Falling for Mister Wrong (22 page)

The operator looked up at her. “You ready for
this?”

Caitlyn grinned, feeling the start of
something fierce and wild inside her for the first time in her
life. “Absolutely.”

The bull began to rock.

#

“I think we can safely say bull-riding is not
one of your many skills.”

“I was awesome,” Caitlyn insisted as they
crunched across the snow in the parking lot together, back to his
Jeep.

She’d been terrible. Beyond terrible. She’d
squealed and tumbled off the bull after about two seconds—when they
still had it on the kiddie setting. The operator had actually said
he’d never seen anyone fall off that fast.

But she’d done it. She gotten up there,
wrapped her legs around the dang thing, and held on for dear life.
Her mother would have a coronary if she knew.

Caitlyn felt like she could fly.

She wanted to fling herself into his arms
and—

No. Not that.

Things with Daniel were unresolved and even
in Grand Junction there was no guarantee that one of the eleven
other people in the bar hadn’t recognized them. They could even now
be watched by a camera phone. But she felt like her skin would
burst trying to hold all the emotion in her body and if she could
just throw herself against him, he could absorb it all like a
lightning rod.

Then he caught her hand.

And
wham
. Just that. Just his palm
against hers, but she felt that skin-to-skin touch from her scalp
to her toe nails, like a circuit connected making her a conduit for
electric emotion. She was surging with it. No one and nothing else
had ever made her feel this alive. Nothing and no one else had ever
tried.

His grip was electricity, his hand the only
thing tethering her down so she didn’t float right away.

Will opened the Jeep door and she was forced
to relinquish his hand. She rubbed her singed palm against her
jeans as he rounded the hood and hopped in. He backed out of the
parking space, teasing her about her bull-riding prowess—or lack
thereof. She replied, barely aware of the words, just the
effervescent tone.

Then they were on the highway, pointed back
toward reality, and his hand slid across the divide, catching hers,
resting their linked hands on the emergency brake, and the circuit
completed again.

Just that. But it was everything.

Chapter
Twenty-Five

Miranda pushed herself up the last hill,
breathing hard, feeling the muscles in her thighs straining with
the ascent, each footstep a struggle. She hated running with a
passion that she normally reserved for telemarketers and the
incompetent. If not for the mental clarity that came afterward and
the need to keep her body from becoming a saggy mess from too many
hours in the editing bay, she would happily never run again.

The pavement jarred through the soles of her
shoes and she glared at a woman loping the opposite direction on
the path with long bounding strides as elegant and effortless as a
freaking gazelle. Miranda mentally planned the gazelle’s murder and
slow evisceration until she realized another pair of footsteps were
thudding in rhythm with hers.

She swung her head around to the runner in
her blind spot and glared. “Are you stalking me?”

Bennett—another of the
it’s-so-easy-and-I-look-amazing-doing-it gazelles—arched a single
brow. “I showed you this route. You know very well it’s my regular
Sunday run. I figured you wanted to see me.”

She glowered at him—the gorgeous and
effortless asshole Bennett—and realized he was right. Her
subconscious was a piece of work. She’d been pissed this morning
for no reason and needed to run, but not just anywhere.
Here
. Where she was sure to see him.

The show was going well. The ratings were
through the roof, seriously sensational—
thank you,
Elena
—though public sentiment was starting to shift against
Daniel. She’d seen that coming. And it would only continue. She’d
known it in her gut even as she’d fought against it, trying to
force herself to believe that he was a nice guy and he and Caitlyn
would ride off into the sunset together when all of it was
over.

She knew that wasn’t going to happen now.
She’d seen the pictures.

Not the ones of Daniel and the women. No. It
was the innocent little picture of Caitlyn and the man she said was
just a friend. Her neighbor. She was just holding his arm in the
shot, not even looking at him, her face shyly averted.

