Million Dollar Marriage

by Evans, Katy

  —Nell’s Confessional, Day 10

  We ended up putting on our snow gear again and taking a speedboat to our next destination, around the glaciers and icy outcroppings in the lake as we sped toward Anchorage for our flight to the next place. Because we were still wet from our dive in the tanks—It. Was. Freezing. I was afraid of Luke getting sick again. At the Anchorage airport, we checked in for our flight to the next place, where we were told that we could lose the coats and boots.

  Warmth! Huzzah!

  As I came back from washing up in the bathroom and changing into the only clean clothes I had left—the capris, workout bra, and a T-shirt—I saw Ace and Marta running in wearing their winter gear. Ace looked at me and said, “You were lucky, Poindexter. You ain’t gonna be lucky for long.”

  Poindexter? Really? I’d thought about giving him the middle finger like Luke showed me, but I couldn’t bring myself to. Besides, just being in first place should’ve been enough. He’s worried. About us. We’re his big competition.

  Me. Competition. Hilarious.

  Now we’re in another airplane, hopefully headed toward a warmer climate. Our lead isn’t really a lead, because most of the teams, who are on the flight with us, must’ve found their clue right after we did, judging from how quickly they arrived at the airport. I’m trying to read my Les Mis right now in the original French, but I’m keenly aware of Luke’s eyes on me. He’s wearing a T-shirt now, and so his powerful arms are on display, his defined chest muscles peering through the thin black fabric. As big as he is, though, he still lets me have the armrest. I’d let him have it, but then I think neither of us would use it, and I like the feeling of his skin against mine, even if it is just our arms touching. His skin is dark caramel, and I’m light peach. I can’t stop looking at that, the contrast of our skin, pressed together that way. It’s strange, but also natural. The goose bumps on my skin are most pronounced right where our bodies meet. I wonder briefly if he’d have that effect everywhere he touches.

  Then . . . right. Victor Hugo. Must concentrate on the reading.

  He breathes out, and I venture a look at his face. He’s staring at me, his eyes assessing, framed by lashes so thick and dark I could get lost in them. The setting sun casts an orange hue on his skin and amber flecks into his eyes. His lips are curved in amusement. “Having trouble reading?”

  I blush. So he noticed. “Why do you say that?”

  He puts a finger on the book. “Because you haven’t turned a page in a while.”

  “No.” I turn the page, even though I hadn’t really finished the preceding page.

  A small chuckle erupts from his throat, like he’s so onto me.

  I close my book and look at him, my eyes shifting over him uncomfortably. If I spend too long on any one part, I worry I might be blatantly staring. But every part of him is so strong and masculine and begs to be adored; he’s raw, dirty sex on a cracker. I bet the camera loves him, and when we watch this season months from now, he’ll make all the females weak in the knees. And they won’t know the half of it, because they can’t smell his delicious, soapy, woodsy smell. They won’t know the way he can make their world quake just by one look in their eyes. They won’t know the way he kisses, or says their name . . .

  I need to stop this. Otherwise I’ll go insane. I tamp down the emotions inside me. “Are you feeling okay?”

  The amusement turns into a full-on smile, his eyes sparkling, and I notice a dimple poking out from two days’ worth of dark scruff that’s bordering on a full beard. “So you really were worried about me, baby?”

  I bite my lower lip in response.

  “I’m good. It’s all good.” His voice is low and rumbles inside me, and I almost hate how everything he says and everything he does makes my body react.

  “I was worried for a little while,” I confess to him after a minute. “I thought that because . . . that night . . . that you and I . . . you know . . .”

  His eyes are back to mine, holding me. “That you and I what?”

  I take a breath. “We almost . . .”

  He laughs, his eyes drifting to those damn freckles—the bane of my existence—that he loves so much. “We didn’t almost anything, baby. We weren’t even close.”

  “Oh.” I shrink back, doing my best to separate myself from him. “I know. I mean, I just thought you were upset at me or I’d done something wrong. But you weren’t feeling well, right? You’re not angry at me?”

