One To Watch

by Stayman-London, Kate

  “Yeah,” she told Lauren, affecting far more confidence than she felt. “I’m ready.”

  Bea had been dying to visit Marrakesh for years, so she was thrilled to learn that she and her suitors would be spending several days there. The producers had procured a mammoth riad in the heart of the city, floor after floor of intricate tile work, sumptuous fabrics in vibrant colors, and finely carved brass lamps spilling radiant patterns of light across every available surface. The whole place was sensuous, and Bea immediately felt more at home than she ever had in the immaculate muteness of the Main Squeeze compound, where everything had been shades of white and beige.

  Bea only had a couple of hours after they arrived to try to nap and conquer her jet lag. Lying in an elaborately hewn wooden bed spread thick with woven blankets, the prospect of an evening with Sam looming before her, Bea was starting to feel, for the first time since shooting began, an actual sense of the fairy-tale magic Main Squeeze sold so hard to its viewers.

  Bea woke in the late afternoon, and Lauren had the riad staff bring strong Turkish coffee. Then it was on to wardrobe to pick something out for her dinner date with Sam—Alison suggested high-waisted trousers and a crop top.

  “Isn’t that a little risqué for a country where a lot of women veil?”

  “I think … you’ll be glad to have this option,” Alison said carefully.

  “Option for what?” Bea pressed, but Alison wouldn’t say.

  Bea wanted to wear something that made her feel sexy and comfortable, so she chose a draped Cushnie jersey dress that gently hugged her curves and playfully bright Sophia Webster heels. When she met Sam in front of the riad, his reaction told her she’d chosen correctly.

  “How is it possible you look this good after spending the night on a plane?” His hands wandered down her back for a moment as he hugged her hello, leaving a trail of electricity.

  The whole ride to the restaurant, Bea had a feeling that was anxious, unwieldy, almost giddy—this was the first date she’d actually been excited for since Ray. But when they arrived, her excitement turned to dread as it dawned on Bea why Alison had been so opinionated in her wardrobe suggestion.

  “Belly dancers,” Bea muttered under her breath. “Fuck me.”

  “What’s going on?” Sam asked, puzzled by the sudden turn in Bea’s mood.

  The restaurant was an opulent place, everything draped in damask and velvet, patrons lounging in lushly appointed circular booths built into the walls. And dancers were absolutely everywhere: Swathed in skin-skimming silks and skimpy bra tops that jangled with ornamental bells, curvaceous women gyrated around the dimly lit space, pausing graciously at every table.

  “You’re not a fan?” Sam asked with a grin.

  “They’re going to make me dance,” Bea said, her face dark. “That’s why Alison wanted me to wear a crop top—so that I’d have an option besides those tiny string things the dancers are wearing.”

  “Wait, what?” Sam paused, incredulous. “If you don’t want to dance, they can’t make you, can they?”

  Bea rolled her eyes. “You weren’t there the day they got me to parade around a yacht in a bikini, pretty much entirely against my will.”

  “I wasn’t there, but I wish I had been.”

  “Why, you have a fetish for uncomfortable women?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t have minded seeing you in that bikini.”

  Bea caught his eye as they followed the maître d’ to a table in the center of the restaurant, skirting to avoid two women in the throes of wild undulations.

  “You hate this, huh?” Sam rubbed the tense muscles at the base of Bea’s neck as he settled into the chair beside her.

  “I just feel like I’m in some kind of Turing test where I have to convince the world, over and over, that I really do feel good about my body.”

  “Do you?” There was no malice in Sam’s question, no accusatory tone—without knee-jerk cause to get defensive, Bea considered the question on its merits.

  “I’ve worked hard to, but part of that requires me to have some control over my own circumstances. Like, I would never go to the gym in shorts and a sports bra, even if that’s what I’d wear to work out at home.”

  “And you’re saying taking off half your clothes to do a dance you don’t know for an audience of millions is … worse?”

  Sam raised his eyebrows dramatically at Bea, and she laughed appreciatively. “Yeah, just a little.”

