The Invitation by Adriana Locke

Georgia

“What did you end up wearing?” Sutton asks, her voice ringing through my car speakers.

I flip on my turn signal and take the exit toward downtown Nashville.

“The peachy-colored dress that I bought for Valentine’s Day and didn’t get to wear because I canceled on my date,” I say. “Do you remember that dress?”

“Spark my memory. Half of your closet is peachy-colored, and you cancel so many dates.”

I remove my sunglasses and toss them onto the passenger’s seat. The sun hovers above the horizon, creating a spectacular wash of color across the sky. I couldn’t get the full effect with my sunnies on, and while I might cancel dates, I won’t miss a sunset if I can help it.

“There’s a deep V-cut in the front, and gold and cream flowers kind of crocheted on the fabric,” I say. “Flouncy skirt that hits just above the fingertips. Three-quarter length sleeves. Super feminine and flirty.”

“Ah, yes. I do remember that one. You look gorgeous in that. Good choice. Tell me you wore your nude heels that clasp around your ankles and gold jewelry.”

I laugh. “Yes. It’s like you know me or something.”

“I know you well enough to know that the only thing you do know about fashion is what looks good on you. I wish I had that skill.”

“You don’t need that skill because everything looks good on you, Sutton.”

“You’re too sweet.”

“Well, I’m feeling particularly sweet tonight since I had a whole spa day today and forwarded the bill to Myla.” I sigh blissfully. “I feel like a million bucks.”

Sutton laughs. “See? I totally hooked you up. You really have no reason to complain about this gig.”

“Oh, no. You don’t get to act like you’re doing me a favor here, bestie. I still have to put up with Ripley Brewer for the next few weeks. My complaint stands.”

I follow the GPS through traffic, getting all green lights as I drive toward Ruma … and Ripley.

A shot of adrenaline shoots through me.

The pep talks I’ve been giving myself over the past two days have helped settle most of my anxiety. I’ve reminded myself that I handled Ripley well at The Swill on Tuesday and walked out of there with the upper hand, just like I planned. And, thanks to my degree and work in broadcasting, I also have loads of filming experience. I’ve been in front of more cameras than I’ve been behind. Remembering that helps my nerves.

Besides, there’s no reason that I can’t have fun with this. What’s not to love about going out a couple of times a week essentially for free when, quite frankly, you have nothing else to do and little discretionary money in the bank? Getting paid to help prove your best friend is brilliant is a great gig. And having the opportunity to flirt with a handsome asshole who knows I’m only pretending, but no choice but to keep his mouth shut and just smile back? That’s gold.

“You’re meeting Myla at the restaurant, right?” Sutton asks.

“Yes. We’re meeting at the VIP entrance in the back. She called this afternoon and gave me the rundown but said she’d meet me there just in case I panicked or had last-minute questions.”

“Are you getting close?”

“Actually, I’m pulling up right now.”

Ruma looms in front of me on the right-hand side of the road. Crimson letters, lit up from the inside, spell out the name on the front of the brick building. The parking lot is packed, and a line extends along the front sidewalk. It’s only slightly intimidating.

I drive to the back and spot Myla standing beside an oversized bald man next to a matte black door.

“I see Myla,” I say.

Sutton cheers. “Okay. Go. Have fun! And, Georgia … thank you,” she says, the final words softer. “I know I’ve said it a million times, and I must sound like a broken record, but I owe you, friend. Big time.”

“You’re welcome for the millionth time. And you don’t owe me anything. We don’t keep a scorecard in this friendship.” I pull into a parking spot between two fancy sports cars. My little cracker box with a dented bumper looks very out of place. “Love you, Sutton.”

“Love you. Call me on your way home.”

“I will. Bye.”

“Goodbye.”

I end the call, turn off the ringer, and shove my phone into my purse.

My heart pounds as things get very, very real. I take a deep breath and give my teeth and nose a quick check for food and boogers—a fear I picked up from my mother—and then open the door.

The air is balmy and scented with spices as I step onto the asphalt. I lock the door behind me and navigate the cars worth more than some small countries. All the while, I remind myself that there’s nothing to worry about.

This is going to be fun.

“You look stunning,” Myla says, her red curls bouncing as she steps toward me. “I absolutely love that dress.”

“Thank you.” I stand a little taller, her words building my confidence. “I took way too long picking it out. I had it down between this and an icy blue number that I’m obsessed with. But I watched this woman on Social explain color wheels and how to dress for your season, and icy blue isn’t in my preferred color palette and now I have second thoughts every time I put it on.”

Myla laughs. “I’ve seen those videos. Is it narcissistic to think I look the same in all of them? I’m not saying I look good in them. I’m just saying they all look the same.”

“I had to get Sutton to tell me which one I am, so no judgment here.”

Her grin is warm and disarming. I appreciate it.

“Do you have any questions for me?” she asks, fastening an audio pack to the back of my dress. “We’ve already been inside and fitted your table and the surrounding area with cameras and microphones. They’re all discreet, so you shouldn’t notice them. Gary is on the other side of the door and will follow you as you ‘meet’ Ripley. Be warned that the camera will roll as soon as you walk in.”

