by Diana Orgain
Married?
“Get on with our lives,” he said.
Christ! He can’t even say the word married.
“You left me at the altar,” I said flatly.
“Right, yeah. Like I said, it was a mistake.”
I studied him. Despite how cold he must have been after our dip in the ocean he looked like he was ready to break out into a sweat.
“It was a mistake? Are you saying you still want to marry me?” I asked.
Paul rocked back on his heels, then shifted his weight back to his toes. “Yeah. We need to get on with our lives.”
“Get on with our lives, but does that include marriage?” I asked.
He bit his lip. “I suppose, if you think it needs to . . .”
My heart sank and I was certain I was about to vomit on the beach or preferably all over Paul. How could we be back at square one? It was bad enough that he proved in front our friends and family that he was a complete commitment-phobe, but if I wasn’t careful he would air our dirty laundry in front of the nation,
Suddenly Nathan was back on the beach and Cheryl was motioning for us to return.
Paul nervously glanced toward the crew, then to me. “We’d better join the others.”
Anger coiled through my stomach. “So you’re back to telling me what to do?” I asked.
Paul looked hurt. “Telling you what to do? What do you mean?”
I stepped away from him and toward the crew. It was no use trying to talk to him. If we stayed in a relationship we’d talk ourselves around in circles, never quite understanding each other.
The camera crew had their cameras off their shoulders and the techs were packing up equipment.
“Thanks, gang, that’s a wrap for this date,” Cheryl said.
“A wrap for the date?” Nathan asked. “But I haven’t even had a chance to talk to Georgia.”
I felt bad for Nathan; clearly he’d thought we’d have an opportunity to get to know each other. Paul was right about one thing: The show was a charade.
What in the world was I doing here?
Nineteen
INT. LIBRARY DAY
Ty is seated, his cowboy hat hanging low on his forehead, casting a dark shadow on his eyes. He’s in his late twenties and dressed in jeans and a western plaid shirt.
CHERYL (O.S.)
Hi, Ty, would you like to remove your hat?
TY
Oh. (He removes the hat and runs a hand through his sandy blond hair.) Is that better?
CHERYL (O.S.)
Much. We can see your eyes now.
TY
The windows to the soul.
CHERYL (O.S.)
Right. So, what’s in your soul, Ty? Love or money?
TY
Oh, in my soul is definitely love. Lots of love.
CHERYL (O.S.)
Wait. Are you saying you’re on the show for love?
TY
Oh, no. (He puts his hat over his heart.) In here there’s lots of love, but right now my life situation is . . . well . . . (He fingers the brim of the hat.) Let’s just say the cash prize is enough to warm a man’s heart for a while.
• • • • • • • • •
Dressed in strappy sandals and bright teal capri pants, I waited on the tarmac for Scott.
Becca was directing and filling in for Cheryl, which put her in a bad mood because, I supposed, she’d rather have been back at the mansion making out with Ty or, if the mansion’s stench was too much, lounging poolside and making out with him there.
“Where’s the dragon lady?” I asked.
“She had a hot date, so I’m stuck filling in. Plus,” Becca said, “it’s been a long day so she needed a break.”
“So do the rest of us,” I whined.
Becca waved a hand around. “Preaching to the choir. We shouldn’t have stayed out so late last night.”
A crackle came through Becca’s walkie-talkie. She pressed it to her ear, then said, “He’s here. This is perfect timing. We’ll get some great sunset shots.”
The wind had settled down and the L.A. skyline was filled with orange, red, violet, and even green streaks as the sun was setting low in the sky. Scott appeared in the distance, his gait cool and smooth. He was dressed in jeans and a cranberry-colored striped shirt.
Energy coursed through my body, anticipation tickling my spine.
He smiled broadly when he got close to me, then shimmed right up to me until he was standing directly in front of me, not saying a word and looking sexy as hell.
I looked up at him through my eyelashes, not trusting my voice.
It was like we were having a private staring competition, then he broke the stare by lowering his mouth to mine. I wrapped my hand around his neck and pulled him to me. Electricity shot through me as our mouths connected, his hands in my hair, our bodies pressing together.
“Cut,” Becca yelled.
Thankfully, Scott didn’t release me, only turned his face toward Becca and asked, “What?”
“Cut! You guys can’t be so close together—we can’t film the kiss that way. It ends up just looking like a mash of heads.”
Scott laughed, but I pulled his mouth back to mine, saying, “I don’t care.”
He kissed me again and this time Becca got closer. When she yelled, “Cut!” it sounded like it was coming from a bullhorn, which, contrary to what’d I imagined, was rarely used on set.
“You’re wasting my time,” Becca said. “Your ride is going to get here any minute and I need you guys to focus.”
Scott took a step back from me and kissed me chastely on the lips. He turned to Becca. “Is that better?”
“Yes,” she said. “Continue.”
Scott indicated the tarmac and asked me, “Are we going for a helicopter ride?”
“Would you like that?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I’ve only had one date on a helicopter. In Alaska, we flew over the glaciers.” His voice softened and his eyes glassed over.
