Runaway Groom

by Lauren Layne

  “Goodbye, Mom,” I say with a smile.

  I hang up the phone. Enthrall him, my ass. I’m pretty sure I’ll be back in San Diego by tonight.

  Gage

  “So…” I pause for a second, waiting for one of the assistant producers to hold up the cue card with the contestant’s name. “Samantha. It’s nice to meet you.”

  That’s a harmless beginning, right? Nice to meet you can’t possibly blow up in my face like the greeting with the last one did. I complimented her dress, she said thank you—and then she started to take off the dress, assuring me that what was beneath was better than the dress itself.

  While the cameras were rolling.

  She’d been escorted (dragged) aside, and I’d scrapped Nice dress from my list of platitudes.

  So here we are with Nice to meet you, and…it’s not going well.

  Instead of uttering the usual Nice to meet you too, Samantha is still laughing, a bray of staccato laughter that’s so manic, I’m wondering if she needs medication.

  I catch the eye of the Jilted host, who motions for me to keep going. Of course. The show must go on, the weirder the better.

  I smile patiently at the petite brunette. She’d be pretty if her blue eyes weren’t glazed with crazy.

  I proceed as though she answered my first question, and try for another one. “Why are you here?”

  I’ve been encouraged to be “spontaneous” with my questions, but Why are you here? is nonnegotiable—I’ve been instructed to ask that of every woman. Apparently viewers want a chance to search out “ulterior motives.” Although I confess to being a bit baffled as to what non-ulterior motives would be—what sort of woman wants to marry a man who’s dating twenty-four other women simultaneously?

  I take another sip of my cocktail. They’ve told me to pace myself, but that started to get hard when contestant number six told me (and the rest of America) that her hobbies include Brazilian waxes and flossing, and so help me God, I don’t even know if she was talking about her teeth.

  I’ve earned this drink. And the next one.

  Sabrina?—no, Samantha—has yet to say a single word. She’s still giggling.

  “I’m really good at fighting,” she blurts out eventually.

  Um, what?

  I say exactly that. “Um, what?”

  She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear and wriggles to the edge of her seat. “I have four sisters, and I’m in the middle. We had to share two bedrooms among the five of us, so I learned real fast how to fight for what I want, and I already know I want you. Those other girls should watch their backs.”

  I don’t really know how to express what I’m thinking right now with anything other than Holy shit. It just got all Fight Club in here.

  Raven frantically waves her arm, signaling time. Each of these women gets only two minutes to make their case to me and America, and as far as Samantha goes, it was about one minute and forty seconds too long.

  “It was nice to meet you, Samantha.” I manage a smile, even as I run my gaze over her small figure, looking to see if she’s carrying. If not a gun, maybe a shiv tucked into her cleavage…

  She doesn’t move.

  I clear my throat, and she smiles wider.

  Finally one of the assistant producers has to beckon her forward. I know they’ll cut that part, but still, there’s no chance she’ll be voted into the next round by viewers.

  Right?

  If she is, I’m in serious trouble.

  The next girl—number twelve of the night—is nice enough. Her name’s Skylar, she’s got dark blond hair and brown eyes, and even in a hot-pink cocktail dress, she’s got a vaguely tomboy vibe that’s not entirely unappealing.

  Plus she’s not psycho.

  “So, Skylar. Why are you here?”

  “Honestly? I guess…” She purses her lips. “I guess I thought it sounded like fun. An adventure, you know? Something to tell my kids one day, you know?”

  Not bad. The kid reference is a bit much on first meeting, but all in all, a refreshing break from the half dozen “To meet my one true love” responses I’ve gotten so far.

  I see three more contestants: Brittany M., Brittany B., and Aria, all gorgeous.

  Aria’s here to believe in love again after the passing of her boyfriend in a motorcycle accident last year.

  Brittany B. wants to show her ex what he’s missing.

  Brittany M. wants to make it to the Maui round because she loves sand. True story—I couldn’t make this shit up.

  The headache starts around contestant seventeen, and by eighteen I’m seriously wondering exactly how ironclad my contract is, because I’ve just had my “aura” read. It’s gray, apparently. When I asked what that meant, number eighteen merely sighed and walked away before her time was up, saying, “I can’t even.”

  Yeah. Because I’m the loose cannon here.

  Nineteen is hot but vaguely predatory. Twenty wants to know my thoughts on paying cat-support money in the event of a divorce.

