Page 2 of The Best Wrong Move

Rex looks pale between the remnants of confetti shimmering around him. Sweat forming at the edge of his hairline. His eyes widen at me, like I’m supposed to know what to do.

My mouth opens to make a joke, but I can’t think. A stunted whimper escapes my throat instead.

“Seven seconds!” my producer yells into my ear. “Olivia, say something. Anything. Figure out how to smile.”

I turn to camera four. The one closest to me. Green light blinking.

“Olivia, stop doing that with your face!” My producer’s voice is high-pitched, bordering on panic.

I curl my lips back and feel my brows nearly touch over my eyes, trying to fix it.

“No, not like that! Just smile normally, goddammit!”

I yank my earpiece out. Unable to think.

My voice cuts through the thick silence on stage.

“You heard it here first,” I say brightly, picking up some confetti that landed on the counter in front of me. Then I toss them into the air toward Rex. One lands on his eyebrow. “If you’re single this Valentine’s Day, take a good look at this face.” I turn to Rex, who looks like he’s having an out-of-body experience. “This guy is officially up for grabs now, ladies! Single as a fucking pringle.”

The green light cuts to red.

And I’m free.

Chapter 1

Four weeks later

Wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead, I turn the knob again and push hard against the front door with everything left in me, but it still won’t budge. My extended stay at this oceanfront townhouse is off to a rocky start if I can’t even get inside.

I look both ways, glad nobody is here to witness this battle with the door, now that my face is a viral TikTok following my failed proposal onThe Good Day Show. This Airbnb rental is supposed to be my home base during the next eight weeks while I wait for things to settle down at the station back in New York.

Since stepping off the plane in Honolulu two hours ago, there’s been a thick layer of sweat plastered across my entire body from the humidity. My Uber driver’s AC was broken on the ride across the island to the North Shore, so I was practically hanging out the window, wondering if I should just strip my sweater off right there in the car. And now that I’ve been wrestling with this front door for the last ten minutes, I feel like I might pass out from what is quickly becoming a cardio workout.

I should have traded my jeans for a pair of shorts before I left the airport. I’m sweating through the outfit I left New York in.

I look around for someone to help me, carefully weighing the pros and cons of changing right here on the front porch so I don’t pass out. This townhouse is on a fairly busy street, but it backs up to a popular beach. So if a random person does pass by while I’m changing, they’ll probably think my bra and underwear is just a bikini — at least until I can shimmy into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.

I give the door one last try, turning the knob and bumping it with my hip as hard as I can. Frustrated and exhausted, I pound both hands against the thick wood a few times for good measure. My suitcase immediately falls to the ground. I shove it away with one foot, then start bumping the door with my hip over and over while holding down the handle, hitting it with my free hand. I let out an exasperated growl at the end that sounds more like a wildcat in the jungle than a woman in distress. It won’t budge.

“Screw this,” I mumble to myself. I need to get out of these clothes before I pass out. Then I’ll call the owner. I unbutton my jeans and pull them down to my ankles, stepping out as quickly as I can, when I hear someone clear their throat behind me.

I spin around.

A half-naked guy is standing a few feet down the walkway with a surfboard tucked under his arm. He’s dripping wet, like he just walked out of the ocean. A pair of red board shorts is hanging off his hips, right below two rows of washboard abs. He’s a caricature of masculinity. Broad and ripply in all the right places, with an inch-long scar above one of his thick brows. When our eyes meet, he breaks into a perfectly white grin. Then he looks away quickly, like he’s embarrassed that he just stumbled upon me changing out here in broad daylight.

I fight the urge to reach for my jeans.

For all he knows you’re in a swimsuit, Liv. Own it.

“Uh, sorry.” He shifts his eyes up toward the sky. His attempt at giving me privacy, I think. His voice is deep and smooth, like it’s been heated by the sun. “I heard a lot of banging on my way back to my car, and I was just checking out what the commotion was. Are you . . . are you okay?”

“Oh gosh, yeah, that was me. The door’s stuck.” I point behind me with a sheepish grin, wishing I could stop the blush I can feel rushing across my face. I have sunglasses on so he shouldn’t be able to recognize me.

“This door?” He points toward the door behind me, still looking away.

What a gentleman.

“Yes. Could you maybe . . .” I hope the chiseled biceps he’s sporting are for more than just looks.

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