  “Nah.” I start to relax, until he reaches over and takes my hand, entwining his fingers with mine. I feel the calluses against my palm as his fingers stroke the back of my hand. “You ain’t done nothing wrong with me. I doubt you could.”

  I blink at him. “I’m sure I could. I’m always—”

  “No you ain’t. What was wrong was with those other people, Penny. I can’t be angry at a sweet girl like you.” He squeezes my hand gently, then pulls it up and kisses my knuckles, his gaze holding mine. “And if we were that close, sweetheart, close like I wanted to be? I wouldn’t have been able to turn back.”

  Oh my goodness. I’m undone. Completely undone. My nipples are hard and my sex is clenching, and all he’s done is grab my hand. And part of me wishes I could remember that night in Boston just a little better because the hazy drunk memory of his mouth on my skin barely feels real. It feels as far away as one of my fantasies, almost like it never really happened.

  I want to be able to talk about that night. I’ve been dying to. But I haven’t been able to find the words, and he’s always looked like he couldn’t be bothered. Now he’s looking at me, his eyes studying me with intense concentration. Now is the time.

  “So that night . . . ,” I start, hoping that his eyes will spark with memory and he’ll finish for me. That doesn’t happen. And I realize I don’t have the words, even now. “Was it . . . what was it?”

  One eyebrow cocks up. “I think it was called getting shitfaced.”

  Right. That’s all it was. My stomach knots.

  “I know. But was it like, just fun, because I was there and we were drunk, or was it . . . more?”

  My insides clench as I realize what I said. Oh god. Did I just say that?

  His eyes dance playfully. “What did you want it to be?”

  I frown. What am I doing? Of course that night meant nothing to him. Of course he makes out with drunk girls on a regular basis. He owns a bar, after all. Lives to be shitfaced. “Forget I said anything. I’m just tired because I didn’t sleep much last night,” I mutter, turning so he won’t see the lie on my face. I slept great last night. Because of him. “I should turn in because I’m sure tomorrow will be busy.”

  Soon it’ll be dark, so I pull down the shade to block out the sunset, which would probably make me think the romantic thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking, especially where someone like Luke Cross is concerned. Luke Cross, who lives to be shitfaced, is a thug, loves to fuck, and probably doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body.

  A moment later, I hear, “Penny.”

  Oh, I want this conversation to be over. I can’t be near him when every single part of my body reacts to him. My sex is still clenched from his closeness, and even though I separated from him I can still feel goose bumps on my arm.

  A bit after that, more insistent now. “Nell?”

  I can’t just ignore him, so I turn, letting out a “Hmm?” but his mouth is there, and he captures mine for a slow, sweet, nibbling kiss that turns my entire world upside down. No tongue, just his lips and mine, his scruffy beard tickling my chin. There are cameras—I know there are usually two or three on each plane we’ve been on. But he doesn’t seem to care as he gently licks at my lips.

  His mouth lingering by mine, he says very softly, “Good night, sweetheart. Want to sleep on my shoulder?”

  I look up at those green eyes so close to mine and nod gratefully.

  I lean against his broad shoulder, inhaling him, and he dips his head. I think he’s smelling me, too, his lips and nose in my ha
ir as his chest expands, and that causes a weird little flutter in my tummy that I’ve never felt before.

  Romantic or not, he does have a way about him.

  And I’m falling for it. Hook, line, and sinker.

  Luke

  What were we talking about on the plane to San Diego? Hell. I don’t know. I don’t remember. Did we get along? Yeah. By now, we have a lot of the kinks ironed out in our strategy. We’ve been getting along pretty damn well.

  —Luke’s Confessional, Day 11

  When we step out of San Diego International Airport into warm ocean breezes, whatever sickness had been hanging over my head for the past few days leaves me completely. And I feel strong. Good. Ready to take on the world.

  In the taxi line, I wrap my fingers around Penny’s small hand as she reads the clue. “We have to get to the MCRD,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Where is that?”

  “Marine Corps Recruit Depot,” I whisper to her. The other teams are also in the line, and I don’t want to give them any help.

  “Oh, really? How do you know?”

