks romanced right off. All the way to the bank.”
Nerves coiled in Marcy’s stomach as she lifted an imaginary glass and pantomimed chiming it against Dinah’s. “To true love, hot men, and reality television.”
Or two of the three.
Chapter Three
“Are you ready for the adventure of a lifetime, Marcy?”
Marcy hooked her arm through Josh Pendleton’s and strolled with the host along the path that would lead them to the Suitors’ Mansion. “Actually I was thinking that you and I could run away together. What do you think? You’re a good looking guy. We’d make a cute couple.”
Josh shot her a look that was equal parts amused, confused, and horrified. “I can never tell if you’re serious or not.”
“I could be. What do you say? Wanna blow this joint and run away to Vegas?”
It was entirely too tempting to run. Not because Josh was handsome—which he was, though he was also rumored to be hot and heavy with a supermodel, so Marcy wasn’t holding out much hope for a romantic future with him. No, it was tempting to flee because she was scared out of her ever-loving mind about what she was about to put herself through for the next eight weeks. Scared she wouldn’t find love. Scared that she would. Scared that America would grow to hate her as they sometimes did the second time someone came on the show. Scared that they would all see what a fraud she was, peddling true love for a living when she wasn’t sure she believed in it herself.
So fucking scared.
So she did what she always did when she was petrified. She cracked jokes. She smiled pretty. And she pretended everything was hunky dory when all she really wanted was to run.
Sadly, Josh wasn’t taking her proposal seriously. “You realize ninety percent of the reason I got this job was because my wife and I are a shining example of matrimonial bliss, don’t you?” he asked conversationally before redirecting the conversation back to her journey with the poise of a pro. “In the next few minutes, you could be meeting your own future husband. How are you feeling? Nervous? Excited?”
Is nauseated an option? “Eager,” she lied brightly. “I can’t wait to get started.” Run. Run away now.
“Right this way. The adventure of a lifetime is about to begin.”
Save me.
Being Miss Right was not entirely full of awesomeness.
Blisters, yes. Awesomeness? Not so much.
On the plus side, her initial panic had abated. On the not so plus side? Everything else.
The tape securing the mic pack to the small of her back itched, a constant irritation, and scratching was absolutely out of the question thanks to the decades it had taken the wardrobe people to be satisfied that the little box was sufficiently hidden in the pleats of her gown.
Her cheeks ached from smiling, a knot of pain was growing between her shoulder blades from holding them so tense, and she was already starting to lose her voice—and the introductions were only half over.
Marcy picked her way across the flagstone patio on the way to meet Suitor Number Sixteen. Her feet hurt like a bitch and the designer heels rubbed, but unlike when she’d been just one of a bevy of Suitorettes, tonight she couldn’t just wait her turn and then escape out to the side terrace to claim a chair and avail herself of the open bar until Mister Perfect was done with the marathon introductions. No, this time it was her marathon.
Thirty handsome guys all dying to meet her. Thirty guys set up at various locations around the mansion, each one designed to show off their unique talents and help Marcy keep them straight.
When Marcy had been a Suitorette, the producers had put her in the library, surrounded by stacks of her books. Katya, the swimsuit model, had been, predictably, lounging by the pool—though in an evening gown, of course. One of the other girls had baked cookies, Marcy seemed to remember, though she couldn’t recall who. Whatever your gimmick was, that was your chance to show it off. Like a cross between speed-dating and the Miss America talent competition.
So far tonight Marcy had heard a Shakespeare professor recite Romeo’s soliloquy while she stood on a balcony—and tried to ignore the comparison to a fourteen-year-old brat who knew infatuation and obsession more than love. She’d been roped in the garden by a cowboy who pulled a lariat from beneath his tuxedo jacket and flicked it around her, bragging that he’d caught himself a good one—Marcy tried to ignore the comparison to a heifer.
She’d sipped wines in the cellar with a man who oozed upper-class upbringing and gazed at the stars in the gazebo with an amateur astrologer who told her he’d done their charts and they were destined to be together. And then there was the Latin lover who had somehow claimed one of the premium fireplace locales, who had kissed both her cheeks and cooed to her in Spanish—while Marcy tried to ignore the scent of alcohol that wafted from him even though he hadn’t even made it up to the open bar yet.
Good television. The promo spots practically edited themselves.
She kept her smile determinedly in place, well aware that America would be swooning—and tried to ignore the little voice in the back of her head that whispered there must be something wrong with her because she wasn’t feeling the urge to fall into any of these undeniably sculpted arms.
They were hot. There was no denying that as they flashed their matinee idol smiles and displayed their chiseled features, but instead of feeling like a kid in a candy store, like she’d expected, she found herself wondering in the cynical recesses of her mind if they would all be the kind of asshole who always had girls fall
into his lap without any effort at all and therefore resented having to work for love and had never learned to treat one right.
It all felt so rehearsed. So forced.
She would enter whatever set-up they’d been given—library, balcony, gazebo—and the men would stand, if they weren’t already on their feet. They would introduce themselves—those who weren’t so nervous they forgot their own names—and the camera crews would zoom in to capture The Moment They First Saw One Another for endless replay during highlight reels throughout the season.
Then the guys would launch into their pre-rehearsed attempts to woo Miss Right. Sixty seconds was all they got and then the producers waved them off and Marcy excused herself. Off to meet another cliché of masculine hotness.
Periodically the producers would usher her to the nearest confessional booth to record her first impressions of each guy—which meant she got to sit for five minutes and stealthily sneak off her shoes, thank God Almighty. Then it was back to the grind.
How long had she been doing this? One hour? Two? None of the show’s participants were allowed to wear watches during filming—the producers said watching the clock kept them from being engaged in the moment—but Marcy figured it was more so they wouldn’t know how long the hours were and wouldn’t realize they were supposed to be exhausted.
The producers guided her outside again. She could dimly hear manly shouts from the upper terrace as more and more of the Suitors she’d already met gathered there, but she still had fifteen guys to meet before she could join them.
Suitor Number Sixteen waited at one of the many love seat set-ups with a cute little mailbox with her name on it set up beside him. Postal worker, maybe? He hadn’t seen her yet—she was still in the shadows and the lights were all hot on him as he waited.
Blond. Athletic. Classically good looking—as all the Suitors were, but there was something about him that seemed more real somehow.
He adjusted his tie, the gesture more nervous than cocky, and she felt a rush of sympathy.