My stomach dropped.
He was remembering his wife. He was in pain and there wasn’t really anything I could do about it.
He cleared his throat and the awkward moment between us passed. “Are we going anywhere in particular?” he asked.
“I really have no idea. It’s a surprise for me, too,” I said.
Then we noticed some of the crew tilting their cameras upward. Scott and I both looked into the sky to see three hot air balloons approaching.
“Is that our ride?” asked Scott.
A nervous giggle escaped my lips. “I guess so.”
The pilots landed the first hot air balloon a few yards away from us. Scott and I walked hand in hand toward it. We got a safety lecture while being filmed and then we climbed into the basket. During our safety lecture the other balloons landed and cameramen boarded those along with Becca.
“Is it safe?” I asked as I got on.
Scott chuckled. “Are you kidding me? It’s a balloon!”
“So does that mean it’s safe?” I repeated.
“Let me get this right: You’re scared of Ferris wheels and you’re scared of balloons,” he said.
I fixed him with a glare. After what we’d witnessed together on the Golden Gate Bridge he could hardly blame me, but he sidestepped the issue, asking, “Are you scared of falling in love?”
Why did this guy know how to hit my buttons?
“Wait, don’t we need a pilot?”
“I’m a pilot,” he said.
“You are? I thought you were a writer.”
He chuckled. “So being a writer makes me incapable of knowing how to do anything else?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He gave me a look. “Maybe not out loud, but that’s what you meant. I was in the air force right out of school. Stationed at Beale.”
“Well, all right.” I shrugged. “But do you even know how to navigate this thing?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Scared as you are, and you did
n’t even listen to the safety instructions.”
“I listened!”
He folded his arms across his chest. “What does the propane valve do?”
I blinked at him.
“How about the parachute valve?”
“Okay, so it sounds like you know what you’re doing,” I said, dodging his questions. “Let’s get this puppy off the ground.”
He smiled at me, then obliged by throwing out the sandbags.
In the balloon basket was a bottle of champagne and two glasses. There was also some sparkling water. The rules stated that if I offered Scott a glass of champagne on a date, then he was safe from elimination at the next ceremony.
“Are you sure you know how to handle this thing?” I asked.
“Piece of cake,” he said.
We rose into the air. I must confess, the feeling was actually exhilarating. I grasped the edge of the balloon, my knuckles turning white. I bent my knees slightly, lowering my center of gravity; still the sensation in my belly as we got airborne was enough to make me feel light-headed.
“We’re in the air!” I screamed.
Scott laughed. “You don’t have to yell, I’m right here.” He came closer to me and, as he did, the weight in the balloon shifted slightly so that my side tipped a bit.
“No! Get over there to balance us out.”
He smiled wickedly as he saw the panic on my face. “Over there? All the way over there? Then I can’t kiss you.”
He leaned in, but I pressed my hands to his chest and said firmly, “Over there! You can’t navigate or whatever if you’re kissing me.”
“Okay,” he said, still grinning. As he moved away, the weight distribution rebalanced the balloon.
I felt my shoulders relax.
The view of the L.A. skyline was breathtaking. We watched the sun setting lower over the ocean in silence for a moment, the wind lightly buffeting my hair.
Scott rubbed his shaved head. “I love to feel the wind in my hair,” he joked.
I laughed. “Why do you shave your head?”
My guess was Scott was in his late twenties or early thirties at the most, but a lot of the men I’d served with at the San Francisco Police Department were already balding, even in their late twenties.
“My hair gets super bushy,” he said, “kind of like that penguin you got yesterday.”
I laughed, a warm feeling spreading in my chest.
“And,” he continued, “when Jean got sick and had to have treatments . . .”
“You shaved your hair because your sick wife was losing hers?”
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “It was a stupid thing to do. It didn’t make her any better, but . . .” He shrugged.
“I’m sure she appreciated it,” I said.
He glanced away from me. The cooler with the champagne between us was calling to me, an unspoken reminder of the goal of our date.
“Would you like to toast?” he asked.
“Why not?” I replied.
He nodded and reached for the bottle of sparkling water.
“No!” I said. “I want the good stuff.”
He eyed me, a small smile playing on his full lips. “I see. The lady would like a glass of champagne.”
I winked at him. “Exactly.”
He replaced the bottle of bubbly water in the ice cooler and pulled out the champagne. He uncorked it and poured some into a flute for me. He handed to me.
I was keenly aware of the cameras positioned on the hot air balloon next to us and could even see Becca’s ponytail flapping in the wind.
“What about you?” I asked.
“Hm?” Scott asked.
“Aren’t you going to pour yourself a glass?”
He smirked. “You know I can’t do that. You have to offer it to me or it doesn’t count.”
I took a sip of my champagne. “It’s delicious,” I teased.
He snaked a hand around my waist. “I’m glad.”
“Hey, hey!” I said, panicking as the balloon tilted.
He retreated to his side of the balloon, laughing. The balloon with Becca and the camera edged closer. Scott directed our balloon away from them. Then a power line came into view.
