by Lizzie Shane
“You want me to hurt her on national television?”
“Of course not. I just want you to choose for my cameras. The choice you make is up to you.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Marcy had always thought when she watched the show from the comfort of her home couch that any woman who didn’t know which man she wanted after nine episodes of dating had to be a blithering idiot.
She was officially a blithering idiot.
The train rumbled along, chugging steadily toward Italy and the man waiting for her there. Her time with Daniel had been perfect. Stress-free and easy. No challenges or quarrels, just affection and companionship. But she wasn’t sure that’s what she wanted in a relationship.
If it had been only a question of picking a man, that would be impossible enough, but she felt like she was making a choice between two potential lives. Two futures.
One was neatly defined and checked all the boxes of what she always thought she’d wanted—kids, house, husband, domestic bliss and suburban tranquility. The other was completely unknown—a blank slate of possibilities. It should have been an easy choice—safety and security, obviously—but something about that flying leap into the unknown was strangely appealing.
But there was her father to consider.
He’d said he would support her whatever she chose, but the idea of making him worry unnecessarily made everything in her revolt. He would have less cause to worry if she picked Daniel. But could something so easy ever really satisfy her? Would she miss the stimulation of Craig? The fire?
She and Daniel had a pleasant, warm chemistry—no explosions or fireworks, but his kisses were lovely. Could he be the One?
She’d always thought she would know when it happened to her. She was decisive, she knew herself. The idea that she wouldn’t know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, when she found the man she was meant to spend the rest of her life with was so foreign she wondered if it was neither of them.
She’d been so certain she loved Craig at the hospital—but that was an extreme circumstance and in the time since, when she hadn’t seen him, doubts had crept in around the edges of that emotion. Had her fear for her father and desperate need for someone to hang onto in that moment made her think she felt more for Craig than she really did?
But why had it been him and not Daniel she had turned to?
Marcy thunked her head against the window, watching the countryside zipping past. It was quite possibly one of the most beautiful views on the planet and it was wasted on her today.
Even if she did love him, if Craig was the One, did she dare risk choosing him?
He’d never hidden the fact that he was using the show and by extension her. But her motives for going on the show had been a front, concealing her fear of letting herself go for it. Could he be the same way? Could he possibly love her back? He’d told her that if she let herself love him he would only break her heart, but was that just his fear talking? She couldn’t very well test her theory by telling him she loved him—she was contractually forbidden from saying the “L” word until after she’d made her choice public.
Maybe she was worrying over nothing. Borrowing trouble, as her mother liked to say. Maybe she would take one look at him when she got to Verona and realize that all the emotion she’d felt at the hospital had been nothing more than a mirage. Perhaps that certainty she’d always thought she would feel would be there when she got off the train.
Because right now, she was a blithering idiot.
He was waiting at the station, standing on the platform with a bouquet of roses when the train pulled in—and all her hopes for a moment of clarity vanished. Seeing him was relief and anxiety, joy and terror, excitement and dread. Her heart began to pound, too loud, until it echoed in her ears and she could barely hear.
A PA popped her head into the compartment where a bored camera crew was filming her looking out the window.
“You’re on, Marcy.”
She’d seen him as they pulled in, standing not far from her compartment, but the crew had her walk down through two cars before she exited so she stepped onto the platform a good fifty yards from him. Craig saluted with the bouquet and Marcy waved, beginning to walk toward him, towing the abnormally light prop suitcase the PA had handed her right before she stepped off the train. Cameras circled in carefully arranged non-conflicting orbits, capturing every angle of the reunion.
Funny, she hadn’t noticed the cameras swarming like gnats with Daniel. Their relationship was filmed, that was just how it was, but with Craig it suddenly felt strange. Invasive. As if their time alone together without the cameras at the hospital had changed something fundamental in their relationship.
Which was silly. But Marcy still felt awkward under a dozen lenses as she made her approach. She began walking faster, trying to outpace the discomfort. Before long she was trotting, and then it was only natural to break into a light jog. Craig was moving toward her as well, but much too slowly and if she was going to do this she might as well go for it.
Marcy dropped the prop suitcase—because really, who ran into a man’s arms with baggage?—and broke into a full out run. Craig laughed, jogging now himself, and they collided mid-platform. The bouquet of roses smashed themselves against her shoulder blades as his arms closed around her and he swept her off her feet, swinging her around until the world blurred and her head spun dizzily.
His chuckle brushed against her ear, sexy and dark.
“So tell me,” he murmured, low enough that even the sensitive mics would have trouble picking it up. “Was that because you’re happy to see me or because you wanted to give the cameras a show?”
She pulled back enough to look into his eyes—the black gleamed with pleasure. Something prompted her to mess with him.
“Can’t it be both?” she said, enjoying the way he frowned a little, nonplussed to hear her echo his words from the night he’d snuck into her room in Bora Bora.
She grabbed his face between her hands and pulled him to her for a kiss, thoroughly erasing the flicker of a frown. When he finally set her down, they were both grinning.