  Before they could continue their conversation, Johnny came over to welcome them and introduce the concept of the date.

  “Bea and Sam, welcome to Marrakesh!” He was entirely too enthusiastic—just looking at his gleaming eyes made Bea exhausted. “This country is known for its vibrant culture and incredible food—you’ll be sampling both tonight. But first, are you ready for some entertainment?”

  At this, Johnny stepped aside and half a dozen belly dancers appeared; traditional music flowed through the speakers and the women executed a flawlessly choreographed dance. As Bea watched these curvaceous women jiggle and pop various parts of their bodies, the dread inside her mounted that she was about to be asked to do the same.

  “Okay, Bea,” Johnny goaded, “you’re not going to let those girls have all the fun, are you? What do you say? Are you up for a little dancing?”

  Bea steeled herself for further embarrassment, but before she could say anything, Sam spoke out.

  “Actually, I had a different idea. I’m a little tired of Bea getting to have all the fun on these dates—would it be possible for me to do the dancing instead?” He turned to Bea. “If that’s okay with you, Bea.”

  Bea wanted to say something to let Sam know how profoundly she appreciated this gesture, but that felt much too heavy at a moment when his smile was so expectant and so wide.

  “I’ve never had a man dance for me before,” she said coyly.

  “Well, I think it’s high time we rectified that,” Sam cooed, leaning over to kiss Bea’s cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Without waiting for permission from Johnny, the producers, or anyone else, Sam got up and walked off with the dancers—who, Bea noted with a mild note of chagrin, seemed more than happy to have him.

  While Sam rehearsed, Bea enjoyed a gorgeous spread of vegetarian appetizers—roast carrots spiced with cumin, shredded cabbage riddled with crunchy za’atar, and perfectly sour pickled beets. Half an hour later, the lights dimmed, the music grew louder, and Sam emerged from who-knows-where, sporting silky jodhpurs and a tight black T-shirt that, regrettably, was not cropped enough to bare his belly. Bea angled her chair away from the table so Sam could dance directly in front of her.

  Sam struck a pose with three other dancers, and the music piped in through the speakers. At first, Bea took the minor melody for a traditional Moroccan song, but something about it was familiar. Sam beamed as the hook kicked in—Bea recognized that the song was Jennifer Lopez’s “If You Had My Love,” and she laughed and clapped with delight as Sam languidly rolled his torso in time with the other women. If he was having trouble with the choreography, he masked it with pure confidence, popping his hips and shoulders like he’d been doing this for a matter of years instead of minutes.

  “If you had my love and I gave you all my trust, would you comfort me?” He sang along playfully, then leaned low to whisper in her ear. “Dance with me, Bea.”

  As she rose to move with him, none of it felt like a joke—it was fun, but not funny, serious, but not self-serious. Bea loved to dance, and as Sam moved behind her, his hands traveling down her arms and waist and hips, Bea swayed against him, allowing herself to imagine where he might put his hands (and what he might do with them) if no one else was watching. Asher’s face popped briefly into her mind—was she being disloyal to him? Was it insane that she was already experiencing such an intense attraction to another man so soon after having declared her feelings for him?

  This is what you’re supposed to be doing here, she reminded herself. Try to enjoy it.
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  When the music ended, everyone in the restaurant burst into applause. Sam took a bow, then held out his hands to encourage the crowd to cheer for Bea, which they did enthusiastically. Her face was flushed—with heat, with energy, with the things she was just thinking about Sam—and as they sat down to enjoy their dinner of spicy merguez sausage and mountains of fluffy couscous, Bea found she was absolutely ravenous.

  “I didn’t know you could dance like that.” Sam gave Bea a mischievous look.

  “Yeah, well I didn’t know you were so fluent in the lyrics of one Ms. Lopez,” Bea countered with a grin of her own. “Were you even born when that song came out?”

  “Excuse you, I have two older sisters. The lyrics of everything they listened to in high school are forever ingrained on my soul.”

  “Wow, so you’re the baby! Did they spoil you rotten?”