My breath caught.
Oh, God, we’re going to crash right into the power line!
My hand flung up over my heart, and for a sickening second I thought I’d scream, but Scott smoothly lowered the balloon under the line until we sailed right below it.
I stared at him, my mouth agape.
He winked at me, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Well, you’re not boring. I’ll give you that,” I said.
He laughed quietly to himself. “Thank you. I’d rather be dead than boring.”
“Would you rather be dead than having some champagne?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you offering me a toast?”
I nodded.
A smile splashed across his face. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said, pouring himself a glass.
We toasted, our flutes clicking together.
“Cut,” Becca yelled from the other balloon. She gave me a thumbs-up. “Very cute, guys.
“Bring the balloon down now. We have to get over to the mansion and film the elimination scene.”
Twenty
The dress I had on for the elimination ceremony itched. It was a designer number with only one sleeve and an open back, but the front had a pink lacy section that was scratchy. Either it was the dress or I was developing hives because of the show.
I’d have preferred the silver dress Ophelia had just had me try on, but she said the coloring was all wrong. Either that or she purposely wanted me to suffer in the itchy dress as payback for tackling her earlier. Now she was doing my makeup, while complaining about having to work late.
“It’s against union rules, you know, to have me here all day and night.”
“Why are you stuck here? Where’s Teresa?” I asked.
“Who’s Teresa?” Ophelia asked.
“I mean Florencia.” I’d known she knew her as Florencia, but part of me had been hoping I’d catch Ophelia in a lie.
“She had to go up to San Francisco. Visit her mother in the hospital or something like that,” she said.
I grunted, annoyed at having to work so late myself.
What was Florencia really doing in San Francisco? Was she even in San Francisco? Maybe she’d left the country.
As I tried to figure out how I could verify Teresa/Florencia’s story about her mother without a cell phone, laptop, or computer access, Ophelia took a step back and evaluated my face.
Perhaps I could get time alone with Paul and let him know about Teresa/Florencia’s trip to San Francisco.
• • • • • • • • •
The stench from the leaking bathrooms was immediately evident upon entering the mansion.
“We’ve got to get the cast out of here,” Becca complained to no one in particular.
“It was worse yesterday,” a cameraman answered her.
“I can’t see how it was worse yesterday,” Becca said. “It seems like it’s getting more awful by the minute. Maybe I can convince Cheryl to do another outing. Maybe Carmel.”
“I’d like to go to Carmel,” I offered.
Becca turned to me with a smile. “Right, we’d be close to the city again.”
“Then I can go check in on Aaron,” I said. Although I was thinking about Teresa and hoping to check in on her, too. “I heard Teresa took some time off to head to San Francisco.”
Becca gave me a strange look.
I realized Becca probably didn’t want me to say anything about Teresa in front of the cameraman.
Was there a way I could interview the crew and find out what they knew about Teresa without raising eyebrows?
Becca and the cameraman led the way to the living room of the mansion, where the men were lounging around on the couch waiting for us. They jumped to attention as we entere
d.
“Hello, everyone,” Becca said, immediately taking control of the crew and directing them in a way that would make Cheryl proud.
Edward came forward and embraced me.
It was very awkward now to see men I was developing real feelings for all together in the same room.
Paul stepped between Edward and me and said, “Evening, Georgia.”
I hugged him and whispered into his ear, “Florencia has gone to San Francisco. She has to be Teresa, right?”
Paul pulled away from me and looked into my eyes. “How do you know?”
“Ophelia, the other makeup lady, told me.”
“I’ll look into it,” Paul said.
I nodded, but before I could say anything Paul pressed his lips to mine and in between kisses said, “Will you ever forgive me, G?”
A mix of emotions threatened to overwhelm me and I broke away from him.
I’d actually been considering letting him go tonight. Fighting my volatile emotions every time I saw, touched, or smelled him was becoming difficult, but I needed him around to find out what had happened to Aaron and Pietro.
Scott stood behind Paul and shuffled his feet, apparently not knowing how to approach me after Paul and I had just kissed. He was holding the champagne glass I’d given him a few hours before. Someone had refilled it and he held it up in my direction, in a silent toast.
I smiled and winked at him.
“Everyone take your places, please,” Becca said. “We’ve had a long day. I need to move the scene along.”
The crew and cameramen got into position.
The champagne tray had already been set up. I felt awkward as I looked out toward the men all nicely dressed and lined up, waiting for my judgment.
As if I’m anyone to judge!
“You look beautiful,” Nathan shouted, seemingly disappointed that I hadn’t had a moment to greet him off camera.
“Thank you,” I said.
Ty stood next to Nathan and wiggled his fingers at me. I waved back as Becca ushered in Harris Carlson.
“Hey, wait a minute,” I said to Becca. “What about a conference with my dad?”
“Your dad?” Paul asked, suddenly alarmed.
I laughed, realizing the men didn’t know that my dad was my special guest and that he was the last person Paul would want to face.
“We’re not doing a consultation tonight,” Becca said.