“Welcome to Verona. That was some entrance. Do you think they’ll put it in slow motion and play some sappy song behind it?”
“At Last, the Etta James version. For sure.”
He snorted. “And I here I thought our song was Pour Some Sugar On Me by Def Leppard.”
“In your dreams, boy.”
“Repeatedly.” He grinned, and it was so naughty she wondered why no one had snatched him off radio yet. The man was a very bad influence—and he’d be even worse on screen.
He stepped back, flourishing the slightly crumpled bouquet. “For you, milady.”
She accepted the bouquet with thanks, noticing for the first time something small and white tucked among the big red blooms.
“The roses were the producers’ idea. Too cliché, right? Roses?” He reached into the bouquet and plucked out the bit of white. A delicate little wildflower. “But this is me.” The petals were slightly droopy and off-center, but he poked at them, fluffing them up. “It got crushed a little. And I might get arrested later for picking it from some park, but I just thought, hey, it’s something real and natural and unexpected in the middle of all the pretty romance trappings. That’s what we were talking about before, right?”
“Craig, that’s beautiful. Thank you.” She took the wildflower, loving every slightly wilted bit of it, and brought it to her nose to inhale the delicate fragrance. Part of her wanted to melt, but another louder part was trying to pull her mouth into a confused frown. This was the guy who’d said he would break her heart if she gave him the chance. What was he doing wooing her with flowers?
Luckily she had all day and night to figure it out. “Shall we start this date?”
“You’re bored out of your mind, aren’t you?”
Craig looked over at Marcy where she strolled at his side through the botanical gardens. “How could I possibly be bored with you by my sid
e?” The words were a little sarcastic, but the truth was he hadn’t been bored for a second.
The date was ridiculously cheesy. Going to Juliet’s house and getting pictures taken in front of the statue. Writing and leaving letters to Juliet with all their romantic concerns and hopes and dreams in them. Locking a padlock with their initials written on it to the gate of Juliet’s house. Then going to the botanical gardens to stroll hand-in-hand through the elaborately sculpted grounds.
He was a little surprised the producers hadn’t put Marcy up on a balcony and asked him to do a soliloquy yet.
“None of this seems very you,” Marcy said. “You’ve been very patient with it though. Thanks for that.”
“It does seem like they were expecting Mark to go the distance. The date seems tailor made for him. You must have surprised the producers when you picked me two rounds ago. Why did you ditch him anyway?”
“I overheard one of the camera guys saying they’d originally planned Amsterdam for you, but the network hadn’t been thrilled about that and when the schedule got pushed back they used it as an excuse to go for something less…”
“Hash bars and prostitutes?”
She laughed, a quick startled burst of sound. “Something like that.”
“So I get to be Mark for a day. I notice you dodged the question about why you got rid of him.”
“I’m not going to discuss the other Suitors with you.”
“Why not? He’s gone anyway. It’s not like I’m going to influence your decision. And besides, if this were a normal relationship, you’d confide in me. So what went wrong with Shakespeare?”
She tugged her hand out of his, moving to sit on a stone bench amid an explosion of spring flowers. “Suffice it to say meeting his family didn’t go well.”
“You didn’t actually think I was going to let that suffice, did you?” He dropped to the bench beside her, long legs sprawled out in front of him. “Give me details. Did they harass you when you lost at Name That Shakespeare Play charades?”
“You aren’t far off the mark—though I actually kick ass at identifying Shakespeare plays.”
“So what was the problem?”
“I write smut.”
“I know.” He grinned, leaning back lazily. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
She slugged him lightly on the shoulder.
“Ouch. Don’t damage the merchandise.”
“The merchandise is fine.”
“Why thank you.” He grinned lecherously, but it was quick, fading into a question. “Do you call it smut?”
“No. But Mark’s family did. Also, ‘trash’ and ‘pornography’ and ‘poorly written, populist crap’—though none of them would lower themselves to actually read a romance novel to know whether they are badly written or not.”
“They sound like assholes.”
She shrugged. “It’s not an uncommon reaction when people find out what I do for a living—they’re all impressed that you’re able to make a living as a writer, but they only respect you when they think you write depressing literary fiction.”
Anger on her behalf fired in his gut. “That happens a lot?”
“More than you might think. A lot of book snobs think genre fiction is somehow lesser than literary fiction to begin with because it’s about entertainment rather than enriching the reader by making them cry over the injustice and horribleness of human nature. And romance is the black sheep of genre romance. Even mystery and sci-fi lovers call our books pulp. We’re girl porn and bodice rippers, according to them.”
“Why?”
She shrugged again. “There are a lot of different theories. It’s a genre predominantly by women for women, which is one theory why people are more dismissive of it. The sex is another possible culprit. Sex sells and mainstream movies are filled with it, but if you have sex in your book in any form it must be pornographic. Some of the older romances used to be pretty anti-feminist—but a lot of the modern books are about strong women who know what they want and that includes love. Though some people object to that message too. Who knows why? I’m pretty inured to the anti-romance bias. It doesn’t bother me much anymore—though if one more person asks me if I write 50 Shades of Grey books, I think I may scream.”
