Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

KENNEDY

“You’re orange,” Bachelor Number Seven bellows. He staggers back into the champagne fountain and is immediately soaked. Priceless crystal glasses tumble to the floor.

This is a disaster .

For one, there’s something screwy going on with the heating system in the house. The grand ballroom has a beautiful polished parquet floor and floor-to-ceiling windows with mountain views and gorgeous maroon velvet curtains, which I strongly suspect were purchased by the producers. In every corner, there’s an elaborate trellis stretching from floor to ceiling, woven through with plants that are either real or really good knockoffs. It would be even more pleasant if it weren’t freezing, probably no more than fifty degrees. Even though the dress I’m wearing is long-sleeved, the fabric is thin lace. The guys, all dressed in suits or tuxes, got lucky…and not one of them has offered me a jacket. I’ve kept away from the champagne fountain because the last thing I want right now is something that’s going to make me colder.

Rowan Mayberry has been in and out of the room for the last hour, presumably trying to fix the problem, but it only seems to get worse.

The other issue is that the bachelors are all terrible.

Well, maybe that’s not fair. Rowan was right about Bachelor Number Six—Marcus is as much of a Prince Charming as I’m liable to get. He’s a hedge fund manager with golden hair, blue eyes, and a personality that might be less impressive if it weren’t ranked against the seven other frogs Nana Mayberry chose for me.

They were brought in one by one through a double doorway in the side of the ballroom, introduced by Harry, who carried a scroll as if we’re in some sort of Regency movie. It would have been fun, actually, if any of them other than Marcus appeared to have a sense of fun. Okay, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. I admit I haven’t spoken to them enough to know for sure—each one had a memorized speech, most of them revolving around money and how they got theirs. I’d listen to a minute or so of monologuing, greet the guy, and then he’d take a seat on one of the thrones set up across from mine. It didn’t help that one of the men kept flubbing his speech. We had to repeat his entrance five times, with Nana Mayberry telling me to look more pleased until it felt like my face hurt from all the fake smiling. I wish I could say it was the first time it’s happened, but I’ve spent my life being told to smile.

And, yes, I said there were thrones. Mine is even on a mirrored pedestal. In the middle of the thrones is the champagne fountain, which had an elaborate stack of crystal champagne flutes next to it. Yes, I said had .

After the cameras got footage of us all sitting around smiling at each other for what seemed like an eternity but was probably only about twenty minutes, Harry announced it was time for the champagne cocktail party to begin. I’d talked to most of the men, or rather they’d talked at me, making sure the cameras were capturing them (one of the men even told the cameraman to walk around to get his good side). Then, as Bachelor Number Two—Deacon—finished telling me about his family’s vacation home and started to walk away,

Bachelor Number Seven, Jonah Highbury the Fifth, walked over and flipped my veil with a laugh, asking what I was hiding. Which was when he backed into the champagne fountain and broke all the glasses.

“Rowan,” Nana Mayberry screams, waving a hand at the cameramen set up around the room. They keep right on filming. According to Harry, the producers have informed them they don’t have to answer to her and her mercurial whims. There’s no sign of Rowan, so presumably he’s off working on the heating problem.

Harry hurries forward from where he was standing to one side of the thrones and flips my veil back into place.

“There’s no rewinding time, Harry,” I say with a laugh, flipping it back. A ring on my finger got caught in the netting and nearly ripped the hat and a bunch of pinned hair off my head. “Yes, Jonah.” I, disentangling it and glancing around as I take in the others. “Everyone. There was a mishap, and I’m currently a lot more orange than usual.”

This is already a nightmare, so I might as well own it.

“Rowan,” Nana shrieks again, as if she’s unaware that he might be out of hearing in this sprawling house.

Miraculously, he steps into the ballroom seconds later. His gaze goes to me first, and his lips tip up. “So, your big secret’s out, huh?”

“Rowan,” Nana Mayberry says with pinched lips, gathering his attention. She points to the pile of broken crystal on the ground as if he’s a paid servant and not her handyman grandson who appears to be helping her out of the goodness of his heart.

“Your wish is my command,” he jests, then leaves again, presumably to get a broom.

“Were you exposed to radiation?” Jonah asks. Based on the way he’s eyeing me, it’s not the first time he’s said it.

I give myself a mental shake. “Nope, no radiation. Bad self-tanner.”

He takes two big steps back, as if bad self-tanner is contagious, and his shoe cracks a piece of the already broken glass, prompting him to jump back farther and bump into Bachelor Number Three, who gives him a disgusted look and shuffles away, nearly mowing down Nana Mayberry. She’d hustled up closer to evaluate the broken glass situation.

