Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

KENNEDY

“Don’t be alarmed. It’s not that bad.”

“Harry!” I snap, horrified by my reflection in the vanity mirror of my temporary bedroom. “This self-tanner’s turning me orange! How is this not that bad ?”

“People like oranges. Oranges are popular. They have a lot of Vitamin C.” After saying it all in a rush, he sighs and lifts a hand to his head, scrubbing his buzzed hair. “I don’t even know what I’m saying right now. I hate oranges. Some are too sweet, some are too sour, and you can never find one that’s just right.”

He’s as pale as a sailor with scurvy, so maybe he should rethink his stance on the whole Vitamin C thing. Then again, maybe he’s pale because he’s as panicked as I am.

Okay, don’t freak out, Kennedy. You can solve problems. You’re good at solving problems. You’re here, aren’t you?

The non-profit I work for needs to keep its doors open, and although I have a trust fund, the money won’t be mine, really mine, until I’m thirty. That’s more than a year away, and I’m afraid we won’t make it a year unless a miracle happens. It’s less than a month before Christmas, so it’s the time of year for miracles.

The thing is, sometimes you need to make the miracle happen.

I’m a Littlefield “of the Littlefield Bank fortune,” or so my parents always put it. My father would give me an advance on my trust fund to pay for any material things I might want—dresses, an apartment, a lavish lifestyle—but I’m not allowed to give the money away. I’m particularly not allowed to give it to my boss.

I know what you’re thinking. Poor little rich girl. But I don’t want to be a rich girl, poor or otherwise. I’ve never wanted my parents’ money. They’re despicable people—something I realized at age six when my mother threw away my old winter coat rather than give it to my nanny, Rose, whose daughter was my age and also my friend.

“We don’t want to give her ideas, Kennedy,” my mother said, tsking. “Then she’ll be stealing all your dolls and nice things the second your back is turned, won’t she?”

So I started giving my things away to other kids in secret. Nanny Rose wouldn’t accept my gifts, but others did. Kids at school. People I saw out on the street. I gave away anything I could get my hands on. Of course, my little kid logic didn’t understand that other people would be blamed for my largesse, and the instant my mother accused Nanny Rose and our housekeeper of stealing, I let the truth tumble out. After that, my parents always kept a careful eye on me.

They still do.

In their minds, I’m the weak link—the one who might just let the revolutionaries in the back door.

You might be wondering why someone who doesn’t want to be a rich girl would agree to be the star of a reality dating show called Matchmaking the Rich . I wouldn’t blame you for wondering if I’m a hypocrite. But consider this: millions of people will be watching me on TV—millions of people who’ll have to listen to me mention my non-profit in every episode. Despite what my father thinks, I’ve inherited something from him besides his money and the Littlefield blue eyes, because I made the producers put that into the contract. I get at least one reference to Leto’s Hands per episode. Signed, sealed, and delivered.

This is the best fundraising coup I could have engineered, and my boss was happy to give me a month off work—no email contact, no phone calls, no anything—to film the show.

“Maybe you’ll come back with a husband,” she’d said with a wink.

I’m not opposed to it. That’s the purpose of the show, after all, to see me engaged.

If being rich isn’t important to me, then maybe it won’t be important to one of the men whom Nana Mayberry, the matchmaker behind the show, has picked for me. Maybe these guys would just prefer to be with someone else who has money so they don’t always have to wonder if that’s the only thing the other person sees in them.

It’s not pretty, being used.

It’s the ugliest thing there is, maybe.

My gaze lands on the mirror and lingers, taking in the distinctly orange hue of my cheeks, which clashes with my dark hair and blue eyes.

Okay, so maybe being orange is worse. Especially in a peach-colored dress.

I lift a hand to my cheek. “How could this happen? She’s a professional makeup artist. Everything looked fine before she left.”

“I don’t know,” Harry says with plenty of agitation. “A lot of free makeup samples were sent in, though.” He loses more color, if that’s possible. “I don’t want to alarm you, but are you feeling dizzy or nauseous?”

“Harry, no one poisoned me,” I say, holding back a laugh. It’s adorable how concerned he is on my behalf.

