stomach become bats as everyone gets paired up with their “spouse” in the order they were eliminated, and they finally pair Luke and me together at the very end. I look up and he takes my clammy, trembling hand in his own.
“Fancy meeting you here, Penny.” His voice is smooth as melted chocolate, completely relaxed.
I laugh. There are so many things I want to say to him.
But then the audience starts to cheer, and the producers signal for us to go out onto the stage.
So we do.
The arena is packed to the gills with reporters, cameras pointed at us. Flashbulbs go off, and my future seems to flash through my eyes with them.
Everything depends on what will happen in the next hour. We could give our answer in a split second, but not now. I know the announcer will drag things out to the point of sheer madness. Recaps of poignant moments from the season, interviews with contestants, performances by “special celebrity guests” who are also fans of the show.
It’s all meant to build up to the moment of truth.
Every one of the people in this arena, every one of the thirteen million people watching at home—they’re all waiting on the edge of their seats with the same question.
Will they . . . or won’t they?
I wish to god we could just give our answer and be done.
He’s so close, but he might as well be a million miles away. Our fingers entwined, he waves at the crowd cheering our names. His hand isn’t the least bit clammy. I manage a peek at him, his chiseled features, his relaxed smile, and my throat catches.
No wonder the world is in love with him. No wonder he’s been the fan favorite since week one.
This is it. The end. Or . . .
I look over at him and say, “Luke . . . I’m not . . .”
He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his fingers stroking my palm. “Breathe, Penny. Just breathe.”
So I do. But air is not the only thing I need to make me okay right now.
We’ve been through so much, more than most couples will go through in entire lifetimes.
And now we’re about to make the decision that will shape our future.
We move closer to the stage, and as we do, I hear the announcer announcing the full names of the contestants eliminated before us. And then the spotlight is on us. The announcer says, “And here are your Million Dollar Marriage winners, Penelope Carpenter and Luke Cross!”
Mr. and Mrs. Luke Cross.
The crowd erupts into thunderous applause. Luke squeezes my hand and leads me out to the center of the stage, waving at his adoring fans. I see signs everywhere that mention Luke’s name, held by beautiful women who probably ogled him all season long. And rightly so. I wobble on my feet as the applause starts to die. Luke doesn’t drop my hand. He helps me, all the way toward the director’s chair at the front of the rest of the contestants. He sets me down in the chair, helps clip my microphone to my collar, and whispers, “Relax, sweetheart—they love us,” before sitting down beside me.
I catch a look at him in the video monitor. Damn, he looks good. And who’s that pale, weird-looking ghost in the glasses and freckles next to him?
Oh, right. That’s me.
I scan the audience. There are so many signs waving for him. LUKE LUKE LUKE, everywhere I look. They love him, that’s for sure.
The applause ends, and I can hear my heartbeat thrumming in the prevailing silence. Will Wang strides up to the front of the stage and says, “Well, well, well, I’m sure there are a lot of questions for our contestants, but let me just ask the winning couple . . . how does it feel?”
Luke looks at me, and I nod at him, because my vocal cords are not working. He squeezes my hand. “Phenomenal.”
Everyone cheers as if he’s just discovered a cure for cancer. Women wolf-whistle. It’s overwhelming how much they love him. Well, except for Ace, who’s sitting a row behind us. The cameras pan to him for a split second, revealing his scowl.
I smile at that. Luke must see it, too, because he squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back.
“The people out here want to know . . . how did you two really get along? Looked like it was touch and go there for a while.”