Number Three, who calls himself Meathead, is the most fit and muscular of the contestants—the son of a man who started a hugely successful fitness program—so she doesn’t seem overly upset. In fact, Nana reaches out and touches his back.

“Steady there,” she says, in no hurry to move her hand. “A man like you could knock me down without a second thought.”

There’s a hearty dose of implication behind the words. I’d feel worse for Meathead if he hadn’t already told me that I should cut dairy, gluten, and refined sugar from my diet. I don’t need someone stepping into my mother’s shoes on the first night of filming. The only other thing of note about him is that he’s clearly the guy who got punched in the eye. The makeup artist is good, but there’s a slight purpling of flesh that can be seen through his foundation.

Jonah wipes his face with a kerchief from his pocket, seemingly oblivious that the kerchief is as wet as his suit. He gives a shiver, and it occurs to me that hypothermia isn’t fully out of the question given the temperature in here.

I glance at Harry. “Shouldn’t we get him a change of clothes?”

The words have barely left my lips when Rowan returns to the room with a broom, dustpan, a purple robe, and towel.

I can’t help but smile. He has it more together than anyone else involved in this production, myself included.

He gives everything to Jonah, who is instantly affronted. “I’m expected to sweep?” he asks, as if being asked to clean up after himself is more hideous than any of the demands made on Cinderella.

“And I thought you were stupid,” Rowan quips.

Jonah bristles, then stalks toward Rowan, but he almost immediately retreats, having correctly deduced he’d lose any fight between the two.

“I’ll do it,” I say, holding out a hand for the broom.

“No, you won’t,” Rowan says, his brow furrowing. He seems pissed off by the suggestion. I remember him calling me “princess” and internally bristle.

“I can sweep.”

“Yes, most of us have the ability to sweep,” he says, his expression still severe, like he should be out chopping wood instead of helping on the set of a reality dating show. “But you didn’t make the mess. You shouldn’t volunteer to clean up after other people.”

I’m annoyed by his high-handedness. Shouldn’t I be allowed to volunteer my help however I want? His words remind me of my parents, which probably isn’t fair. They don’t like it when I volunteer my help to people who genuinely need it; Rowan is telling me not to do the dirty work of Jonah Highbury the Fifth.

The stare down between them continues for several seconds, then, to my shock, Jonah shrugs on the robe and starts sweeping.

A glance shows me the cameramen are soaking it all in. This is definitely going to make it into the first episode.

“Well, this is exciting,” Harry says, almost manically, clapping his hands three times. Then he pulls a face. “I guess we’ll have to skip the champagne social though.”

Darn it. That would have been the perfect opportunity for me to talk about my non-profit, although I already know that at least six out of eight of the guys would have such little interest in the topic their eyes would glaze over.

I’ve only brought up my job once, briefly, with Marcus, mainly because he’s the only one who asked me anything about myself. I feel another glow of warmth toward him.

“Aren’t you going to ask us how we feel about this?” asks Deacon.

Jonah finishes sweeping and stacks the dustpan full of glass against the wall, relinquishing the problem to someone else. Rowan rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything. A couple of production assistants move forward and roll the thrones, which are apparently on wheels, flush against the wall.

My gaze follows Rowan as he leaves the room. Presumably, he’s off to tackle the heating situation again.

“Are you talking about missing the champagne social?” Harry asks Deacon. “It is disappointing, but I’m afraid the sponsor only sent over a certain amount for tonight, and the crystal people…” He pulls a face as he glances at the crystal graveyard, propped against the back wall.

Something tells me they won’t be pleased that we’ve highlighted the breakability of their product.

“I’m talking about the lies ,” Deacon says darkly, glaring at me. “I don’t like being lied to. It brings up a lot of buried trauma for me. My ex-girlfriend told me she was related to the Washingtons. She never said she meant George Washington, but we all know that was the implication. I told everyone in my family. They bring it up every Thanksgiving dinner. Every last one.”

“Well, sorry,” I say, playing with the edge of the veil.

“Don’t you recognize her?” hisses Colton, Bachelor Number One. “She’s a Littlefield, you idiot. Of the Chicago Littlefields.”

I guess that still means something to some people. Then again, Colton’s from a banking family, just like me. For him, the Littlefields mean something. He doesn’t know—and probably wouldn’t care—that my father disowned my brother. I’m pretty sure my dad would have disowned me too for pulling, and I quote, “this little stunt,” if it wouldn’t be such a public relations nightmare. Because everyone is going to know their daughter is on this show. Because it’s not such bad publicity for them, honestly, unless I make a fool of myself.