Miranda had seen that and she’d
known
.
Her spidey sense had gone crazy. That same romantic spidey sense
that had predicted Jack and Lou, and Marcy and Craig—though she’d
been a little behind the ball on that one. The same spidey sense
that had never made a freaking peep during Daniel and Caitlyn’s
season. Because they weren’t really in love.

But if they didn’t end up together, if there
was no happily-ever-after, if love didn’t conquer all, did that
mean Bennett was right? Was Miranda part of what was wrong with
society?

“I take it this isn’t a truce,” he said.

Miranda was panting too hard to give a decent
response.

She stopped running, planting her feet.
Bennett jogged a few more steps before he stopped as well, turning
to face her with that patient, curious expression she’d used to
love and now wanted to throw things at.
Nothing to throw
here
.

“Why do you hate my show?” she demanded. “I
realize we aren’t
you
. We aren’t finding needy families and
building them homes. Nor are we finding the next big dance star and
giving them a shot at their lifelong dream,” she snapped, rattling
off two of his biggest hits, “but we’re doing something worthwhile,
aren’t we? Isn’t love worthwhile?”

His expression tightened. “If your show were
about love, I’d be all for it, but it’s not. Not as it is now. It’s
about pandering. Cheap entertainment.”

“So it’s not the show concept you disapprove
of. It’s me. It’s the way I’m running it. Because I’m
cheap
.”

He ground his teeth, getting in her face.
“Miranda, would you stop twisting my words?”

“I’m so very sorry,” she said with acid
sweetness. “I’m sure you mean
pandering
as a
compliment.”

The words were even more biting because she
was afraid he was right.

She was starting to feel, more and more, that
although she’d had two seasons end in genuine love, giving her a
sense of righteousness about what she was doing with the show, that
Bennett
freaking
Lang might actually have a point about the
exploitative nature of reality dating shows.

It was Elena that was killing her.

The delightful members of the press were
eviscerating her. She’d been cleverly tagged the “Slutty
Suitorette” on a variety of blogs and the damn name had even
started trending on Twitter. She was a hashtag. Elena hadn’t been
alone in that Jacuzzi, but no one was calling Daniel a slut. No, it
was only Elena who was dirty because she’d dared make out with a
man she was dating.

It just didn’t sit right with Miranda. The
injustice of it.

“They know what they are signing up for,” she
said, but she could hear the defensiveness in her own voice.

“That isn’t the point.” Bennett held his
tongue as a group of runners jogged past. When they were out of
earshot, he took her arm and tugged her to the side of the trail.
“When you started with
Marrying Mister Perfect
, you didn’t
want it to be just another dating show. Do you remember that? You
weren’t calling all the shots yet, but you still managed to make
something real with Jack and Lou. Something that was about more
than sensationalism and sex appeal. When you got promoted I was so
incredibly proud of you, but what have you done with it? We have a
responsibility to be better, Miranda. When a horrific accident
happens, now the question isn’t whether or not we have the footage,
because there is
always
footage these days, the question is
whether or not we should show it. Does seeing it benefit us? Is it
right?”

“You’re equating my show to a horrific
accident?”

“Do you remember when we started fighting? Do
you remember why?”

Her throat grew tight and her skin suddenly
felt like it was stretching over her cheekbones, not quite fitting
right. “I was working too much. You didn’t want me to travel with
the show.”

He shook his head. “No. That was a blip. It
was Marcy’s father. You called me for advice on how to bully the
hospital staff into allowing you unrestricted filming access inside
the hospital. While your star’s father was on the verge of death
and she was going through the worst experience of her life, you
wanted to make sure you could get it all on film.”

“The audience loves that stuff. Everyone
wants to see the picture of Jackie Kennedy after JFK. The human
drama of it. The power of that moment. We connect with it.”

“That moment doesn’t belong to the rest of
the world. It’s hers.” He grimaced, shaking his head with disgust.
“There’s no such thing as privacy anymore.”

