Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

KENNEDY

“I don’t believe you,” Marcus scoffs.

I don’t believe him either. Jonah’s made several comments that suggest he’s far from chaste, and then there’s what Rowan and I overheard between him and Nana Mayberry. And yet…why would he say something like that on camera if it weren’t true?

“We should respect his decision,” I say, waving at Jonah, who’s beaming proudly at the cameras. That’s when it hits me—he’s lying because he wants to draw attention to himself and keep it there.

“I’m saving myself for you, Kennedy,” Jonah says, shifting his gaze to me.

“Uh, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Why don’t we carry on with our game?” I scrunch my lips to the side. “Let’s see, do either of you have pets?”

“No,” Jonah says instantly. “And I don’t think any civilized person would willingly pick up someone else’s waste.”

Marcus huffs a laugh. “I don’t,” he tells me. “But my friend has a Great Dane.”

“Disgusting,” Jonah says, and he clearly means it.

I think again of that dog I wanted as a kid— still want —the little imagined bulldog with its underbite and rolls of furry flesh. I feel a pang of longing, although it’s not just for the dog, but for the innocence of the girl who thought she could ask Santa for her dearest wish and get it.

Mind you, my needs were always met, and my parents would have given me anything I wanted, as long as I wanted the things they wanted for me.

The problem was that I almost never did.

“You like dogs, don’t you, Kennedy?” Marcus asks.

“I do,” I admit with a small smile. “Love them.”

Jonah has such an obvious I just messed up look on his face that I almost laugh.

“You seem like a dog person,” Marcus says.

A smile crosses my face, because I feel seen for the first time all day. When Marcus forgets about the TV show, he’s a nice guy. “How’d you decide that?”

“You’re warm and kind. Compassionate.”

“I’d get a small dog if you wanted one,” Jonah says quickly. “We could hire a dog walker. And a pooper scooper.”

“That’s an implement,” Marcus says. “Not a person.”

I take another sip of champagne. “Are you guys up for a dare?”

“What would you dare me to do, Kennedy?” Marcus asks, his eyes on my lips. He’s such a beautiful man, all golden hair and big blue eyes, but I wouldn’t ask him to go skinny dipping. That thought inevitably leads to another—who told Nana about Rowan and me? Because I’m fairly certain she didn’t know we were at the pool the other night. She must have found out after the fact.

I consider for a moment and then snap my fingers, because as ideas go, it’s pretty much perfect. “Why don’t both of you make a PSA about Leto’s Hands? We can have a contest for who does it best.”

“Do we get to judge?” Harry asks with obvious delight.

Nana snaps into a dry cracker, shooting me a look that suggests she’d prefer it if she were snapping my spine.

“ You do,” I say. I give Nana Mayberry a smile that would give a person sugar shock. “His nickname is Sweet Tea. Seems like he’s the right audience.”

She chews, swallows. “A bleeding heart, you mean?”

“The best kind,” I say brightly.

“Am I supposed to know what Leto’s Hands is?” Jonah asks with confusion. Then he nods to my untouched plate of caviar. “Are you eating that?”

I give it to him without comment.

Marcus stares at him in disbelief. I’m pretty sure he remembers where I work. I’ve talked about my job every day, even on most of their sick room visits. His gaze shifts back to mine, his bright blue eyes turning mischievous. “What about you?” he asks. “Do we get to give you a dare?”

Discomfort uncoils inside me. Rowan didn’t ask me to do anything I might not want to—even though I very much wanted to. But do I trust Marcus and Jonah to do the same?

No, especially not Jonah.

Still, I want them to do the PSAs. This could be exactly the funding breakthrough we need.

“Sure,” I say, waiting until Jonah has a big mouthful of caviar. “What did you have in mind?”

Jonah looks like he’s struggling to swallow—you can’t choke on fish eggs, can you?—but Marcus has the upper hand, and he’s not about to lose it.

“Why don’t you film the videos with us?” he asks with a bright smile. He’s sucking up, but I’m so relieved, I don’t care.

“I’d be delighted to!”

Jonah, who’s just swallowed, adds, “And kiss us on camera.”

My face wants to crinkle in distaste, but I remind myself that he didn’t specify how I was going to kiss him. A cheek kiss will do perfectly well, and I do need to act like I’m interested in the guys. That’s the only way people will be invested in the show.

My mind skips back to what Harry said, to the possibility of creating a different sort of narrative, but Rowan would have to be open to it, and it’s very obvious that

he’s not.

At least he’s not like Brandon, I guess, interested in me only because of my family’s status and the money in my trust fund. If anything, Rowan seems put off by those things.

“Fine,” I say. “Shall we?”

“So what is Leto’s Hands again?” Jonah asks. “Is it some kind of sexual thing you’re interested in trying?”

“Said like a true virgin,” Marcus deadpans.

It took dozens of takes for us to film the spots. I’m pretty sure Jonah kept flubbing his lines on purpose so I’d have to keep kissing him on the cheek. He has smooth skin, at least, but I don’t feel even the smallest hint of attraction toward either him or Marcus.

I was pleased with how the spots turned out, though, even more so because they’re going to be a major part of the plot for this episode. Based on her expression, which soured more with every take, Nana Mayberry knows it too.

“You’re kissing them like you would your brother, Kennedy,” she told me halfway through. “Who’s going to believe you’re falling in love?”

I didn’t like that she was right. I especially didn’t like the implications. Everyone’s going to expect me to act like I’m in love with someone by the end of this thing. And I’ll be honest, I can’t imagine simpering over any of these guys, on camera or off.

By the time we finish, it’s late afternoon. The production assistants pack up the picnic and, to no one’s surprise, the guys race each other home while Lady and I walk back at a more sedate pace. Both of them are waiting for me outside the house when I arrive, the camera van preceding me as if we’re some sort of a parade of two.