“No pressure.”

“No pressure.” She winks. “A man named Adam will be standing at the host stand. He knows who you are and will usher you to the table. Ripley is already inside and waiting.”

Of course, he is.

“Just remember that you and Ripley don’t know each other,” she says. “You’re meeting here for the first time after being matched based on your search history. Aim for an easy conversation and take some time getting to know each other. You don’t have to dig in too deep right off the bat.”

I sense the apprehension in her tone. I can’t blame her. Besides seeing our interaction last week, I’m sure Sutton filled her in on our typical exchanges. Someone had to explain.

“And avoid bloodshed, right?” I ask, hoping to make her relax.

Myla sighs in relief. “I’d love that. Although, if we skewed the concept, we might have a different show on our hands.”

I laugh.

She steps back and looks me up and down. “You’re a knockout, have confidence in spades, and you’re funny. You’re going to do great. Remember that we’ll do a quick confessional after you’re done this evening before you leave.”

“Can’t wait.”

“I’m excited to see how it goes. Good luck, Georgia.”

“Thanks.” I take a deep breath and turn to the giant man at the door. “How are you this evening?”

He nods and opens the door. I have to stop myself from saying, “I’m fine, thanks for asking” because he explicitly didn’t ask.

“Here goes nothing,” I mutter, entering the restaurant.

Thanks to years of working in broadcasting, my instincts kick in, and I focus my attention on Adam. Gary stands just out of my periphery with a camera catching my every move.

Breathe.

“Welcome to Ruma,” Adam says, his posture perfect. “How are you this evening?”

“I’m great, thank you. How are you?” I ask, wondering if Baldy is still behind me. He should take notes.

“Very well.” Adam smiles. “Please, follow me.”

Shoulders back. Keep a pleasant look on your face. Don’t start wondering if the back of your dress is hiked up your ass.

Adam leads me through an arched doorway.

Act natural.

We pass quietly through the restaurant, and I notice its beauty. Dark wood and brass hardware give the space a true elegance. Deep reds, warm golds, and rich browns and blacks create a cozy yet regal ambiance. Even the other patrons are beautiful.

It’s no wonder Ruma gets so much press. It’s a total vibe.

We turn a corner, my heels tapping against the hardwood floors, when my gaze lands on Ripley. My steps falter.

Holy shit.

He stands slowly when he sees me coming, unfolding his long, lean body from the table. His wide smile showcases his perfectly straight, white teeth. His baby blue eyes are bright and clear, twinkling in the light. I’d think he was happy to see me if I didn’t know better.

But, of course, I do know better.

A dark, well-tailored suit fits him like a glove. A crisp white shirt lays beneath his jacket with the top button undone. He’s dapper and dashing—and I can’t even say anything mean to knock him down a few pegs.

Lord, help me through this.

He has the wherewithal to act impressed with me as I approach him. “You must be Georgia.”

I smile at him like I didn’t loosely plot his demise last night. “I am. And you must be Ripley.”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Oh, please. I bite my lip to keep from laughing as he presses an almost kiss to my cheek.

“I like this quiet version of you,” he whispers, his breath brushing the shell of my ear before pulling away.

My body betrays me as goose bumps spread across my skin. It’s the first time since the Senior Mixer that we’ve had contact without the threat of pain, and I wasn’t prepared. If he notices, he doesn’t make it known.

Ripley pulls my chair out for me. “You look beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you,” I say as I sit, wondering how badly that pained him. “Are you always this charming?”

He pushes my chair a smidgen closer to the table than necessary. “Always.”

I stifle a laugh. Sure, you are.

“I think we should address the elephant in the room right from the beginning,” he says, taking his seat.

My lips part to fire back a snarky response, but I quickly remember there are cameras.

“What would that be?” I ask.

“What do you search online the most often? Because I’m dying to know how we were matched.”

My laughter is loud and immediate.

“I’m serious,” he says, laughing, too. “Give me your top three. If we can find the overlap, it will give us a natural starting point.”

My top three searched terms? Conspiracy theories, random medical ailments I have no business looking up, and deep dives into the backstories of strangers I encounter online.

If I say those things, it’ll give him ammunition somehow to use against me later. But more importantly, I know our overlap doesn’t exist because this is all for show. That doesn’t mean I can’t use it to learn a little about Mr. Brewer, though.

“Cleaning hacks, meal prep tips … and porn,” I say instead, watching his features closely for a reaction.

His eyes widen. “Porn?”

“Yup. That must be where we overlap.”

The grin kissing his lips is one that I haven’t seen before—not directed at me, anyway. It’s suggestive in the dirtiest of ways. Butterflies flutter in my stomach as if they didn’t get the memo that we don’t react to Ripley … or that he’s acting and trying to make the audience believe he finds me attractive.

“I feel like I should say that porn is one of mine because that would be quite the overlap,” he says, chuckling. “But it’s not.”

“Well, it’s not mine either. I might as well admit that since they’ll probably show you the list at some point.” Except, you know as well as I do that there is no list.

His brows lift in confusion. “What?”

