Page 6 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

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. “Itisdisappointing, 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 thelies,” 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 theChicagoLittlefields.”

I guess that still means something to some people. Then again, Colton’s from a banking family, just like me. For him, theLittlefields 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 thebeginning, they weren’t evenattractedto 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.

“Sheispretty, but she’d look even better if sheweren’torange,” 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. Sois 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.

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