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“Into what, a bordello?”
Gone are the buckets and brooms and ugly fluorescent lighting. The closet’s been completely cleaned out, and now there’s a small love seat pressed against the wall, with just enough room for a lamp and a tiny corner table with…
A bottle of wine?
I give him a look. “Are you kidding me?”
He merely grins and pats the seat beside him. “Sit.”
“We’ll be caught.”
“Nope. Cockroaches, remember?”
“You really believe your assistant won’t tell someone?”
“Diana’s been with me for years. She’s mostly my makeup artist, but I trust her with other important stuff too.”
“Right. Turning a utility closet into a bordello. Definitely important stuff,” I say, plopping onto the love seat. I point at the bottle. “Pour.”
Gage pours us each a glass of the crisp white wine before giving me a thorough once-over.
I glance around the closet, my eyes narrowing. “You don’t think they’re taping us here, do you?”
“Diana checked for bugs and cameras. Is that what you sleep in?”
I shrug. “Sorry it’s not a lace teddy.”
“Did you hear me complaining?” His voice is lower than usual, causing my pulse to skip into overdrive, but I attempt to ignore it.
“You went through an awful lot of effort to set this up considering you’re sending me home tomorrow,” I say, sipping my wine.
He turns to face me, propping one elbow on the back of the love seat. “About that—”
I lift a warning finger. “Don’t even.”
He swats my hand. “Hear me out. You’re not here to marry me, I get that. I respect it, even. And let’s face it, you’re far too prickly to be my type.”
I give him a ha-ha look.
“But,” he continues, “there’s no reason we can’t help each other out.”
“Great. I was
hoping to be propositioned tonight!” I say with false enthusiasm.
“Calm your loins, Wright. I just meant that we can be of assistance to each other. You’ve proven yourself pretty scrappy. More to the point, you’re able to get a pulse on the other women—figuring out who’s crazy and who’s just mean.”
I sip my wine again. He’s not wrong. “And?”
“And I was thinking you could be my spy, of sorts. I keep you on as long as I can to make sure I’m not getting in over my head with the wrong woman.”
“Honestly, if you can’t figure out for yourself whether you should marry someone—”
“I can’t,” he interrupts, a little sharply. “I wouldn’t be here if I could. Runaway Groom, remember? I have a nasty habit of almost marrying the wrong woman.”
“You’re not actually thinking you’re going to get married at the end of this,” I say skeptically. “Are you?”
He shrugs. “I doubt it. The producers want the fairy-tale ending, but they’ll settle for the scandalous one as long as I can make news.”