Once again, the guys argue over who gets to help me dismount.

Once again, I do it by myself.

Marcus and Jonah both offer to see me up to my room.

“I’ll be doing that,” Harry says, stepping forward. He’s such a sweet man, accommodating and funny and neurotic, but there’s something harsh about the way he says it.

Nana Mayberry just sniffs and walks off, but not before giving Jonah a significant look. What it means, I can’t guess, and I don’t particularly want to.

Harry takes my elbow and leads me up to my room. Once we’re inside, he glances both ways down the hall, then closes and locks the door. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks.

“I literally have no idea.”

“Candy cane,” he says, referencing our safe words, so I nod, because I have a feeling I know where he’s going with this. Nana Mayberry knows things she shouldn’t know, and if he didn’t tell her, and I didn’t tell her, who did?

My mind flashes to Rowan again, but I still don’t believe he’d share intimate details about me with anyone, let alone his grandmother.

“Let’s see,” he says loudly in a voice that’s clearly meant for someone else, someone who could be watching and listening. “We need to find the flickering bulb so we can replace it. It may take a long time.”

It does. The two of us work silently and thoroughly, going through every square inch of the princess room, which is a bigger deal than it sounds like considering how many tchotchkes grace its shelves.

“I’m about ninety-three percent certain there’s no camera in here,” Harry says, sitting back on the fainting couch, “so that’s good.” His eyes narrow. “Rowan’s future brother-in-law is that tech billionaire, of course, but there’s no lost love between him and Nana Mayberry.”

I can’t help but be interested. “It doesn’t seem like any of the Mayberrys are fond of her.”

Sighing, he runs a hand over his head. “Can you blame them? It would be like being fond of a piece of furniture. A straight-backed metal chair with spikes on the seat.”

“Vicious,” I say with a laugh. “And accurate.”

I make my way to the closet and take out the tree, propping it in my favorite spot for it, on the shelf in front of the curtain-covered window. I turn on the battery-powered lights with a happy sigh and then join him on the fainting couch.

“You’ll have to leave the room to get dinner,” Harry says nervously. “Someone might see it.”

“I’ll ask one of the production assistants to bring me something.”

“No, I will,” he says. Then he gives me a significant look. “But you should be spending more time with the men for the cameras. As much as I hate to say it, Maeve is right about that. You’ll need to act like you’re interested in getting to know a few of them. Otherwise it’s not going to be much of a show.”

I sigh again, trying to focus on the tree with its pretty lights, but I get that sinking feeling again, like I’m a balloon that’s slowly but steadily turning back into a flattened rubber tube.

“They’re horrible,” I say flatly.

“They’re horrible,” he agrees. “Maybe I’ll get to pick the guys next season.”

“That doesn’t help me.”

“No.” He gives me a sympathetic look. “Want me to leave my phone in here so you can call Olive?”

Everything inside me brightens at the suggestion. “Yes, oh my God, yes.” I pause. “But don’t you need it? You’re going on your date tonight.”

“And Oliver and I already set the time and location,” he says firmly, taking out his phone and handing it to me. “Just be sure to pretend you’re talking to yourself if anyone hears you and knocks.”

I laugh, because I don’t hate the thought of the guys thinking I’m insane. Maybe it would keep them from coming on too strong. “Thank you, Harry. You’re a godsend.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, his lips thinning.

There’s something ominous about the words, so I give him a searching look.

“Please don’t ask me what I know. I hate it when people ask me what I know.”

My mind conjures up an image of Rowan. He’d probably say something like, “Would you prefer for them to ask for information you don’t know?” So I say that.

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” Harry says nervously and then runs a hand over his hair. “I promised Tina that I’d take care of you, but I’m doing a pretty shit job.”

“Maeve Mayberry is a wily woman,” I tell him. “No one could blame you for not always being two steps ahead.”

“I guess,” he says with a sigh. “Just try to be flirty with a few of the guys tomorrow. For my sake.”

The thought chafes, but it’s why I’m here, and I haven’t forgotten that.

“Thanks, Harry,” I say. “I’m going to want to know everything, literally everything, about your date.”

“Good,” he says, getting up. “Because I was going to tell you whether you wanted to know or not.”

I wrap him up in my arms because I’m desperate for a hug. He pauses for a second, hopefully from surprise and not disgust, and then hugs me back hard. “It’s going to be okay, Kennedy.”

“Is it?”

I can feel him laughing as he pulls away. “It has to be, doesn’t it? For you and the show. And maybe even for me and Oliver. I mean…it can’t go as badly as the first time we hung out, right?” He starts tapping his fingers together. “Actually, I’m probably jinxing myself by saying that. I’ll be honest, I’m sweating in places I didn’t know I could sweat.” He grimaces. “No, that’s a lie. I make a habit of sweating when I’m nervous. I hope he won’t want to shake my hand. Or touch me at all.”

“I think you want him to touch you,” I say. “And if he gets to, he won’t care about a little sweat.”

Harry laughs, nods, then carries himself resolutely to the door. “Get ready for some massive oversharing.”

“I was born ready. I’m already looking forward to it.”

He turns and leaves, and a gaping emptiness seems to open in my room.

Loneliness wells in my stomach, in my brain, in my toes. I could go down to see the guys. Maybe I should. Both Nana and Harry are right—I have to seem more excited about being around them. No one’s going to want to watch the show if it’s a bunch of stiff conversations over caviar and champagne. But Harry left me with his phone, and…

The tree’s sparkle catches my eye.

Rowan’s number is on that phone.

Would it be pathetic of me to call him, when he’s made it clear that he wants to keep his distance from me and the show? I should call Olive, or maybe my brother, but I know who I want to call.