A SEAL's Vow (SEALs of Chance Creek Book 2) (6 page)

“Don’t look at me,” Jericho protested. “Boone’s the one who should be working on that.”

“It’ll be your turn soon enough.” Fulsom surveyed the others. “It’ll be everyone’s turn. Last night we launched the companion website to the show. The reaction has already been… gratifying.” He let that sink in. “Thousands of visits to the site overnight. Dozens of comments, and you know what people are focusing on? Matchmaking. They’re already trying to predict who is going to end up with whom. This show is going to be a hit. It’s got sex appeal a mile long, and while our audience is focused on the girl–boy stuff, we’ll cram so much information about sustainability down their throats they’ll be able to give symposiums on it by the end of the season.”

Clay exchanged a look with Jericho. If that was true, then going through with the show—and meeting Fulsom’s demands—would be worth it. Pride welled up within him, a feeling he’d missed these past few weeks. It had been easy to lose sight of their initial objectives in the mad dash to get Boone to the altar, and to prep for the show. It was good to know they’d be able to get their message out to such a large audience, despite the trouble it raised with Nora.

“So I’ve got some good news and some bad news, folks.” Fulsom leaned forward. “We initially signed on to run the show for six months. We’ve extended that to a full year. It makes sense. We’ll follow Base Camp from spring to spring, seeing your struggles in every season. That gives us time to focus on each and every couple. The audience wants back stories. They want to watch you men woo your potential mates. They want to be in on the proposals and see each wedding. They want pregnancies—and at least one birth. Twelve months.” He let that sink in. “A wedding every forty days.”

Clay was glad he and his friends had warned the others about the change in time frame already, so there were no surprises there, but he wasn’t pleased with that last bit. “Why do they have to be spread out like that? Why not let them happen when they happen?” he called out. He needed all the time he could get to convince Nora he was the one for her.

“Extending the season is a risky bet. We can’t lose momentum.”

“But think about it—” Clay said. He needed to win this point. He’d drawn the short straw, after all. If he had to marry in forty days he’d have less time to convince Nora, not more.

Fulsom’s expression hardened. “One wedding every forty days,” he said, overriding Clay. “Without fail.” He scanned the crowd, looking for dissension. “Let me make myself very clear, folks. You miss a wedding, the show’s over and Montague moves in with his bulldozers. Got it?”

Clay nodded slowly in the sudden silence. Yeah, he got it. The silver lining he’d clutched so tightly to had just been torn away, revealing bigger storm clouds. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected anything less. So much for having more time to woo Nora. For a moment his foot stopped tapping.

Then it started up again. He wasn’t going to lose Nora. No way. No how.

Fulsom turned to the women. “Surprisingly, your Regency lifestyle has caught the imagination of people across the country—even around the world. That’s a positive thing. But here’s a negative.” He pointed to each man in turn. “Nine men, since Boone is already married.” He turned to the women. “Four women, since Riley’s taken, too. Now nine men and four women could make for an interesting and controversial dynamic, but this is a prime time show, so we’ve got to keep it clean. Time to recruit more females. And they’d better wear bonnets.”

Clay began to protest, but thought the better of it. They’d known they had to recruit more women, but for Fulsom to demand the new female recruits join the others in their Regency exploits was unfair.

Fulsom turned to Jericho. “So who’s going to marry next?”

“Don’t look at me.”

“It’s me,” Clay said resignedly. “I drew the short straw.”

A murmur swelled among the women. “Drew the short straw?” he heard Avery echo. Savannah shook her head at him. Nora refused to look in his direction, but two spots of color blossomed high in her cheeks.

Fuck me
, Clay thought, closing his eyes briefly while he cursed his choice of words. He’d set himself back further than Fulsom had.

“Drew the short straw, huh?” Fulsom guffawed. “We’d better re-create that for the show, and from now on that’s exactly how we’ll do it. Every time one of you marries, we’ll draw straws to see who is next. The audience will love that.”

Clay struggled to keep his cool. Every word that came out of Fulsom’s mouth made things worse. Nora had twisted her fingers into the folds of her dress and seemed to be engaged in a struggle to keep her seat. He had no doubt she’d like to slug Fulsom, and then turn on him.

“July tenth, folks! That’s our next wedding.” Fulsom fixed Clay with a hard look. “Don’t be late to the altar, son. I’ll have Montague standing by with his bulldozers, got it?”

Clay longed to tell Fulsom where he could shove Montague, but he remembered the promise he’d made to Boone, Jericho and Walker after their failed mission to Yemen. Remembered the suffering he’d seen there and the political civil war that was really about dwindling resources due to climate change. He’d made his vow to help change the world, and he’d keep it, no matter how big an asshole Fulsom was turning out to be.

“Don’t worry,” he ground out. “I’ll be there on time.”

So Clay had
drawn the short straw, had he? Fury and humiliation battled inside Nora. Had everything Clay had said and done been a lie? Did his kindness and seduction stem from nothing more than a deadline after all? He’d said earlier they’d have a full year to get to know each other. He’d pretended he wanted that, too. But all along he’d known he had to marry next and he’d used every opportunity to push their relationship along.

Damn him, Nora thought, close to tears. She’d let herself believe—after everything she’d been through—that there was one man who was different from the others. That Clay was better—that he truly cared for her.

But that was all a lie, wasn’t it? He cared about winning. About the land. About his stupid sustainability baloney.

He’d better not propose to her, Nora thought wildly. He’d better not come near her. Marry in forty days? That was barely over a month. If she refused him—and she would refuse him—who else would he ask?

So much for the slow courtship she’d dreamed about all the way down to Base Camp. Moonlit walks, long discussions, passionate nights of lovemaking…

But that’s not how this would go, would it? She’d be lucky to get a few fumbles in the dark, some stolen conversation in between being filmed. A quickie in the barn.

