Romancing Miss Right (9 page)

The camera crews suddenly surged into action,
one taking aim at an archway at the opposite end of the garden
while another swiveled around to get Craig’s reaction shot as Miss
Right herself stepped into view. She looked like a Grecian goddess,
all flowing fabric and graceful curves—and the moonlight loved
her.

Craig ate her up with his eyes. “That I can
do.”

Seducing her wouldn’t be a problem, but
emotional intimacy? That wasn’t happening. Craig didn’t do
vulnerable.

#

“So Craig, tell me more about yourself.
What’s your family like?”

He took a long swallow of wine—even though he
was more of a beer guy—to buy himself time. He’d been dodging the
intimacy crap all through dinner, but now they’d fed one another
the last few bites of chocolate cheesecake and their plates had
been cleared away and he was running out of excuses.

He had to give her something. Best to keep it
brief. “It’s just me and my mom. She’s an incredible lady.”

“And your dad…?”

“Was never in the picture.” The muscles
across his shoulders tensed as he braced himself for the usual
Psych 101 abandonment issues crap, but Marcy surprised him.

“Your mom—so she’s the one who wished Miss
Right would be someone else?”

He grinned in spite of himself. “That’s her,
yeah.”

“Was it a sort of no woman is good enough for
my baby thing or was it me specifically? Is this something I should
be worried about if things progress and I meet her?”

“I don’t think she’d be rude to you.”

“But it was me specifically?” She cocked her
head to the side, her loose brown curls flowing over her shoulders.
He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t seem to get enough of her
hair.

What were they talking about? Right, his
mother. “Yeah, I mean, I think she thinks what a lot of people
thought of you.”

“And what do a lot of people think of me?”
Marcy straightened in her chair, eyes flashing, and Craig felt a
moment’s guilt that he was deflecting the heavy emotional crap onto
her. But she was the one who’d wanted to open up…

“That you’re, you know, emotionless.”

Marcy’s green eyes flared wide.
“
Emotionless
?”

“Unfeeling.”

“I know what the word means, Craig.”

He shrugged, playing at innocent even though
Marcy would never buy it. “I’m not saying you are, just that some
people think that, my mother included, and she wanted me to date
someone who was going to bring out my touchy feely side rather than
be another emotionless void.”

“Did you just call me a void?” She didn’t
look emotionless now. Her lips were slightly parted, eyes turbulent
and filled with shock and tinges of hurt.

“I don’t think you are,” he protested,
“but…”

“
But
?”

“I can see how people who don’t know you
could get that impression. You’re very composed. People who come on
this show tend to buckle under the pressure. There are a lot of
tears, a lot of emotional outbursts, and you never really did that.
You didn’t cry when you were rejected. You didn’t scream at him
that he’d be sorry—”

“Jack was in love with Louisa before he even
met me—”

“Yeah, but you never opened up your heart to
him. Which was probably why he kept you around so long, because he
knew he wouldn’t break your heart when he dumped you, but I think
some people—my mother included—thought you were a little cold.”
While Craig couldn’t help thinking she was one of those fires that
took longer to coax out, but burned twice as hot.

“Just because I didn’t embarrass myself on
national television—”

“Everyone’s an idiot sometimes. It’s called
being human. I think the viewers probably just want to see that you
are.”

She released a frustrated huff, holding
herself stiff in her chair. “I’m human.”

“Are you? What about today? I was scared
shitless, but you were cool, calm and collected. Jumping off a
bridge like it was nothing.”

“You weren’t acting scared either.”

“I couldn’t show you how terrified I was when
you weren’t the least affected.”

“I was affected,” she insisted. “I had
butterflies.”

“Butterflies. Plummeting to certain death and
you had butterflies.”

“It wasn’t certain death. We’re both fine, in
case you missed it.” Irritation flashed in her eyes, darkening the
green to emerald.

Time to change course. If he pushed her too
far she might send him home.

He held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t
shoot the messenger. I’d never call you cold. I think you’re hot as
hell and twice as naughty.”

