Page 22 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show

I am not attracted to the Mr. Right on my show.

No way.

There are ten women hoping to live happily ever after with him, and I’m not going to lust after him. I am not going to make things awkward.

My eyes bounce around the tiny closet, and I despise the way they always land on Luke. I abhor the way my gaze wants to imbibe his features, as if he’s run off with my heart, and I need to give each detail to a court artist. But I don’t need to tell anyone the width of his nose, the point where his chiseled cheekbones are highest...I know them already.

A sick feeling tumbles through my insides, setting them on fire with acid.

He looks like Bryce.

He’s the same height, the same shape, and though his facial features are different, they’re not that different.

God, was this why Bryce was so mean to me? Was I looking at him in ways I shouldn’t? How did he know before he did? Back when my instinct was to say I wasn’t that way? Back when that was my only desire, and I would turn around and head in the opposite direction whenever I saw Bryce.

Not that it helped much.

Ashcove High wasn’t large. There weren’t enough corridors to hide in, enough people to hide behind, enough classes that we didn’t need to take together.

I saw Bryce all the time, and each time, he was happy to announce to the world I didn’t belong, and he did.

And so I left.

And changed myself.

Until I could look in the mirror and not see who I used to be, because I’ve changed so much. My brows are plucked, where they once were on the verge of blending together, my skin smooth and glowing, where it was once dull, my eyes no longer hampered by oil-smudged lenses and unflattering frames that drew attention to every awkward angle on my face.

My hair is no longer a dirty brown best left to hamsters, but a carefully maintained bleached blond, and the pudgy frame I had when my only comfort was what was in the bright-colored plastic packages sold at 7-11, has been hardened into muscle through an intensive gym routine and a less interesting diet.

But now my gaze keeps on going to Luke, and I hate it, because maybe Bryce was right all those years ago.

I hate when I see Luke look at me with understanding, like maybe he knows exactly who I am and he’s being nice. And I hate when he looks at me with admiration more, because it makes me feel like there could be something there, when I know all there is, is a straight Mr. Right. Like all Mr. Rights he’s at the top-end of the good-looking range, and the top-end of the successful range. I just didn’t expect him to be at the top-end of the sympathetic range too.

Not him. No way.

My fingers tremble, and my breath comes out unevenly. The crowns tilt, the top one toppling off the stack.

Luke sweeps his hand forward, catching the crown easily. He takes the others from me and puts them on a shelf near the door.

“I-I almost dropped them.” I stare down at the dusty floor where they could have fallen.

“But you didn’t,” Luke reminds me.

“They could have been crumpled. Creased. Dirty.” My mind whirls, and my breath sputters out at a too fast pace.

He presses his lips together, and his perfect blue eyes dance. “Why don’t you rest?”

I blink.

“I’ll be right back. Just...stay.” He inches toward the door, then exits.

I frown at the door. I want to follow him, but he told me to stay, and I’m not ready to face the cameras and the women vying to be on his arm forever and ever. I don’t want to see him smile at someone, and think, that’s her, she’s the one.

Luke reappears, armed with a plate of food and some water. “I wasn’t certain what fortification you prefer, but I thought in the interest of you not dehydrating, you can start with water.”

“I’m on the job.”

“I promise not to tell if you want something with more power. I’ll fetch you all the wine glasses you want.” He winks, and my stomach lurches like we’re stuck on a hot balloon together and he’s popped the champagne and told me...