CHAPTER NINE

L uke

The townhouse is as elegant inside as I could have imagined. Crystal chandeliers sparkle above.

The cameras whir, following my every move.

The women chatter happily, and the servers hand me glass of wine after glass of wine, hopeful I’ll say something interesting. Warmth fills me, and some of the tension eases.

It’s still surreal I’m here. I’ve watched the opening night of Seeking Mr. Right so many times, and apart from my flub with Dahlia, the night has gone well.

My gaze drifts to Sebastian. He’s been chatting with Ella all night, his tall, slim figure perfectly tailored in his tux, blond hair gleaming under the chandeliers.

“I love hockey!” Gemma announces, sauntering up to me, her high heels clicking on the antique floor. “I used to play field hockey. Rhode Island State champions, baby.” She high-fives me.

“Good for you,” I say.

“We’re meant to be together!” she exclaims. “None of the others even follow hockey. It’s fate!”

“Oh.” I blink at her.

She’s pretty. They’re all pretty.

I wish Troy or Dmitri were here because they would be all over her. She has the curvy figure they love, generous cleavage, narrow waist, generous hips, like a taller Marilyn Monroe.

Sebastian’s no longer beside Ella when I look again, and when I do another sweep of the room.

Maybe hosts aren’t supposed to be in the room the whole night. Maybe he’s doing important host work somewhere else.

That’s probably the case.

Ella flashes me one of her professional smiles that I don’t entirely trust. “I hope you’re enjoying your journey to true love.”

“Where’s Sebastian?”

She frowns. “I can help you if you need anything.”

I inhale, hating that the air is filled with clashing scents of perfumes and gourmet snacks and an alcohol aroma. Despite the high ceilings, the room feels claustrophobic. The thick velvet drapes have been drawn shut, probably so no untelegenic passers-by ruin any good shots with curious glances.

“Everything is fine,” I say.

“Any favorites?” Ella asks.

“Um...” I dart my glance toward the women in their slinky gowns, a flurry of puffy hair and blue, red, green, silver and gold.

“It’s okay. You can tell me. You’ll need to give me the names of the women you want to spend more time with and keep on the show before the floral crown ceremony starts.”

“Sebastian already explained.”

I’ve also seen every season of Seeking Mr. Right, but I don’t tell her that.

I’ve watched Sebastian so much, and he holds me with disdain.

This wasn’t what I imagined. Not at all.

I didn’t plan on going on the show, but I didn’t think it would be quite like this.

It’s all fine, I remind myself, even if strangling Troy and Noah has suddenly become appealing.

“Hi hockey guy.” Flora slides up to me, tottering in red-backed heels, her thigh gap visible in her short dress, the only thing resembling Christmas the green color.

“Hi dentist girl.” I grin at her, and the cameras move closer, eager to catch everything we say. Flora was a cheerleader, and she has the matching peppy attitude, and has made it her life goal to give even non cheerleaders the shiny smile.

I spot Sebastian.

“Sorry... I have to, um, do something,” I say, still looking at him.

Flora’s red-slathered lips, the shade as deep and crimson as much of the Christmas decor, form an O. “Of course.”

“Sorry.” I head toward Sebastian, conscious of Flora’s stare behind me.

I slither up to him, and any regret I have at leaving Flora vanishes when I’m in his presence again.

“Hello.” I smile at him.

His eyes widen, and maybe I’ve actually made this awkward. Maybe he doesn’t want me to talk. My heartbeat pounds, the rate quicker, as if some enthusiastic drummer has taken charge of it, playing rock when I’m accustomed to mellow lounge music.

“Do you have enough material?” I ask, striving to be professional, remembering too late I don’t have a reason to speak to him.

“Yes.”

“Then can we do the floral crown ceremony?”

“You don’t want to drink and party some more?”

“Should I?”

“Most Mr. Rights like that. It’s often their favorite night.”

“I’m fine,” I assure him, and he nods and ushers me to a side room. It’s dark and feels cramped, and I inhale his cologne. His arm flicks over me, brushing against my chest, and I inhale, as if I want to commit the scent to my memory for ever and always, along with the feel of his arm against me.

Then the light turns on, emitting golden light around me, and he inhales sharply and steps away.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, pink drifting from his collar over his clean-shaven face. “The light.”

“It’s small,” I say, and he nods eagerly, as if I’ve said something profound.

He still hasn’t mentioned that we know each other.

Sebastian hurries to the other side of the room, but I could easily pull him toward me if I want to. I suppose that’s a strange thing to think about. “This is tiny.”

“I think this is actually a closet,” Sebastian says. “We wanted to give the women the most space they can since they live here.”

“This feels like the closets people go to for seven minutes in heaven,” I say, and his eyes widen.

I’m pretty sure my eyes are widening too because I absolutely shouldn’t be pondering seven minutes in heaven when Sebastian is right beside me and we’re in a closed room.

The air is hot and humid, like we’ve landed in Florida in July. I wonder what it would be like to pull Sebastian toward me and what it would feel like to rest my hands against his slender waist. I could smell him better, I could nestle my cheek against his, and I could taste if his lips are as succulent as they look.

He’s almost as tall as me, but far thinner. He would be easy for me to arrange into all the pleasant positions, and we would slide together, unhampered by pillowy bosoms.

Sebastian turns, but his ears are a red color they weren’t before, and his figure trembles.

I want to calm him, wrap him in my arms, but it’s not my place.

Instead, I’m silent, and when he turns to me, he flashes me his TV presenter smile.

I don’t mind it, and I smile back at him.

“Here are the five crowns to give to the five women you would like to get to know better.” He gestures to some crowns made out of poinsettias. The deep red flowers are placed close together. They’re thick and luscious.

“They’ll love it,” I say.

“You can only give five out.”

“I know.”

“Do you know who you want to keep?”

I tell him the names, but my focus is entirely on the way his throat moves as he swallows, and the slight tremor of his fingers as he reaches for the crowns.