  “I have cousins who went there.”

  We get in the next cab, which has a busted air conditioner. I’ve been pining for warmth for so long, and now that we have it, it’s too much. I’m wearing a T-shirt and cargo pants, and I’m sweating my balls off. I look over at Penny, who’s still wearing her jacket, fanning her face.

  “Hey. Doc,” I say as I tug on her jacket. “Take this off.”

  She does, swiping her hair back off her face as she shrugs the jacket down and wraps it around her waist. She sticks out her tongue, panting. “It’s still hot. Gosh, it’s brutal. I thought San Diego was supposed to be perfect weather.”

  I pull on her T-shirt. “Take this off.”

  Her eyes widen. “No. I can’t.”

  I wonder if she remembers anything about that night in Boston. I wonder if she remembers that she let me pull down her shirt in that alleyway and suck on her perfect pink nipples. I wonder if she knows I’d kill to do that again. “You got a bra on underneath it, though. Right?”

  She nods. “But—”

  “I want to know who put it in your head that you’ve got a less-than-perfect body. Was it that prick boyfriend of yours?”

  “No. It’s just that . . . I’m self-conscious. I don’t like people looking at me.”

  “Dammit, really? Because I love looking at your sexy body. In fact, when you were pressed up against me in that igloo, that’s all I was thinking about. Your body.”

  She blushes, stiffening, turning her head to look out the window as she continues to fan her face. Then, suddenly, she reaches down, lifts her shirt, and pulls it off. “Happy?”

  Hell yes, I’m happy. Because she. Is. Gorgeous.

  She has the curves you wouldn’t expect on a buttoned-up, bookish girl. I’ve felt them before, but seeing them only makes me want to bare her more. She bites on her lips and balls her T-shirt in front of her tight, bare abdomen. She’s so damn lickable that my mouth is watering, my body tightening with need. The sexiest thing about her is that she doesn’t know how beautiful she is.

  When she realizes I’m staring, she crosses her arms over her chest.

  “You said you don’t like people looking at you,” I murmur. “But believe me, when they do, ain’t no way they can be thinking anything bad.”

  She flushes straight down her chest, straight to the top of her bra. I stare at her perfect cleavage. What I wouldn’t give to see where that flush ends again, to draw her top down and take those hardened nipples into my mouth again.

  We pull up to the depot and are greeted by men in military fatigues. Not greeted. More like assaulted. The second we get out, they get right in our faces and start yelling at us as they usher us into a room. They tell us that we are the lowest scum of the earth and the worst pieces of shits who’ve ever breathed. Penny gives me a nervous look, like she wants to cry. She starts to open the envelope as I catch a glimpse of the marines who just verbally tore us new assholes.

  They’re now looking her over like she’s something they want.

  Red-hot anger shoots down my spine, and I feel possessive, like I want her to put that shirt back on. I scowl at them, gritting my teeth. Marines or not, I’d fuck them up. Put your fucking tongues back in your mouth, or I’m gonna do it for you.

  Then the door opens, and Charity and Tony walk in. Good. That’ll give ’em something else to look at. Because this girl? This smart, beautiful, hot-as-hell girl in the ponytail and freckles?

  She is mine.

  I don’t know when I started feeling that way, but I’ll be damned if I let any other man get close to her now. We’re a team, in this race together, allied. The only alliance that matters. All my other alliances can go to hell.

  She gasps suddenly, and I turn to see her staring with horror at the card she’s slipped from the envelope.

  “What?”

  “One of us has to go through the confidence course,” she says, not lifting her eyes from the paper.

  The confidence course is balls hard. I saw things about it in high school when I was thinking about going into the service, before I got wrapped up in drugs. “Okay. No problem. Just one of us? I can handle that. What . . .”

  She lets out an uneasy breath, and the envelope falls to the ground. “The other one has to get his or her head shaved.”

  Oh.

  Fuck.

  Now I see what she means.

  “Okay.” The door opens, and Brad and Natalie come in. We don’t have much chance to make up our minds.