“I shut off the cameras,” Miranda protested.
“I almost got fired because I didn’t film in the hospital and I
missed several pivotal turning points in last season’s romance
because of it. Wallace pitched a fit. Hell, we had to have
Pendleton explain why Darius was no longer around because we didn’t
even film her kicking him off.”

“You still used the shot you got before you
decided to take the high road.”

She knew the shot he meant. Her cameras had
caught last season’s Miss Right and her favorite Suitor together in
an unguarded moment. He’d comforted her, scooping her up and
carrying her through the hospital corridors. The gorgeous image had
become one of the iconic moments of the season. Powerful and raw.
Real.

“I was nominated for an Emmy because of that
shot.”

“I know. That doesn’t mean you should have
taken it.” He shook his head angrily. “I still don’t understand why
you do this. Why this show? You’re so good. You could do
anything.”

“Because this is what I
want
to do,”
she snapped, temper fraying. “Because I want to believe in love. I
want to believe it conquers all. This show may be ridiculous, but
it’s about love and
that isn’t ridiculous
. People make fun
of us because we’re fluffy, girly television, but why does
everything have to be war and backstabbing? Do you know how many
shows there are about people solving murders? Not to mention the
news with all the actual wars and death. Shows like
Marrying
Mister Perfect
might be the
only
things on television
that are actively trying to put love on the airwaves. And yes,
sometimes people get hurt, but that’s
love
and the way we do
it may be cheesy and melodramatic sometimes, because we turn a
microscope on a moment in people’s lives when they aren’t rational
and clearheaded because they are
falling in love
and we’re
all idiots when we do that.” She shook her head bitterly. “I
certainly was.”

She’d been an idiot to love him. The man who
could never say it back.

“Miranda.”

“No.” She turned back toward the parking lot.
“Enjoy your run, Bennett. We’re done here.”

“Miranda,” he called, jogging after her. “The
job I’ve been trying to get you to take. It’s mine.”

That froze her in her tracks. She turned,
trying to keep her dumbstruck feeling from showing on her face.
“What?”

“I’m retiring. Stepping down as EP of
American Dance Star.
”

“And you want me to take over.” It wouldn’t
compute. “You just told me you think what I do is shit.”

“I told you I think you’re better than what
you’re doing. And you are.”

She couldn’t parse through that right now.
Her brain was entirely occupied by six little words.

Executive Producer of American Dance
Star
.

Holy shit. She’d dreamed of that job, never
thinking she’d have a shot at it because no one could replace
Bennett. She wanted his job with a greedy lust that was almost
indecent. But… “Why? Why retire? You’re young.”

“Old enough,” he said with a wry laugh. “I
just don’t have the stomach for this business anymore. And I
certainly don’t have the killer instinct.”

He’d just been giving her shit about her
killer instinct and now he wanted her to take over because of it?
And the idea that Bennett Lang, who lived his job as much as she
did was actually going to
retire.
“You can’t be serious.
What would you do with yourself?”

“I don’t know yet. Find a hobby, maybe. Teach
ethics to children who have zero understanding of privacy thanks to
Facebook. Something.” He shrugged. “It might not stick, but I hope
it does. I need some time away.”

Something hard and heavy shifted in her
stomach. She couldn’t imagine an LA without Bennett in it. “What do
you mean time away? Away where?”

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “I guess I
hoped you…” He trailed off. “It doesn’t matter.”

Her heart—which had stupidly lifted at his
words—fell again. Of course he wouldn’t say he wanted her to have
some say in what he did. Bennett didn’t put himself out there like
that. And she was sick of being the only one out on an emotional
limb.

“Are you only offering me this in an attempt
to get me back in your bed?”

Anger at the suggestion flushed his
cheekbones. “This isn’t a casting couch, Miranda. You’re the best
for the job. I want you back but there are no conditions. You can
pick one or the other or both.”

“Or neither,” she added.

His eyes narrowed further. “Don’t screw up
your career because you’re mad at me. Take some time to think about
it. Until the end of your season, if you want. But then I’d like an
answer.”