Page 25 of Heart to Heart
One by one, the line in front of me dwindled, until it was me standing at the front of it, trying to keep my body from visibly shaking when the limo came back into view. Closing my eyes, I drew in a breath, letting it out slowly just as it pulled up in front of me, and the young assistant with the square jaw and dimple creasing his cheek stepped in between me and the door.
“I’ll take your slippers if you want to change your shoes in the car,” he offered.
I looked down at my feet, embarrassed by the fact that I hadn’t even considered what I would do with the slippers once I’d changed out of them, aside from stuffing them under my seat and bidding them adieu when the limo drove away. A sacrificial lamb in bunny’s clothing.
“That would be quite helpful.” I smiled at him, sheepishly, as he opened the door for me to step in. Once seated with the cake secured next to me, I removed the slippers and handed them to him. “I suppose I should have thought this through.”
“You’re not the first person who’s given me items of clothing, I assure you.” He smiled, holding out his hand to take theslippers from me with a nod. “But you are the nicest one. I’ll make sure these find their way to your room.”
“Thank you.” I smiled. He closed the door and the car lurched forward. My stomach churned as I slipped my feet into my thrift store shoes, securing the straps. After this was all said and done, I vowed to myself that I would never step foot—quite literally—into these things again. I would just have to get through the next few weeks first.
I could do that. I could do this. I could…
The limo rounded the corner around the mansion, bringing the front of the circular drive and the stone steps into view. A cameraman stood at the bottom of the stairs, ready to capture my departure from the limo, while another stood near the top of the stairs, only about twenty feet from…
Tristan.
Oh God, this was real. This was really happening. That’s Tristan Tate, and I’m in a limo moving at a snail’s pace to meet him. At the top of the stairs with Tristan was Genevieve, the girl in front of me. From what I could tell, they were wrapping up their meeting, with Genevieve’s hand resting on Tristan’s forearm, her body leaning inward as she planted a kiss on his cheek. A bold move. I wondered whether the others had kissed him. Perhaps there had already been a kiss on the lips from one of the more bolder women. There always seemed to be a contest over who would lock lips with the season’s star first, as though the victor would be awarded a top spot at the end of the show—or even the star’s heart.
But that was hardly ever the case, which led me to wonder why anyone would want to rush into something so intimate so quickly.
With a flick of her blue-highlighted locks, Genevieve sashayed away, the swing of her hips momentarily catchingTristan’s attention as he briefly watched her walk to the door before turning his attention to the limo.
My limo.
We weren’t going that fast. I could open the door, do a barrel roll onto the lawn, pick myself up, and haul ass on out of here without looking back, not stopping until I reached the other end of the country, couldn’t I? Better yet, maybe I could knock on the window separating me from the driver and request that he gun it back to LAX with the promise of wiring him the entire contents of my savings account—all $83.03 of it. Then again, their drivers are probably trained like prison guards to activate an alarm at the first sign of an escape attempt.
Before I could come up with another brilliant plan, the car slowed to a stop in front of the stairs. My heart was beating so fiercely I thought it would break through my chest wall as a handsome man in a tuxedo approached the car in a measured, rehearsed strut. When he reached for my door’s handle, I knew my time was up, and the only thing I could do was put on my most I’m-not-scared-shitless-at-all smile and meet the man I would be fake dating.
CHAPTER 13
TRISTAN
I should be usedto cameras by now but, for some reason, the one being shoved in my face felt more intrusive than usual. Maybe it had to do with the fact that I was usually pretending to be someone else when they were in my face. I wasn’t being laid bare for the world to see, every flaw, every slip of the tongue rife with judgment. There were no lines being fed to me. There was no room for error. As I stood in my blue Armani suit at the top of the stone stairs, overlooking the circular drive, I felt naked.
How did I let you talk me into this, Wanda?
Surely, I could have resuscitated my career some other way? Bit roles here and there, a viral video of some sort. Robert Downey, Jr. found Marvel. There had to be some untapped superhero out there I could play. Did Iron Man have an equally as smart, equally as rich cousin?
Before I could call the whole thing off and ask Wanda to make those champagne wishes a reality, the limo carrying the first of the twenty-five women I would be meeting tonight pulled up at the bottom of the staircase.
Twenty-five women whose names I’d spent the last week trying to memorize. I thought I had most of them down, butthere were roughly a handful I couldn’t quite remember for the life of me, and my suggestion to Wanda that the contestants wear nametags was met with nothing but a hardened stare and tap of a foot that screamedTry harder.
Of course, the first woman to step out from the limo had to be one of the handful I couldn’t remember. Yup, this wasn’t going to be a disaster at all. Thanks, Wanda.
She was beautiful in a conventional, cookie-cutter way. Blonde, statuesque, a woman anyone in the industry would want by their side. No doubt that same shallow thinking was how she’d made the cut. Whatever looks good on screen. Personalities could be manufactured if they were even necessary at all.
She-who-could-not-be-named-by-me carefully climbed the stairs, only looking up at me when she was more confident in her footing. Her lips curled upward into a smile that didn’t show her teeth, another sign of confidence. Miss Should-Be-Wearing-A-Name-Tag was going to be trouble. Whether it was of the good or bad variety, remained to be seen.
I stood up straighter, suddenly becoming self-aware of the footage being filmed and what would be chosen for the show. If I looked anything other than ecstatic to be here, it would be overanalyzed and critiqued by the entire country, and this whole thing would have been for nothing. And then that would be it. I wouldn’t get another bite at the apple.
A smile tugged at my lips when the unknown blonde reached the middle of her climb. As she drew closer, I allowed my mouth to widen into a smile I hoped looked genuine. The color that crept over the apples of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose told me I had succeeded.
“Hello,” she greeted me when she reached the top of the stairs, making her way over to where I stood. “I’m Bianca.”
Bianca. Damnit, that’s right.
“Hi, Bianca,” I greeted her as though I wouldn’t have been wholly screwed had I had to come up with her name first. She wrapped her arms around me, the floral scent of her perfume wafting up my nostrils as I returned her embrace, treating her like a fragile doll that may fall apart in my arms.