She glared at him. “You’re one to talk. You
aren’t exactly an open book with your emotions.”

“True. Luckily, when you’re a dude, the
mysterious hides-his-true-self thing works in your favor. Women
always want to know what’s going on beneath the surface with me.
They can’t stand the idea that I’m exactly as shallow as I appear
to be.”

A frown line popped up between her brows as
she studied him. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re trying to make me
dislike you. Why did you come on the show, Craig?”

“Honestly?”

She waved a hand in a go-right-ahead gesture.
“Absolutely. Don’t start lying now.”

“I want a career in television.” Nearby one
of the producers made a choked, horrified noise. “I want to be a
personality. Bigger than radio. This is my shot.”

“So it had nothing to do with me or finding
love?”

He snorted. “Have you
seen
these
shows? That isn’t what they’re about.”

“It’s not very flattering to hear that you
came here just to use me to catapult yourself to fame and
fortune.”

“I came here to use Miss Right. I didn’t know
it’d be you. I like you.”

She frowned. “I’m still Miss Right. Still the
girl you’re using.”

“No. You’re more than that.” He leaned in,
reaching for her hand beneath the table and lacing their fingers
together. The position of the chairs was awkward—a little too far
apart for comfortable making out, but he could work with it.

Her expression softened, the heat in her eyes
changing direction, and he inclined forward another inch, sliding
to the edge of his chair.

“I like you, Marcy. A lot more than I thought
I would.” His gaze dropped to her lips, the full perfect curve of
them.

“I shouldn’t like you,” she whispered, but
she swayed toward him.

“Don’t I get points for honesty?” he
murmured, millimeters from her mouth now. He lifted his free hand
and caught one of her curls, rubbing the silky length between his
thumb and forefinger.

“You’re trouble.”

“Yeah. But you like trouble.” The last was
whispered against her lips.

And then there was no more talking, only a
kiss that burned far hotter than any chaste,
made-for-public-consumption lip lock had any right to be.

He could have left it at that. Kept it PG for
all the kiddies back home. But that wasn’t who he was. Craig had
never met a boundary he didn’t want to push.

He dropped the curl and plunged his hands
knuckle-deep into her carefully arranged hair, not caring that the
stylists would be cursing his name. Angling his head, he traced his
tongue along the seam of her lips, urging her to open them. His bad
girl didn’t even hesitate, a sexy little sigh brushing against his
lips as hers parted for him. He took what she yielded, stroking his
tongue against hers, deepening the kiss.

She broke away from him, her eyes dazed and
breath coming quick. “You don’t have brakes, do you?” She reached
for her glass of ice water, taking a sip and then pressing it
against her flushed cheek.

He grinned, reaching for the curl again and
twining it around his forefinger. “You wouldn’t like me if I didn’t
go all out.”

She shook her head, but she was smiling, and
looking at him from beneath her lashes. “You really are a bad
influence, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.” He leaned in, but instead of
going for her lips, he gently nuzzled her ear and whispered, “I
dare them to call you cold now.”

She flushed. Hot.

His mother may not approve, but Marcy
Henrickson was an inferno beneath her calm and collected exterior,
and he was looking forward to bringing out her fire.

And riding that fire all the way to the
finals and a gig on daytime television.

Chapter Eleven

“Craig is very…” The kiss
came back in graphic detail and she pressed her hands to her
suddenly hot cheeks, words slipping out of her mind like water
through a sieve. “He…”
Is very good with his hands. And his
tongue. And every other part she’d had the opportunity to
experience.
“Can I start over?”

“Just be honest,” Linus coached, his voice
low and encouraging. “This is a safe place.”

This is national television and my mother
is going to see it
. “Right, I know. I’m good. Let’s go
again.”

Linus nodded, counted her in, and the cameras
rolled.

“Craig challenges me,” she said, smooth and
composed. “I appreciate his honesty, but even though I enjoy
spending time with him, he has been very clear about the fact that
he isn’t here for love, so I have to wonder if it would be foolish
of me to keep him around.”

