Romancing Miss Right (26 page)

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.

Part of her wanted to feel bad for the crew
members having to scramble because of them, but a much bigger part
appreciated the reality of a moment that wasn’t planned and
scripted. She’d been missing the real.

“Milady.” Craig bowed with a flourish.

“You know they have a whole gourmet meal
planned for us somewhere tragically romantic.” Marcy knelt on the
improvised picnic blanket, tucking her skirt around her legs. The
roof was a just a smidge too hard to be comfortable for long, but
the view more than made up for any slight discomfort. Swathes of
orange, pink, and gold painted the sky as the sun dipped toward the
hills that surrounded the city. Its orangey light gilded the Roman
ruins and the rooftops of eighteenth century villas alike.

“We aren’t gourmet people. This is us,” Craig
argued, deftly uncorking the wine. He frowned into the bottle. “I
seem to have forgotten the glasses. Sit tight and I’ll run down and
steal some glasses from the suite.”

Marcy plucked the bottle from his hand and
brought it to her lips, taking a long drink of the dry Chianti. She
didn’t spare a moment to wince at what her mother would say when
she saw that. Marcy extended the bottle back to Craig with a grin.
“Glasses are overrated.”

He took it with a grin. “I knew you were my
kind of girl.”

She broke off a wedge of bread, passing it to
him and grabbing a chunk for herself. “I never pegged you for the
rooftop picnic type. I thought you wanted the fame and fortune and
everything that went with it. The best things in life.”

“I do want the best things—for my mom. I want
her to be able to have caviar for breakfast, escargot for lunch and
truffles for dinner if she wants, but I think no matter how rich
and famous I become I will always want pretty much the same things.
Hard to compete with beer and pizza. Or hanging out with a hot girl
on an Italian rooftop with bread and wine.” He took a swig of the
wine and passed it back to her. “What about you? You want the
truffles?”

She shook her head. “Nah, the truffle life
has been fun for a few weeks, but I think I’m a pizza girl at
heart.”

He stretched out beside her on the blanket,
lolling as if the rooftop wasn’t uncomfortable as hell. “That’s not
much description. Paint me a picture, writer girl. Tell me what you
want. What’s your perfect life look like?”

The words shuddered through her like an
earthquake, leaving a blank confusion in their wake. She didn’t
know how he always seemed to know the exact right question to ask
when she needed to hear it. Not that she had the first idea how to
answer.

“Honestly? I’m not sure I know what I want
anymore. I thought I wanted the picket fence life, but do I
really?”

“This sounds like a conversation that calls
for more wine.” He handed over the bottle and waved for her to take
a sip. “So what’s wrong with the picket fence life?”

“It just feels so final. I want kids, yes,
but I’ve seen how much they suck up your life and I’m not sure I’m
ready for that yet. Someday, absolutely, but within the next couple
years? I don’t know. And yeah, I wanted to have a house with a yard
in a suburb for my kids to play and ride their bikes in the
cul-de-sac, but when I think about the kind of place I might want
to move after the show is over, I see a loft in a city.”

“So no mortgage in suburbia.”

“Not right this second. I want that, I do,
and I thought I was ready for the happily-ever-after, I really did.
But that life, it doesn’t feel like an exciting new adventure, the
way it should, it feels like a destination I’ll get to eventually,
but right now I want to enjoy the journey. I’m not ready for it to
be over.”

“Studies have shown life ends the second you
move to the surburbs. It’s science.”

She chucked an olive at his face and he
dodged it, laughing. “I just feel like the show is rushing
us—me—all of us, I don’t know—toward the happy
ending
because they need the resolution for their season, but I don’t want
it to end. I want a beginning with someone. You know?”

“So make it a beginning. Who says you have to
play by their rules?”

Marcy took another swallow straight out of
the bottle, sprawled out on the roof with Craig, who always played
by his own rules—as evidenced by the non-sanctioned picnic. He made
it sound so simple, but for him everything was simple. He put his
mom first, his career second, and everything else was a casualty to
his ambition. But Marcy couldn’t operate that way.

What if this was her only chance for the
mythic Happily Ever After? What if this was the moment she would
look back on for the rest of her life and wonder what would have
happened if she had just chosen differently?

If there even was a choice to be made…

Craig had said flat out that he would break
her heart.

“How am I supposed to break their rules?” she
challenged him. “Am I supposed to choose neither of you?”

“Of course not,” he said, all cocky
confidence. “You’re supposed to choose me.”

“Oh really? Right before my father got sick,
you were ready to walk away. You said you would break my heart if I
picked you. You’ve told me you would hurt me if I let myself care
for you, so why would I ever want to pick you?”

“Because you might be able to break my heart
too.” He said it softly and her heart lurched achingly in her
chest—then the words penetrated her hearts-and-flowers moment,
cracking it in two.

Might be
.

Craig could teach a master class in having
walls up around his heart. He made her emotional defenses look
downright amateur. This was probably as close as he was ever going
to get to admitting he cared for her. That he
might
even
love her.

Unless he was playing another game with her.
Semantic back-flips so he could never be accused of lying to her
even as he tricked her into thinking he felt more than he did.
Marcy sighed, looking away over the Verona skyline. The sky was
darkening rapidly now. They wouldn’t be able to see their own
picnic in another fifteen minutes and the cameras would be
completely blind unless the crew got the night-vision gear up
here.

She sighed. “I’m tired of all the games and
guesswork.”

“
You’re
tired?” He laughed. “You’re
not the one who nearly had a heart attack waiting to be the last
one picked at every single Elimination Ceremony. Be honest—did the
producers put you up to that?”

“Honestly? Not after the first night. It was
me. I was never sure I should keep you.”

“
Should
is a dirty word.”

“So is
might
.”

He frowned, clearly not catching her meaning.
That was Craig. He
might
be in love with her, but it would
never occur to him that she would be pissed at him for his
inability to even commit to the words. Women let him get away with
too much. And she was just as guilty as the rest of them. She let
him get far too far on charm.

She rose, smoothing her skirt. “I’m going
downstairs.”

He quickly came to his feet. “Should we check
out our suite?”

“I’m not going to sleep with you, Craig.”

“Did I say you would?” He trailed after her
toward the roof access door, the cameramen scrambling to track
them. “You think I can’t be a perfect gentleman like Danny
Boy?”

“I think you don’t know when to stop pushing
and an overnight date is a bad idea,” she said over her
shoulder.

“So you don’t trust me, is that it?”

“Not really.”

“That’s not really it or you don’t really
trust me?”

“I don’t trust you.”

He stopped in his tracks for a moment,
stunned, but as soon as she said the words, she realized how true
they were—and how big a lie. She trusted him to be completely
himself, to push her and challenge her and try to get everything he
could for himself. She just didn’t trust him to take care of her,
to look after her, to cherish her the way Daniel would without even
thinking about it.