And then she was supposed to stand at the altar with a man little better than a stranger, pledge her life to him and wonder what happened in five years when she found herself with a kid or two—a single mother, Clay long gone…

Alone.

Anger sizzled through her veins and she grabbed hold of that emotion, far more comfortable with it than the pain that came with knowing she’d been fooled again.

She’d let Clay kiss her last night—a lot. She’d almost opened herself to the possibility of…something. And it was all because he’d drawn the short straw?

Fuck that.

Men were users. They lied, they let you down, sometimes they were violent. In every case you were better off without them.

Maybe she’d felt safe and happy in Clay’s arms for a little while last night. Maybe he’d awoken a passion she’d thought was gone forever.

But now she felt… cold. Bitterly cold.

To hell with Clay—and to hell with Fulsom.

“As you all know, filming has begun,” Fulsom went on, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “Which means you will all remain accessible to the camera crews twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

“Except when we go to bed,” Jericho called out.

“We’ve already clarified we won’t film your
private activities
.” Fulsom finger quoted the words. “But you will accommodate the film crew and Renata here. I want everyone to be clear on that. If I hear otherwise, there’ll be hell to pay. Unless Renata has asked you a specific question, or given you specific instructions, you are to go about your business as usual, whether or not you are being filmed. Renata will conduct interviews from time to time. Some of them will figure in the episodes put out each week. All of them will land on our website, along with other social media content like quizzes and polls.”

Fulsom’s words flowed over her. Nora knew she should listen, but a sound like rushing water had filled her ears. Disappointment warred with pain, and echoes of her stalker’s messages began to thread through her racing thoughts. Somehow knowing Clay was lost to her made her stalker more real. More present, even though she’d left him behind. Maybe it was because since she’d met Clay, a little part of her had hoped against hope that the Navy SEAL would turn out to be a real hero—a man she could love, could make a life with.

Now she was on her own again.

Touch you. Make you scream. Cut you. Take my time.

Her stalker’s distorted words assailed her mind, coming at her from every direction. Nora tried to concentrate on Fulsom, but she couldn’t stop the barrage of hateful, violent speech that racketed around her brain and refused to be controlled. She dug her fingers into her thighs and pinched her skin hard.

I’m here. I’m right here. He can’t get me now.

The room swam.

“Nora? Are you all right?” Savannah asked in a low voice.

“Yeah.” But she wasn’t. The room was spinning, her head pounded and Nora was beginning to find it hard to breathe.

“Okay, that’s it for now,” Fulsom wound up. “Let’s get going. I expect professional behavior from all of you. I don’t want to hear any complaints from Renata or the crew. Remember, the whole world is watching you now.”

The whole world. Including the student who’d harassed her for months. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t get his lurid, violent messages out of her head. Nora stood up with the rest of them and followed Savannah outside, fighting to control her emotions. Fighting for air.

She’d thought she’d escaped her stalker when she’d left Baltimore.

Instead she’d brought him with her.

‡

W
hen the meeting
ended, Clay wanted to pursue Nora and explain everything, but he didn’t get the chance. Renata cornered him before he could reach the door.

“Clay Pickett? Time for your interview.”

“Already?” He’d thought he’d have a little more time before that kind of thing started. He watched Nora leave with her friends, the rest of them talking together in low tones, while she remained pale and aloof. He’d lowered himself in Nora’s estimation in that meeting, and he knew he had plenty of work to do to repair the damage he’d done, but it seemed that would have to wait.

“When you’re done, come gather your crew,” Jericho told him. “Time to get to work on those houses. I’m about ready to pack up my tent for good.”

“Will do.” Clay reluctantly followed Renata outside. She led him around the bunkhouse away from the crowd to where a middle-aged blond man in cargo pants and a plaid button-down shirt stood with his camera on his shoulder.

“Clay, this is William Sykes. William, Clay Pickett.”

The man reached out to shake his hand. “Morning.”

“Now, I say this to everyone I work with,” Renata went on, her clipped British accent making everything she said sound formal. “Reality television is intensely personal, but reality television also isn’t personal.”

“You’ll have to explain that.” Clay didn’t hold with double-speak. He had a feeling the angular woman in front of him was going to rub him all wrong before this show was done. Anyone who made her career in reality television had to have a few screws loose.

“Our job is to bring you to life for our viewers. They don’t want to know Clay the man who’s acting for the camera. They want to know Clay the man. We will catch you at your most unguarded moments, and we will exploit them for the entertainment of our viewers. In that way, reality television is personal. What I need you to understand, however, is that even if we showcase your vulnerabilities, even if we show all the things you’ve never wanted anyone to see to a global audience, it isn’t personal. We’re just doing our jobs. Got it?”

“No.” Clay shook his head. “That’s a cop out. You got it right the first time. You’re exploiting my private, personal moments to make money. You can’t expect to get carte blanche approval from me. It ain’t going to happen.”

“Do we have a problem here?” Renata folded her arms across her chest.

“No. You do your job. I’ll do mine. Just don’t expect me to respect you in the morning.”

Renata rolled her eyes. “Fine. Play it that way, cowboy. Let’s get started.” She nodded to William.

Cowboy? He supposed he looked like one to a city slicker. He figured he’d earn that designation soon enough, too. This was a ranch, after all, but they wouldn’t be herding cattle. Boone thought bison were a better idea. Enough to feed the community and some left over to sell for a profit. Another ranch in town had already made the switch, so they wouldn’t have to pioneer the process. Still, bison or cattle, Clay looked forward to spending a lot more time in the saddle than he had for a number of years. He’d slipped back into his country ways the moment he left the service, and it felt good.