I’ve received a dozen messages from my mother warning me not to make a fool of myself.

“Of course,” Nana Mayberry says. She’s still standing next to Meathead, her hand pressed to his back. “You’re all crème de la crème.” She rubs his back. “I wouldn’t accept anything less.”

Harry has a tortured look on his face, as if he knows this isn’t going well but isn’t sure how to right the ship. “How fun that you’ve guessed the bachelorette’s identity!” he tells Colton.

“Isn’t that a different show?” someone asks in an undertone.

“My name is Kennedy Littlefield,” I say, sweeping a glance around to take in all the guys. It’s hard to do with eight. I’ll be glad to send two home tonight, and I’m pretty sure I already know which two. One of them is wearing a purple robe with tiaras on it that almost certainly belongs to Evelyn Labelle.

“You’re beautiful, Kennedy,” Marcus says, giving me an appreciative head-to-toe glance. He’s stepped forward from the group of guys. Someone grunts in annoyance, but I don’t look up to see who. I don’t need to. Something deep inside me knows it’s Rowan Mayberry.

Marcus reaches for my hand and lifts it to his lips, staring into my eyes as he kisses it. It’s the kind of move that should make a woman’s heart race, but to my disappointment, my heart continues to beat at its regular pace.

Maybe he’ll grow on me. My brother and his fiancée love each other more fiercely than any other couple I know, and they met because she was posing as his fake girlfriend. In the beginning, they weren’t even attracted to each other. So, yes, it’s totally possible that this time next month, Marcus will be my everything.

The thought gives my stomach a little flutter. Hopefully, my heart will catch up soon.

“She is pretty, but she’d look even better if she weren’t orange,” Jonah mutters, adjusting the tie of his robe.

“This is very exciting, very exciting,” Harry blurts. His color has risen, and he looks like he’s a paper bag away from a panic attack. Poor Harry. “Well—” he claps his hands and looks at the grandfather clock across the room. “It’s time for the thirty-second waltzes.”

“Waltzes take longer than thirty seconds,” says Colton. He’s pretty attractive too, actually, easily a second to Marcus, with dark, slightly curly hair and big brown eyes.

Harry taps his watch. “Yes, well, we have to make accessions for our runtime.”

It’s a ridiculous notion, flouncing across the floor with each of them for just thirty seconds apiece, but then again, this is what I signed up for.

“At least the exercise will make us warmer,” I say, smiling at Colton, who just offered me his hand. I take it. Once again, I’m hoping to feel something—a spark, a zing, a zip—but it’s a hand, and it feels a little clammy actually, despite him being a very good-looking man.

“You’re cold?” he asks.

“A little,” I admit, fully expecting him to offer his jacket.

He doesn’t.

Neither do the next three men.

They may be thirty-second waltzes, but we have to repeat a few of them multiple times. The room isn’t getting any warmer, and although the exercise has helped, I’m relieved when Marcus finally does offer me his jacket. The gallantry is on point. So is the slightly spicy scent it carries as he arranges it over my shoulders. Only…I can practically feel the cameras zooming in on us. The show is the whole point of being here—making magic happen for millions of viewers—but I still find myself wishing this moment could be just for me.

Jonah is still wearing his robe for our waltz, and I’m still wearing Marcus’s jacket. They’ll definitely ham that up in production—Jonah’s a rude klutz, and is Kennedy still wearing Marcus’s jacket? Gasp! It’s funny to imagine but slightly surreal.

After the waltzes end, Harry grins maniacally at the cameras and says, “Well, it’s not easy to say goodbye, but it’s almost time for the first Rolex ceremony, folks.”

“Of course,” Nana Mayberry cuts in, stepping in front of him, which would have been more effective if he weren’t so much taller, “We’re going to need to consult with Kennedy first, Sweet Tea.”

That’s her nickname for him, although I can’t pinpoint the reason for it. Harry likes his tea half sweet and half not, so maybe she doesn’t think he’s properly Southern. Whatever her reasons, they’re probably not kind. I’ve come to realize there’s very little kindness about her. She’s certainly not the warm, fuzzy kind of grandmother who gives hugs and offers fresh-baked cookies. If there are blankets in her house, they’re probably like the ones my mother purchases—for show.

The guys are sent off, probably to somewhere warmer, but Marcus insists on leaving me with his jacket. I don’t object. Once they’re gone, Nana Mayberry and Harry hustle me into a small sunroom attached to the ballroom. It’s still cold. The cameras crowd in with us, and Harry ushers me over to the couch and fusses over my dress as I get settled. He then sits across from me in a chair, Nana Mayberry in a slightly taller one next to him.