He met her eyes, deadpanning, “Well, are they?”
She slugged him again, harder this time. “My books are about love. Yes, there is occasionally sex because sex is part of falling in love in a lot of cases and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with liking sex. But that doesn’t make me Larry Flint.”
“Hey, don’t knock Larry Flint. Hustler got me through a lot of lonely nights in high school.”
“I somehow doubt you ever had lonely nights in high school.”
“Would you believe I was awkward around girls until college?”
“Not really.”
“It’s the truth. Scout’s honor.” He held up his hand in an attempt at a salute.
“I don’t believe you were a Boy Scout either.”
“Okay, I was never a Boy Scout. I admit that. But I was a nerd in high school. It wasn’t until I got to college and my school had a radio station that I figured out how to talk to girls—and everyone else. I wasn’t shy or awkward behind the mic. I said shit I’d always thought but never dreamed of saying out loud and people thought I was funny and offensive—which turns out to be a good combination in radio. It worked so well for me, I learned how to be that guy when I wasn’t hiding behind the mic. I was a god on campus by my sophomore year. And the rest is history.”
“I still can’t picture you as shy.”
“Believe it, baby.” But he didn’t want to talk about himself. “So Mark’s family were dicks and you didn’t want to spend Thanksgiving with them every year? That’s why you kicked him to the curb?”
“Not exactly. Mark never defended me.”
Craig had always kind of liked Mark, but now he wanted to punch him as much as he’d ever wanted to deck Daniel. “You’re kidding.”
“He just sat there and let me get attacked on all sides by his loved ones—who weren’t even listening to my counter arguments because they had already established their opinions of me and what I did before I even walked in and they weren’t going to let a little thing like the truth touch their beliefs.”
Shakespeare definitely deserved a black eye. Maybe two.
“When he never spoke a single word in my defense, I realized he was either a coward or he agreed with them and neither was acceptable to me in someone I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
Well, no one could ever accuse Craig of cowardice and he certainly didn’t agree with those assholes—he fucking loved sex and entertainment. Not that he was auditioning for the role of the Love of Marcy’s Life.
“What about Darius? I never heard what went down and we skipped the Elimination Ceremony…” He trailed off when he saw her darkening expression.
“I overheard him make some comment about needing to get on with the show while my dad was still in critical condition. I honestly don’t even remember what he said or what I said. I just remember everything going red and wanting to leap at him and claw through his throat with my fingernails until I got to his windpipe”
“So... not a love connection then,” Craig said dryly.
She snorted a laugh. “You could say that.”
He took her hand where it rested beside him on the bench, threading their fingers together. “So… I hear you spent the other night with Daniel.”
Chapter Thirty
Marcy eyed Craig, trying to figure out what he was getting at. Was he jealous? He didn’t look it. He was staring down at their linked hands and looked almost nervous. Weirdly unsure. She felt the strangest urge to reassure him. “Daniel was a perfect gentleman.”
“I thought sex was a natural part of falling in love?”
“I thought you weren’t going to try to influence my decision.”
“Is it really a decision?” he challenged, the
cockiness returning to his posture. “I mean, between me and Perfect Danny, I would think there would be no argument. I’m obviously superior.”
She laughed. “You are such an ass.”
“That’s why you love me.”
She frowned—he said it so casually, as if he didn’t even realize he’d dropped the “L” bomb, even if he hadn’t done it in the I-love-you context. Was it just a figure of speech? A Freudian slip? Was he trying to get her to reveal her feelings for him? She wasn’t allowed to acknowledge any sort of decisive feelings for him, but even if she could, she didn’t know what she would say to Craig.
Did he feel something for her? Was he fishing for confirmation? Or was this just another game? Another ploy to win?
Either way, she couldn’t go down that rabbit hole with him. Not today. She stood, only noticing when the cameramen shuffled to accommodate the movement that she’d forgotten they were there again. Craig was dangerous that way. She was too comfortable with him. Not careful enough about who she needed to be for America.
“Do you want to get out of this garden and go white water rafting or something?” she asked.
He grinned, coming to his feet as well and taking her hand. “I have a better idea. Come on.”
The hotel rooftop was devoid of fairy lights, plush cushions, and electrical outlets. The picnic of items collected at shops they’d passed along the walk back—fresh bread, olives, cannoli and red wine—was completely unplanned. All Craig, without the Romancing Miss Right puppet-masters pulling the strings.
The segment producer, Amelia, had fussed at them when Craig pulled a sheet off one of the beds in his suite and carried it up to the roof to spread it out on the uneven tar as their picnic blanket. She’d resorted to calling Miranda to complain when Craig just ignored her, but the uber-puppet-master must have given them the okay on the impromptu roof picnic, because now the conversations Marcy overheard from the camera guys were all about how to get power run up to the roof and what the fuck they would do when they lost the natural light. Better than their earlier threats to bodily carry Marcy and Craig downstairs to the five star meal that had been prepared for them.