  “Not exactly.” Sam broke eye contact with Bea to refill his glass of flinty white wine. “My family isn’t as easy as yours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My dad is a corporate executive, and my mom is a surgeon—they had pretty high expectations for all of us. My sisters measured up, but …”

  “You haven’t figured things out yet.”

  “That’s not how they’d put it.”

  “How would they put it?”

  He shifted in his seat. “That I’m unmotivated, that I’d rather live off their money than make my own way in the world, that I don’t take myself seriously.”

  “Is that how you see yourself?”

  “Everything seemed so easy for my sisters. Ivy League for both of them, now Jessica’s a doctor like my mom and Zoe is an engineer. They knew what they wanted, and then they did it. I think I could do the second part no problem—I just haven’t figured out the first.”

  “What about teaching? Did you like that?”

  “I loved it. But for the rest of my life? I want to do more things, see more things. I can’t imagine myself in a classroom for the next forty years.”

  Bea pushed a carrot back and forth through a pile of couscous. “Do you think this show was maybe a way for you to put off that decision? Just … I don’t know. Fill time?”

  Sam sighed. “Partly, yeah. Things can get tense around the house—going off to be on TV seemed like a much more fun alternative.”

  “And are you having fun?”

  “Come on.” He lowered his voice. “You know I am.”

  “What—um …” Bea wasn’t sure how to ask the question. “Is it just fun, though?”

  “Are you asking if I see this as fun or something more?”

  Bea flushed, a little embarrassed. “I guess I am.”

  “Bea”—he took her hand—“I am really into you. Like—really. Really, really. Okay?”

  Bea knew all the reallys were intended to reassure her, but they had the opposite effect—she suddenly felt more nervous than she had before.

  “What about you?” Sam nudged. “Where do you think we stand?”

  Bea ducked her head, her voice small. “I know you make me smile. And that I want to spend more time with you.”

  “If that’s the case,” he smiled slyly, “you’re in luck.”

  He took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

  “What’s this?” Bea turned over the blank envelope in her hands, suspicious.

  “It’s an invitation to a luxury hammam. I’m supposed to ask if you want to go there after dinner; apparently they have a private treatment all set up for us.”

  “What kind of treatment?” Bea asked, leaning closer. Under the table, Sam’s knee touched hers.

  “I don’t know exactly. But I’m told it involves a series of pools, hot water, different oils and scrubs.” He pressed his leg against hers, and Bea felt the flush from their dance creeping back into her system.

  “I know you said you didn’t like wearing a bathing suit on that yacht,” he added, “but since this would be just the two of us … and since you did deprive me the last time …”

  Bea nodded. “Yes. Let’s go.”

  The entry to the hammam was hidden in a maze of winding alleys deep in the Marrakesh medina. The reception room felt much like a traditional spa with its bleached wood floors and shelves of products you could take home to attempt to re-create your time here, desert-salt scrub and orange-blossom shampoo. But once Bea and Sam had checked in, changed into the bathing suits Alison had surreptitiously provided to the producers, and covered up in thin cloth robes, they descended a stone staircase and emerged into what felt like another universe.

  The hammam was absolutely cavernous, with smooth gray floors and soaring arched ceilings inlaid with swirls of blue and purple tiles arranged in intricate mosaics. Carved lanterns lined the room’s perimeter, surrounding a placid blue pool that was bathed in a thousand points of light. This was the communal bathing area; two of the hammam’s workers—a stocky man and a slight woman—led Bea and Sam to a private room for their traditional hammam treatment.

  “It is more intimate this way,” said the woman, who introduced herself as Rehana.

  “Nothing’s intimate with these guys around.” Bea gestured to the cameras, but Rehana’s manner was immovably calm.

  “You’ll see, you’ll be very relaxed,” she assured Bea with a smile.

  The treatment room was warm and cavelike, lit only with candles, made entirely of the same gray material as the floors in the communal room, with a low, curved ceiling and a steaming tub of water that ran the entire length of the wall opposite the door.