Harry’s the co-host of the show, but he also happens to be the best friend of my future sister-in-law, Tina.

Tina and my brother Zach live in Highland Hills, where we’re shooting the show, and Tina’s the one who got Harry to audition for this job. Of course, she didn’t realize at the time that I was going to be the first contestant. She didn’t realize because I didn’t tell her, or Zach, or anyone other than my best friend, Olive, that I was applying.

The producers called me last week to tell me they’d hired him. They said they’d done it because they thought it would be best if we had two hosts—male and female—to appeal to both demographics. But I didn’t need my brother, Zach, to tell me that’s bull. They hired Harry because he’s funny and sweet, and Nana Mayberry is a cold, dour woman who probably spent her last life as an icicle.

I know her type. I was birthed by a woman just like her.

I don’t question their decision, I’m just happy for it, because they’ve assigned Harry to personally handle me, which means I won’t have to spend much time with Nana. She’ll be hanging around with the men, I guess.

Peering into the mirror, I turn my face from side to side. Yes, still orange, especially against the peach of the dress. “Okay, well, obviously we need a different dress.” I lift a finger. “Let me ask Olive for advice.” I give him a plaintive look. “Can I use your phone?”

Mine is in a drawer somewhere, and it won’t be returned until filming is done. Still, I know her number by heart. He sighs and looks around the room, which is unnecessary since the door is closed and it’s just the two of us in here, before unlocking his iPhone and handing it over.

I snap a photo and send it to her, along with the text. This is Harry’s phone. No time to explain, but I’m orange. The premiere starts filming in half an hour. HELP.

Bless her, she answers within thirty seconds, while Harry paces the floor nervously, nearly tripping on a navy rug with a border of unicorns.

Black dress. Wear a veil. Maybe they can make it a whole thing where they’re hiding your identity until the second episode? HIDE THE ORANGE.

I glance at the time on Harry’s phone. Twenty minutes. We have twenty minutes before I’m due to film my TV debut. We’re staying in an enormous mansion that I’ve visited before but don’t know well. For the production, we’re calling it Labelle Manor, though the title seems too noble for the house. My first meeting with the eight guys Nana Mayberry has hand-selected for me will happen in the ballroom, because of course it has to be something “appropriately glamorous,” to borrow her vocabulary. She’s probably with them right now, making sure they have perfectly aligned pocket squares, little suspecting her leading lady has turned orange.

Even though the holidays are fast approaching, and it would be wonderful if this place were decorated with enormous trees and velvet ribbons and nutcrackers as tall as Harry, it’s not. It’s like Christmas forgot to visit this one corner of Highland Hills, North Carolina, because the small town we’re nestled in has its decorating game down . I had a day to visit and soak in the holiday cheer before I was locked away in my castle like the heroine of a Disney movie. The show won’t be airing until March, and it would look strange if the holidays were represented, so the joy will be kept to a minimum.

I love the idea of Christmas, although it’s always been about gift cards and one-upmanship with my family, not hot chocolate, sleigh rides, and caroling.

I shake off the thought because I have a mission to accomplish, and mooning over the holidays, or lack thereof in this house, won’t make it happen.

“Harry, we need the black dress in the wardrobe. Is there some kind of veil or something?” I show him the text from Olive because it’s easier to do that than offer an explanation, and he brightens like someone lit a bulb inside him.

“Yes, yes, I like the way she thinks,” he mutters to himself, taking the phone from me and tucking it into a pocket. He hoists me up from my chair at the ornate vanity table and, to my surprise and delight, gives me a twirl. “You, Kennedy Littlefield, are going to be a woman of mystery. We won’t tell them who you are in the first episode. They’ll be guessing. God knows they’ll guess, but they won’t guess correctly. Then you’ll make your big, non-orange debut on the second episode after we send two of the guys packing tonight.”

I laugh, delighted by the thought. “Okay, but where are we going to get the veil?”

His expression turns fierce, that of a man on a mission. “My roommate helped get this set up and running. He’ll know where Evelyn Labelle stored all her things before they rented out the house. That woman looks like the kind of person who’d own a black veil. I’m sure he can help me find one.”