Something tells me she planned that. One cameraman crouches to the side of us and another is facing me.

“Now, before we start,” Nana Mayberry says. “Jonah is on the no-cut list. You can’t send him home.”

“What?” I squawk, my gaze shifting to Harry.

He gives me a sympathetic look, scrubs a hand over his buzzed hair, and nods. “Sorry. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with her. He needs to stay until the bitter end.”

Darn it. I was counting on him to be sensible.

“But he’s terrible ,” I say.

“Precisely. This is a television show,” Nana Mayberry says in a withering tone, as if I’m too stupid to understand why there are cameras following us around. “Your future husband is in this house right now, mark my words. Jonah may not be an obvious match for you, but we need to ensure the show stays entertaining. He sticks around.”

“He’s a wild card,” Harry says sympathetically. “People enjoy watching wild cards. It’s why we love dating shows. He’s already made tonight ten times more interesting. Deacon is petulant, and Jeff, Bachelor Number Four, is a bit dull, poor guy. Listening to him is like watching paint dry. Marcus and Colton are both shoe-ins for this first round, and Meathead is…a grown man who calls himself Meathead. Take him or leave him.”

“Take him,” Nana says in an undertone. “Definitely take him.”

“What about the other two?” I ask, struggling to remember their names.

“Someone needs to fill those chairs, huh?” he says with a chuckle. “Quinn and Ray will do a good enough job of that. Leave them and cut the two you don’t want to run into on ice cream runs to the kitchen in the middle of the night. But keep Jonah.”

Crap. I have to admit that they’re right, but it doesn’t make me any more eager to spend more time with him.

Still, I feel like I have to put in a token objection. “So I have to keep him and send someone else home—a guy who might be a good match for me?”

Harry gives me a weighing look. “Kennedy, are you honestly saying you can’t comfortably send home a different guy? I think you could probably send home four.”

He’s right.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Meathead goes.”

Nana scowls. “He’s very good looking,” she snaps. “Having him is good metrics. I was going to suggest we have him lift each of us on camera.”

I’ll bet she was.

“They’re all handsome,” I say. “But I don’t need someone around commenting on my dietary choices. It’s nearly Christmas.”

“Not in this house,” Nana Mayberry objects, straightening her back.

“It’s still the holiday season. That matters to me. I’m going to eat cookies and drink cocoa, even if I have to make them myself. I don’t need Meathead reminding me of the calorie counts.”

“Fine,” she snaps, clearly unhappy about it. “Meathead goes, but Jonah stays.” She sends a withering glance at Harry. “See, Sweet Tea? I’m capable of compromise.”

He shrinks away from her a little before nodding to the cameramen. “We’re ready.”

As soon as the cameras start rolling, Nana tilts her head, studying me with false concern. “

I don’t think Jonah is a good match for you, Kennedy.”

Indeed. I’m not surprised by her hypocrisy. I’m used to it—my mother and her friends make an art of saying one thing and meaning another. I’d rather not be comfortable with this kind of discourse, but I’m definitely familiar with it.

Harry gives me a quick glance, like he’s wondering if I’m going to flip out on her. But I don’t. I give her a sheepish smile and say, “Well, he is a little clumsy, and he seemed thrown by my self-tanning mishap, but so was I! I couldn’t believe it when I looked in the mirror.” I tap my chin. “Still, there’s something charmingly straightforward about Jonah. He certainly says what he’s thinking.”

There’s a choking sound, and I look over at Harry, alarmed.

“It’s okay,” he stammers out, lifting a hand. “I’m just choking on my own spit.”

We continue the discussion, and I tell them that I have concerns about Deacon and Meathead. Deacon, because he’s still clearly not over his ex-girlfriend’s betrayal. Meathead, because he comes off as judgmental and got into a physical altercation the night before filming. After a few minutes, I segue the conversation into a longer discussion of my job, which Nana tries to cut short with a sour look on her face, but I make sure to deliver our mission statement in full.

We return to the ballroom, and while the guys filter back in, having been summoned by some signal, Harry presents me with a glossy wooden case, which I open dramatically for the cameras.

“This is it,” he says, glowing, once the men are all seated in their thrones, which have been wheeled back into position. “The Rolex ceremony.”

I unclasp the case, revealing six glossy watches, the sale of which would probably keep Leto’s Hands running like a well-oiled machine for months.

As I try not to feel bitter about that, the electricity goes out.