Page 11 of The Love Rematch
Who isthis sultry woman and how the heck did she get here?Emily asks, looking in the mirror. She’s unable to recognize herself beneath the camera-ready makeup and the elaborate updo, unable to find the soul hiding behind those dramatic smoky eyes.
It’s like a twisted version of the game she used to play at her grandmother’s vanity, trying on all different sorts of jewelry, acting out different characters in her mind. Back then, she knew exactly who she was. It was the outward message she wasn’t sure how to convey. Now, the woman reflected before her seems confident, alluring, and ready to take on the world. Inside, though, she’s a jumbled mess of nerves—no clue how she’s supposed to act, what she’s supposed to say, or if she’ll be able to get through the next six weeks with her sanity intact.
Because it happened.
She’s the new lead ofThe Love Match.
She’s here, somewhere off the coast of California, in the guest cottage of the official mansion, about to start filming. And still, for the life of her, she can’t quite figure out how.
The past week was a blur. Not even twelve hours after her mother’s mortifying fifteen minutes of fame, the call came in. Someone named Trish Levithan saying she was about to change Emily’s world. If not for Sam’s voice in the back of her mind, she would have said no. She wanted to say no. Instead, in a horrible bout of word vomit, she said yes.
Why. Why. Why.
The next day, she was on a flight to California to begin what’s been the quickest seven days of her life. There was a physical examination, a psychological evaluation, a makeover, a wardrobe consultation, a manicure, a pedicure, and about a thousand questionnaires. Plus she had interviews on no less than five podcasts, meetings with reporters, and even a small segment forWake Up, America!with her mom—her performance as a grateful, not-at-all-mad, and doting daughter could have earned her an Oscar.
She’s been poked, prodded, hardly given a single moment to herself. Yet still, somehow, whenever she’s had a spare second to think, there’s only been one thing on her mind.
Or one person, rather.
Jake.
Emily groans and closes her eyes, unable to look at her reflection without seeing her sister’s mocking expression staring back. Sam’s accusation plays on repeat in the back of her mind.
It’s about Jake. It’s always about Jake.
It isn’t.
It’s not.
But, UGH, right now it is. Because Los Angeles is the city he left her for. Being here and knowing he’s close has her on edge. Being around cameras again, on sets with equipment and crew, hearing the way these people talk, it’s brought her right back to high school, his lens always trained on her face, his lips moving passionately, speaking a mile a minute about this upcoming director or that new indie film. Even now, Emily can’t stop her thoughts from shifting to him.
Has he seen all this media frenzy?
Will he be watching?
What will he think?
She tells herself it doesn’t matter—that’s he’s in the past and she’s moved on. Still, the hairs at the back of her neck rise, as if he’s standing right there, so close she can feel his warm breath on her skin. In two hours, she’s going to meet thirty very single and very attractive men who will be fighting for her on national television, yet all she’s doing is obsessing over the one man who decided he didn’t want her.
God, I hate myself.
“So what do you think?” Nina, her new handler, asks, pulling Emily back into the present. The makeup artist left a few minutes ago, leaving the two of them alone. Despite the headset draped around her neck and the clipboard at her side, all of Nina’s focus is securely on Emily. It’s overwhelming. The producer points to the dress rack. “The black one, the navy one, the nude one, or the red one?”
“I, um…” Emily licks her lips. This is the first outfit millions of people across the United States will see her wearing. It’s what they’ll base all their first impressions on. It’s going to set the stage for the entire season. Most importantly, it’s the last decision she has left to make before all of this becomes real—which means it’s her last chance to stall.
“It’s just a dress,” Nina comments softly.
Emily nods.
They both know it’s not just a dress. But she appreciates the warmth in the producer’s tone, and the attempt at friendly affection, even if she isn’t sure she can trust it.
“Okay,” Nina says, trying a different angle. She pads across the room in her worn biker boots and slips off her leather jacket, then lifts the black dress. The satin skirt pools against the ivory rug as she holds the thin spaghetti straps to her shoulders. “It’s black. It’s elegant. It’s maybe a bit boring, but sophistication never goes out of style. Square neck. Princess cut. You’re a confident, classy woman.”
Emily frowns, unsure.
Nina reaches for the navy gown. It’s too short to hit the floor, even on the producer’s smaller frame, and hangs in asymmetrical lines. “Navy usually saysschoolteacher, but the one shoulder and the asymmetrical skirt give this some edge. It’s slinky. A little blingy. You’re a mystery. You’re keeping secrets. The viewers should stay on their toes, and the men too.”
Emily swallows and shifts her feet.