“I was just trying to learn something about you.” I shrug. “I don’t look up porn. Well, it’s not in my top three searches, anyway.”

He tilts his head to the side, clearly amused, as the server steps to our table. After a quick introduction, Vernon takes our drink order and hands us menus before leaving us alone.

“So porn is out,” he says, grinning cheekily. “Should we move on to meal prep?”

“My meal prep consists of making sure I have enough string cheese and cookie butter to get me through the week.”

“Did you give up cookies?”

I laugh. “Never.”

“I’m guessing you don’t clean either.”

“What would give you that idea?” I drop my attention to the menu and my eyes about bug out of my head. “Whoa.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say, bringing my gaze to his. “I’ve just never eaten at a restaurant where one meal will be easily over one hundred dollars. Seems rather excessive.”

“It’s a little fancier than string cheese and cookie butter, huh?”

I laugh. “A bit.”

Vernon returns with our drinks. “Are you ready to place your order, or do you need more time?”

I stare at the dinner options, none of which include cookie butter, and start to panic. The steaks have a location beneath them, which I don’t understand. I’m fairly certain one of the appetizers is a whale and I’m not sure of the legality of that. There are duck tacos, which I didn’t know was a thing, and so many variations of butter you can order on the side that I don’t know where to start.

Where are the bacon cheeseburgers?

My palms begin to sweat.

“Would you like me to order for you?” Ripley asks softly.

My smile is wobbly as relief washes over me. Ordering food I’m not familiar with and food that’s this expensive makes me self-conscious. I want to do it myself, but the longer I fumble with this decision, the goofier I’m going to look. That would be worse than letting him have this small victory by looking like a gentleman.

Surely, he’ll choose something I like, right?

“That would be nice,” I say. “Thank you.”

He returns my smile and then turns to Vernon. “We’ll have an artisanal cheese board as a starter. Georgia would like an iceberg wedge, please hold the tomato, and an eight-ounce filet cooked medium and an order of truffle fries. I’ll have the wedge salad, roasted chicken with pistachio gremolata, and potato gratin.”

“Excellent choices, sir,” Vernon says. “I shall return.”

He takes the menus and leaves.

“I’m not sure if you have a personal vendetta against tomatoes on salads, but I do, so thank you,” I say, my face flushing.

He furrows his brow. “You never eat tomatoes.”

“You can’t know that about me,” I say through a fake smile. “We just met. Remember?” How do you know that anyway?

“Fuck.” He looks at Greg. “I …”

Greg pops his head around the camera. “We’ll edit it out. Keep going.”

Ripley nods and, for once, I think he senses that he’s a mere mortal. Ha.

“So no porn, meal prep, or cleaning hacks,” he says, as if he’s actually interested. “Tell me something about you—something real.”

I think you’re a pretty good actor. But you haven’t seen anything yet.

“Let’s see …” I try to think of something that will get a reaction. “Okay. I applied for a weatherwoman job last week.”

Ripley knows I don’t have a meteorology degree—but he can’t say that, so his reaction is perfect. “What?”

“I’m really hoping I get it. I have a knack for predicting the weather.”

He chuckles. “I’m glad to hear that, although I think the weather is more of a science than a guessing game.”

“Then we don’t watch the same weather reports.”

He shakes his head, holding back a comment. If there wasn’t a camera in our faces, God knows what he’d say. But there is. That means he has to behave.

I’m starting to like this. Now, let’s level it up.

“I really think it’s hard to believe you’re single,” I say, fluttering my lashes. “Why is a man like you on a reality show looking for a date?”

“Because there’s a chance I’ll meet a woman like you.”

Oh, well played. I smile, acknowledging his game. “What are you looking for in a relationship?”

We pause as a plate of cheeses, nuts, and fruits, as well as two small plates, are placed between us.

He sits back, his features pensive. “Honestly? One of my brothers just got married and had a baby. Watching him with his wife and little boy has made me start thinking outside of myself.”

“So you’re looking to settle down?”

“Yeah. If I can find the right woman to build a family with, I’d love to be able to raise my children alongside my brothers.”

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

I’m not sure how I expected him to answer my question—or if I had a response in mind. But this reply wasn’t on my radar. The worst part, the most confusing part, is that I don’t know if he’s being honest or just creating a good soundbite.

No, maybe the worst part is that I’m curious.

“What about you?” he asks. “What are you looking for in a relationship?”

That suddenly feels like a loaded question.

I take a drink to buy myself some time to shake out of the weird headspace I’ve inadvertently entered. I’m not sure whether to answer honestly, or if I should give him a bullshit response to maintain my privacy. His eyes sparkle as if he’s being vulnerable with me, but I don’t trust him.

He’s still Ripley Brewer behind all that charm.

“I’m looking for a man who can complement my life,” I say, setting my drink down. “I don’t need to be saved and I don’t want to save anyone, either. It would just be nice to find someone honest and who doesn’t play games.”

Our gazes lock. I search his pools of blue for any inkling that he understands what I’m saying.

And I come up empty-handed.

Why did I almost hope for something else?

Silly me.