Page 5 of Say Yes to the Nemesis

“She owns a taser,” Wren confirms cheerfully. “And knows how to use it.”

“Atta girl.” Jay leaves, shaking his head.

Wren and I stare at each other across the table. The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife. Then something in her expression shifts, goes softer, almost vulnerable.

“Can I ask you something?”

“I don’t know. Does this question count as asking me something?” I quip.

“You’re terrible.” She narrows her eyes, biting her lower lip. She is clearly annoyed and trying to battle through it. Shit, she must really want something from me.

Drawn in like a magnet, I lean forward with a grin. “Shoot, kid.”

I expect her to react to me calling her a nickname, but she doesn’t. Her eyes pin me in place. She looks… worried?

“You’re not going to blow up my spot, are you?” she asks quietly. “On the show, I mean. Tell them we know each other?”

The question catches me off guard. There’s something almost fragile in her voice and it makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t like. Does she think I’m a monster?

“No. I wouldn’t do that. We won’t even have to interact. You’ll be behind the scenes; I’ll be in front of the cameras. Different worlds.”

A smile flickers across her face, quick and genuine. For a split second she looks almost grateful. Then the moment passes and she’s back to her usual self. She sits back against the booth.

“Good. Because the last thing I need is America thinking I’m associated with someone whose biggest accomplishment is putting a piece of rubber in a net.”

“It’s called a puck, genius. And it’s harder than it looks.”

“I’m sure it is. Almost as hard as remembering the names of the last five women you slept with.”

I give her a cocky grin. “You know, jealousy is a good look on you. Goes with your eyes.”

“Jealous!” Wren’s jaw drops and she scoots out of the booth. “You’re the last man I would ever be jealous of, Ryan Haart.”

“You’re turning green.”

“Yeah, right.” She scoffs. “Have a nice night. And don’t forget, from this moment on, we’re strangers.”

Wren walks away without waiting for a response, weaving between tables toward the exit. I’m left alone with my beer and the weight of tomorrow’s departure. I watch Claire finish her drink and leave with her friends. That bridge has definitely been burned. I catch the waiter’s eye for one more round and try not to think about the next two months.

Somewhere in Atlanta, twelve women are probably packing their bags, preparing to compete for my attention. At her bedroom in Jay’s house, Wren Rustin is probably doing the same thing. She’ll be armed with her clipboard and her attitude and her complete conviction that I’m exactly the kind of man who’ll eventually disappoint everyone.

She’s going to be behind the camera. I’ll barely see her. And even if I do… so what? It’s Wren. I’ve seen her a thousand times. This won’t be any different.

It won’t.

But as I sit here, staring at the empty booth where she just sat, I can’t shake the feeling that something shifted tonight. The way she looked at me when she asked me not to blow her cover. The way her voice went soft and uncertain. The way she said we’d be strangers from now on, like it actually mattered.

I take a long drink and let the beer work its magic, smoothing the sharp edges of my anxiety into something manageable. As long as she stays behind the camera, I’m safe. As long as I focus on the job (be charming, be available, be the kind of man America wants to fall in love with), everything will work out fine.

And if one of those ten bachelorettes turns out to be something real? Someone who surprises me, who doesn’t feel like she’s performing every moment we’re together?

Maybe this won’t be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.

The bar settles around me, familiar and forgiving, and I raise my bottle in a silent toast to whatever comes next. To brand growth and national exposure. To hot tubs and fantasy suites and the kind of love that looks good on camera.

To surviving two months in close proximity to Wren Rustin without either of us committing homicide.

I drain the last of my beer and head for the door, ready to face whatever fresh hell I’ve signed up for.