  “Your robe?” Rehana held out her hand. Sam handed his robe to his helper, Issam, without hesitation, giving Bea her first glimpse of the rippling muscles that had so far been hidden by his clothes. She felt herself flush red—Sam’s face creased with concern.

  “We don’t have to do this. We can just go back to the riad, have a drink by the fire.”

  “No.” Bea swallowed hard. “I want to.”

  She handed her robe to Rehana, revealing the swimsuit Alison had sent over: a black Cynthia Rowley one-piece with a notched neckline that dipped low between Bea’s breasts, tied together with a little bow. She kept her gaze trained on Sam’s face, waiting for his expression to betray some hint of disgust. But his pupils dilated as his eyes traveled down her body, and he clenched the towel he was holding.

  “Are you ready to begin?” Issam’s voice was deep and honeyed. Bea nodded. Issam and Rehana positioned Bea and Sam in the middle of the room, facing each other. They brought over wooden buckets filled with steaming water from the tub, gently ladling the water over Bea’s and Sam’s arms, legs, torsos, and finally their heads until they were both warm and wet.

  Sam reached out and wrapped a lock of Bea’s wet hair around his fingers. She had a sudden urge for him to yank her closer, to kiss her hard and shove her against the hot, smooth wall of this dim room where everything was slick with condensation.

  “What?” he asked, his lips curving into a smile that matched hers.

  “Can you read my mind?”

  “I hope so, because I really want you to be thinking what I’m thinking.”

  He had to step back so Issam and Rehana could continue the ritual, first scrubbing them down with rough black soap, then washing it away and soothing their skin with sweet mango butter, and finally massaging their scalps with rose oil. When it was over, Bea and Sam stood close together in the center of the room, hot water cascading over them and rinsing them clean. The air around them felt warm and thick, the tension buzzing between their bodies, the anticipation of touching him so strong Bea couldn’t think of anything else.

  Once they were dry and back in robes, they made their way back to the communal bathing room—it was empty now except for Bea, Sam, and a couple of camera ops and sound techs. Even the producers had left, probably to lull Sam and Bea into some false sense of privacy. They shed their robes and stepped gingerly into the warm pool, which was perfectly calibrated to match the temperature of the b
almy air, and of their bodies. They waded toward the center, where the water was deep enough to reach Bea’s chest. After all the noise of the rushing water in the private room, this room seemed incredibly still and quiet, nothing audible above Bea’s and Sam’s own breath.

  “If I don’t kiss you right now, I’m going to lose my mind,” he rasped.

  “We can’t have that,” Bea responded, and then his hands were on her, grabbing her hips under the water and pulling her close, kissing her firmly, roughly, just like she’d wanted him to—there was nothing tentative about this, no question of faking it. He wanted her, and she wanted him back. He kissed her cheek, and then the spot at the edge of her jawline just below her ear. Bea heard a groan escape her, a guttural sound, and then threw her hands over her mouth.

  “What is it?” Sam asked, flustered.

  “We’re on television,” Bea squeaked, and then she burst out laughing.

  Sam turned and good-naturedly splashed some water at the cameras. “You guys can’t give us a break, huh?”

  Bea covered her face, somewhere between arousal and mortification and total joyous bliss. Sam lifted her fingers to peek underneath them.

  “Hi, Bea.”

  “Hi, Sam.”

  “I like you a lot.”

  Bea’s heart pounded so hard she knew Sam could feel it.

  “I like you a lot too.”

  The morning after her hammam escapade, Bea woke feeling—well, if not entirely confident, then at least more comfortable than she’d been throughout filming. She lazed in bed as the riad staff brought sweet mint tea, fresh orange juice, and eggs scrambled with herbs and olive oil. She let her mind drift to kissing Asher in Ohio and their intense connection, to Sam last night in the hammam and his electric energy. It wasn’t fair to compare those kisses to Ray last Fourth of July—she and Ray had known each other so much longer, the buildup to their night together had been so drawn out and fraught that kissing him had felt like an ocean of clear water after years in endless desert, drinking so quickly and deeply that she went from parched to drowned.