The Labelles are the owners of Labelle Manor, a place that is over the top to the point of tackiness. The guest rooms where the men and I will be staying all have themes—there’s a rooster room, a cupid room, and so on. I have the distinction of staying in the princess room, which must have belonged to one of their daughters decades ago, because, at the risk of sounding like the princess from The Princess and the Pea , the four-poster bed has a mattress so lumpy that I had to have someone special order a mattress pad just so I could get more than a few hours of sleep. Still, it’s huge, and there is an enormous head-to-toe mirror showing me that I look like someone who spent hours being naughty in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, only I’ve been turned orange instead of blue.

“Nana Mayberry’s grandson?” I ask with a frown, because I know Harry lives with two of the Mayberry grandchildren.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not judging the guy. I’m the last person who’d blame a person for their relatives. But I wasn’t under the impression that any of the Mayberrys were involved in the production. In fact, Tina is friendly with a couple of them, and they made it very clear to me that they want nothing to do with their grandmother.

Again, I can’t blame them, but why would a Mayberry be helping with the show if they all find it, and their grandmother, so objectionable?

“Is he here?”

“He is!” Harry says, rushing over to the wardrobe to retrieve the black dress. I take it from him. “It’s worth a try, I guess, although I can’t think Mrs. Labelle would appreciate it.”

It amuses me to think about Evelyn Labelle recognizing her veil on television. She probably would. Maybe she has a motion tracker sewn into all her things.

“I’ll be back in a jiff!” Harry says. “Wait…is that something people still say?”

Laughter spills out of me, probably partly from nerves. “I’m not sure anyone’s said that ever. Wait, though. Can you unzip me? I’m not sure I can get out of this thing by myself.”

It’s a mermaid-style dress, tight enough that there’s not a whole lot I can do mobility-wise.

He does the deed graciously, then exits the room in a flurry of motion.

I work on extricating myself from the dress. It’s a dance I know well enough, and before long, I have the peach dress on the hanger. It’s too bad, really. It’s a confection of gold and peach that did all kinds of things for my natural complexion.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think someone was trying to sabotage me, but I can’t imagine why the makeup artist would do that. After all, she’ll see me again soon enough.

The only reason she left when she did was because one of the guys got himself punched at the local brewery last night, on our final day of freedom. He has a black eye that desperately needed her attention. Being orange is more of a problem, obviously, but the transformation happened gradually, and by the time I’d noticed, she was probably halfway across the house. Given the size of this place, looking for her would have been like searching for one particular pin in a box of them.

I pull on the long-sleeved black dress, which is equally stunning. The design and cut are simple but flattering, and the sleeves help ensure the self-tanner mishap stays my little secret. I wait for Harry to show up to save the day because I’m no more able to zip myself into this dress than I was to zip myself out of the last one.

There’s a knock. “Come in,” I call out, then I shriek at the reflected sight of a stranger barging in through the door. This particular dress has a long zipper that goes down past my butt, so he’s just seen my entire backside and my lucky underwear.

He’s a big guy, a few inches over six feet, and muscular, with a short dark beard.

What the hell? Did one of the contestants from the show decide to barge into my room before filming to make a case for himself in private?

If he tries anything, I’ll slap him in the face and show him just how well this particular silver spoon girl can defend herself, but after a second, I register that he looks as horrified as I must—probably from the combined shock of finding me not quite dressed and also orange.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, reaching back reflexively to try to hold the gaping fabric together.

“Fuck,” he says, stepping back. “I…fuck.”

“Eloquent,” I say coldly, channeling my mother. Melinda Littlefield isn’t the kind of woman who’ll let any man ruffle her, however large, unexpected, and masculine.

He works his jaw. “You should have said you were changing in here. You told me to come in. For all you knew, you could have been inviting anyone in here.”

The nerve!

“I was expecting someone,” I say primly. “And that someone was not you.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he says, lifting a hand to his mouth. He tilts his head. “Who were you expecting? Prince Charming? Which one is he? Number Six?”

