Is chris harrison dating anyone
On rose ceremony nights, which is when the Bachelor dismisses suitorettes because they’re not Here For The Right Reasons, or because they’ve Kept Their Walls Up, or because they’re not ready to Go On A Journey, the room in which the women await their fate is filled with so many candles that the temperature inside it is different from all the other rooms.On these nights, Rose ceremonies typically tape very late into the night.At first he played around some, "but that got old fast. Because what is monogamy, really, but the halting of the musical chairs at the moment when sleeping around becomes more aggravation than it’s worth?I would love to say I’m that guy who sleeps around, but I’m just not. All these years later, Harrison has come out on the other side of 40 to find himself still good-looking, still in great shape, with a high profile and a firepit on his patio. He offers to pick up dates at their homes, and they ask if they could just meet him at the restaurant.I’ve never felt this way so soon before: You’re amazing.I am not the first person to suggest to Harrison that maybe, in light of his divorce, he should be the next Bachelor: He’s handsome, he tests well with audiences, he’s a known commodity, and after thirteen years, a surprise would do the format some good, not to mention the "This time it’s personal" subplot.It’s not easy to get a shot of someone rolling her eyes or looking panicked or annoyed or desperate when she knows she’s on-camera—unless, of course, she’s made to stand on bleachers for hours in very high heels.
She chest-passes the ball to Harrison, who, wordlessly, begins to spin the ball on finger, making me wonder if maybe more people have this skill than I previously imagined. And if there’s another Sierra or Amber or Jessica in the cast, then the producers will hitch a last initial to her first name, like they do in my son’s pre-kindergarten class when there are too many Mas.I am late to realizing this, but Harrison is even later.I witness a virtual repeat of this one-sided mating dance the very next morning. M., Harrison arrives at the beige Starbucks in the beige Los Angeles suburb where he lives, and the beige yoga moms from his kids’schools in their sun visors and tennis whites come over to him and breathe throaty "Hahhhhyyyyy Chriiiiis"es.He played soccer and golf and watched all the sports, and today he departs from the men with whom he shares the screen by having chest hair and eating egg yolks. When he saw her that first time across a lawn, he whistled. Later, when Chris and I meet up with Gwen for salad—amicable, amicable—she tells me that he was born knowing exactly what to say and how to say it.He’s not the type to whistle at women, and she’s not the type to wander over to a guy who whistles, but he did and she did, and so she became his first and last serious girlfriend. I can’t attest to how far back this skill of his stretches, but I can confirm that he’s still got it.
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Chris Harrison is one of the smoothest motherfuckers I’ve ever met.