Linus smiled, but it was tight-lipped, not
even revealing the gap between his front teeth. “Good, sweetie,
good, but let’s try it again and maybe not so cerebral this time.
Think about how he makes you
feel
.”

How he made her feel.

Hot and achy and a thousand things she
absolutely could
not
say on national television in front of
her fourth grade Sunday school teacher.

Is that why people thought she was
unfeeling?

So she was a little reserved. So she had
boundaries on what she was willing to share with the viewing
public. So she had dignity—that didn’t mean she was an ice queen or
something.

“Can I speak with Miranda?”

The camera crew sighed—doubtless realizing
they weren’t going to wrap production for the night any time
soon—and Linus reached for his tablet. “Absolutely, sweetie.
Whatever will make you more comfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable.” Nor was she cold and
unfeeling, thank you very much.

Marcy fidgeted through the next several
minutes as the crew all checked their respective phones until
Miranda strode into the confessional. The room wasn’t tiny, but it
was designed around one purpose and only the person being filmed
had a comfortable chair. Linus rose from a folding chair as Miranda
took in the crew members leaning against the walls and turned to
Marcy with a frown. “What’s up? Do I need to get Pendleton?”

Get Pendleton.
Marcy’s heart clutched
with the realization that Miranda thought she wanted to send Craig
home. It was the only reason the show ever woke up the host in the
middle of the night. “No. Nothing like that. I just… Can we talk in
private?”

Miranda’s lips pinched with irritation, but
she nodded curtly and waved Linus and the crew out of the room. She
knocked her glasses up her nose and sat down facing Marcy. “What’s
wrong, hon?”

Marcy shifted uneasily in her chair. Now that
she’d gotten Miranda down here, she felt like even more of an idiot
for bringing it up, but she had to know. “Does America think I’m
cold and unfeeling?”

The tweets and emails she’d received while
the show was airing had been very supportive—filtered through her
publicist as they were. And now here she was in a totally
media-free bubble where she had no idea how the world was reacting
to her selection as Miss Right. Was she hated? Did they all think
she was some kind of emotionless diva?

Miranda groaned something that sounded like,
“Fucking Craig,” and scooted to the edge of the folding chair Linus
had vacated, resting her ever-present tablet on her lap. “Are you
sure you don’t want to be having this conversation with Josh on
camera? I am more than happy to wake his lazy ass up.”

“No, I don’t want to inconvenience him.”

“Sweetie, he’s paid very well to be
inconvenienced whenever I want to inconvenience him.”

Marcy shook her head. “I’d rather not do this
on camera. I just want to know. That’s all.” She swallowed around
the knot in her throat. “Do people hate me?”

“Oh sweetie, no. No one hates you.”

“But they think I’m distant.
Emotionless.”

Miranda sighed and Marcy knew what the answer
would be before she spoke. “I’m not sure I should be telling you
this, but you’ve always seemed to do best with honesty so I’ll be
honest. It was my boss’s primary reservation about selecting you as
Miss Right.”

Blood rushed to Marcy’s face, lingering to
pound in her temples. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t see how the knowledge would help
you open up.”

And apparently that was necessary. She needed
help opening up.

Something thick and viscous clogged her
throat.

The world thought she was heartless. How
could they think that? Didn’t they see how hard it was to keep your
shit together on a show like this? How it was all she could do to
defend against the barrage of emotional stimuli? Did she have to
shatter just to prove she could feel? What the fuck did they want
from her? Her freaking
soul
?

“I have emotions,” she snapped.

“I know, hon. That’s why I picked you. I
think you’re perfect. You just need to loosen the reins a
little.”

“I’m supposed to what? Perform how I’m
feeling?”

Miranda shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

Marcy’s teeth began to ache from grinding
against one another. “It would be fake.”

“We’re not asking you to fabricate emotions.
Just maybe don’t be so composed all the time. Let loose a little.
Especially with the guys.”

“I jumped off a bridge today! How am I not
loose?”