“It’s rude to come into a woman’s room without introducing yourself,” I say. I’m a little intimidated by him, to be honest. First, I have no idea who he is. Second, I’m still unzipped. Third, he’s just…so big. So masculine. There’s this energy around him that’s untamed. I’m not used to men like him.

His mouth works into a wry grin, and he lifts his other hand, which is when I finally notice it. A black veil.

“I guess in this one case, I am Prince Charming,” he says. His gaze moves over my body again, settling back on my face, and by then I’m sure pink has joined the orange of my cheeks. “It’s not that bad,” he says. “If Harry hadn’t told me, I might not have noticed.”

I hold back a snort. “Well, there you have it. I’m about to be filmed for a national broadcast, and I don’t look ‘that bad.’ Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “You could have just said thank you.”

Crap. He’s kind of right. Although I’m surprised Harry passed this job on to someone else after leaving my room with the intense focus of a knight on a sacred quest, there’s no denying this man was helpful. I take the veil from him, admiring the quality of the lace. It’s dark enough that they’ll be able to see my features—or at least that I have them—but not any details. The orange will go unnoticed.

“Thank you,” I say. “It was kind of you.”

Is it my imagination, or is he rolling his eyes? I ignore it. “What happened to Harry?”

He snorts. “He’ll be here in a minute. My grandmother cornered him into a conversation, but he seemed to think this couldn’t wait.” He nods to the veil.

Grandmother. So…this must be the roommate. I’d imagined him differently.

Maybe Harry had to convince Nana Mayberry to go along with our strategy for the episode. They’ll probably have to run it by the producers too, and now we’re down to—I glance at the carriage-shaped clock mounted on the wall—ten minutes.

That’s not good.

“Well, have fun,” the guy says, turning to leave.

“You’re going?”

He stops and turns to look at me, raising one eyebrow. “You want me to stay, Princess?”

Something shivers through me, although I’m not sure why. I’m not intimidated by him anymore. He’s rude and gruff, but he’s no danger.

I tip my head over my shoulder, silently indicating the zipper. “I could use a little help.”

“Oh,” he says, looking taken aback, and for some reason I’m pleased to have done that to him. “I shouldn’t do that.”

“You have two hands, don’t you? I’ll bet you know how to use them.”

I didn’t mean it like that , but he looks slightly flustered, and I can’t deny that’s how it sounded. I open my mouth to apologize, realize there are certain situations not improved by words, and shut it again.

He heaves a sigh like I asked him to do something hugely objectionable, but comes closer, his scent engulfing me as he does. He smells like campfires and pine, just like the Christmas candle I used to light in my room when I was a kid. The memory makes me smile.

“What are you so happy about?” he asks as he circles around me. His presence seems to crowd me, but it’s not unpleasant.

“Thinking about Christmas,” I say. “I like Christmas much more than this house does.”

“You’re not mooning about your eight suitors?”

“Leave it to a matchmaking family to use the word suitor.” It’s a glib response, but I feel a surprising amount of anticipation. Soon, he’ll reach for the zipper, then it will slide up my back. He’ll probably do it quickly enough to catch skin, a man like this.

He snorts. “You’re the one on the show, Princess .”

I decide I don’t like that name just as his hand clasps around the zipper. It’s probably too small for him. I can feel the warmth and rasp of his fingers. I can tell from such a slight touch that they’re callused. The zipper slides up slowly, surprising me. It’s a sinuous movement, bottom to top. He surprises me further when he finishes by fixing the clasp at the top of the dress.

“There,” he says, circling around me, the warmth at my back going with him. “It’ll do.”

A laugh escapes me. “A true king with the compliments.”

He shakes his head slowly, his mouth tipping up on one side. “Nah, your prince is going to be in that ballroom. I’m just the court jester.”

He turns to walk away, and as he steps out the door, I realize I don’t actually know his name. Just that he’s a Mayberry.

“What’s your name, Jester?” I ask.

Swiveling back a little, he gives me another half-smile. “Rowan.”

“And I’m Kennedy.”

“No shi—” he starts before course-correcting. “Yeah, I know. Break a leg, Kennedy.” He makes a face. “Non-literally, of course.”

Then he’s gone.