  The marine sergeant hands us military fatigues to change into. “Changing rooms for males and females. Once you come back, we expect your answer.”

  They shove us in separate directions, and all the while I’m zeroed in on Penny’s horrified face. “Look. It’s up to you. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  She doesn’t respond. She looks dazed. I want to follow her, tell her it’ll be all right, that I’d fucking think she was the hottest thing ever even with a bald head. But I’m not so sure it’s my opinion that matters to her. The world will see her, the thirteen million fans who watch this show on television.

  I throw on the tight T-shirt, the boots, the military cargo pants and hat, and then I go outside, where I finally see Ace and Marta arrive. Somehow, they’re dead last. I don’t even have the urge to rub that in his face, because I’m getting enough satisfaction watching him get his ass yelled off by a marine sergeant.

  Penny comes outside into the sunlight. She’s wearing the military fatigues, her cap pulled down low over her eyes, so I almost don’t recognize her. The getup makes her look like something from one of my fantasies. I wouldn’t mind her getting in my face a little and yelling that cute button nose off at me.

  “I’ve decided. I’m going to do the confidence course.”

  “Penny,” I start, because I’m not sure she knows what she’s getting into. “Do you—”

  “Don’t. I know it’s not the best strategy, but I made up my mind,” she says, setting her jaw, staring straight ahead. A marine is already guiding her away, toward the course.

  Another marine approaches me. “Ready?”

  I just watch her go as I rip the cap off my head and run my hands through my hair. I couldn’t give a shit about losing my hair; it’s just hair. But damn, I don’t want Penny hurt. “Can I watch her?”

  “We’ll take you out there when you’re done. Come on.”

  When I can’t see her anymore, I nod. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”

  CONFIDENCE

  Nell

  Do I like Luke’s new hair? Yes. I mean, what is hair? I’m not concerned with physical traits. That’s not sufficiently interesting to me. The simple reason I decided on the confidence course is because I wanted to prove to myself I could do it. But yes. Luke makes a good-looking marine, I suppose . . . Actually, I guess he makes a good-looking anything.

  —Nell’s Confessional, Day 11

  I wa
lk with a camera crew out to the course, wishing only my palms were sweating. But all of me is sweating now. A river of sweat is trickling between my breasts, down my ribs, everywhere. I wonder if I made the worst decision ever.

  My thinking was this: I was going to embarrass myself either way. I could do the confidence course and be embarrassed for an hour, or get my hair shaved and be embarrassed for six months while it grows out.

  So . . . here I am.

  Confidence course.

  All the obstacles look a lot higher and more insurmountable as I draw closer. There are ten different obstacles I’ll need to conquer in order to finish and be given our next clue. But as I approach, I start to shiver despite the sweat leaking out of my pores.

  “All right,” the marine says to me. Thank goodness they’re not yelling like they were when we first got here, or I might give up. “On the count of three, you start. I’ll follow you through, giving you directions. Got it?”

  I nod, tugging on my ponytail, then get into ready position at the starting line. I hope I made the right decision.

  Now part of me is wondering if the only reason I decided to keep my hair is because I loved flipping it and twirling it and watching Luke’s eyes dance as I did.

  No, no. Physical traits do not interest or stimulate me.

  What a lie. Luke’s physical traits stimulate me better than any intellectual conversation ever has. His eyes, his muscles, those powerful legs, that ass . . . everything about him pushes my buttons unlike any man ever has. It drives me wild, just thinking about—

  “Ready? And . . . go!”

  The camera catches the first thing I do, which is stumble forward, nearly falling on my face. I can sense the marine behind me wondering what kind of clumsy oaf he has running his esteemed course. But I jump to my feet as I hit the first obstacle, which is a long line of monkey bars suspended over a mud pit.

  I haven’t done these since I was about ten on the playground, but I have done them. And though I have no muscles whatsoever, I manage to get across the bars without falling into the mud. I scramble down the ramp to the next thing as the marine yells at me that I need to go over it. It’s a chest-high wall with a rope attached to it. I take a running leap, grabbing the rope, and somehow manage to propel myself over it without coming out dead on the other side.