  After she leaves, they refill my drink. And thank God for that, because twenty-one is not what I’m expecting.

  To be clear, none of them have been what I’ve been expecting, but I do a legit double take at this one.

  All of the women have been told to wear whatever they feel most comfortable in, which for most seems to be skintight cocktail dresses. I’m not complaining, it’s been pleasant on my eyes, but comfortable for them? My ass.

  Twenty-one, though…she apparently took the memo to heart, because she’s wearing jeans, flip-flops, and a white T-shirt.

  The combination is so confusing, given the circumstances, that it takes me a full ten seconds to register that she’s hot, and another ten to register that she’s picked up my bourbon and downed it before plopping into the chair across from me.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I say, risking a quick glance at the producers, who look a little surprised, but also vaguely pleased.

  She sticks out a hand, and I study her as I shake it. She’s slim, not packing much in the curves department, although it’s hard to know given that the shirt is flattering but hardly formfitting. Her hair’s long and loose around her shoulders, although I have the distinct impression she’ll pull it back and out of her face the second she’s off camera.

  It’s her eyes, though, that I can’t seem to quit. They’re…hazel? Grayish blue? Light brown?

  “I’m Ellie. And apparently I’m not allowed to have a last name on the show.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ellie. I’m—”

  She holds up a hand. “Let’s not. I’ve been to a movie theater.”

  “Why are you here?” I ask, realizing that for the first time this evening, I actually care about the answer. I pick up my drink, but the glass is empty, courtesy of Ellie.

  Her slim shoulders lift and fall. “My best friend made me.”

  I can’t help the laugh, both at the unexpected answer and at the parallels between our situations. “And you agreed?”

  “Eh. It was sort of…let’s just say I allowed myself to pretend it would be a marketing opportunity.”

  “For?”

  Raven’s waving her hand behind me. Time’s almost up. I ignore her.

  “My business,” she says with plucky pride.

  “What kind of business?”

  Ellie leans forward. “I’m not allowed to officially endorse any products while on the air.”

  “So your plan backfired.”

  “Looks like,” she says, spreading her hands like she couldn’t care less. “Why are you here?”

  The question’s unexpected, and my answer is a result of both my Jilted “training” and my six years of living in the spotlight: a lie.

  “To meet my one true love,” I say with my trademark Gage Barrett smile.

  She’s not impressed.

  In fact, number twenty-one—no, Ellie—actually wrinkles her nose in distaste, and I have the irrational urge to tell her the truth: I lost a bet, and I�
�m tired of my playboy rep.

  She stands before I can say anything, apparently finally noticing the producer attempting to wave her off camera.

  “Nice to meet you,” I murmur as she passes.

  Ellie No-Last-Name’s only response is a snort.

  Ellie

  THREE DAYS LATER, MAUI

  “Who cares what he’s like, Marj! Are you listening to anything I’m saying? They didn’t vote me off. I’m not coming home.”

  Even in my panic, I try to keep my voice to a whisper as I slip out of the room I’ll be sharing with three other girls for…well, as long as we all last in this farce of a television show.

  “Um, Ellie,” interrupts a snide voice.

  Damn it. One of my roommates has caught me, and it’s not the nice one. Eden is pretty enough in a sharp-featured, I’m gonna drink your blood kind of way, but like most of my fellow contestants, she’s got claws. Hers are particularly sharp.

  “Personal calls aren’t allowed, Ellie.”

  “It’s for work,” I say quickly. That’s not a total lie. Marjorie is my business partner as well as my best friend. “I’ll be quick.”

  Eden narrows her eyes, and I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if she pulled a whistle out of her pocket and blew it to report me.

  “Leave her alone, Eden. Surely you have something better to do—hone your talons or something?”

  I smile at the sound of Paisley’s voice coming from inside our room. A spunky redhead, Paisley’s the closest thing to a friend I’ve made in this creepy harem situation. The fact that she and I were assigned to the same room is just about the only thing that’s keeping me from drowning myself in the Pacific.

  Eden turns away to direct her hangry comments (seriously, the girl never eats) at Paisley, and I slip farther down the hall.

  “Who was that?” Marjorie asks on the other end of the phone.

  “Shark,” I mutter. “Anyway, did you hear what I said? I’m not coming home.” Not yet.

  Marjorie squeals. “You made it to the next round? I knew it. I totally voted for you.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that,” I mutter as I open a door, delighted to find what seems to be a supply closet.

  I slip inside, although I leave the door cracked a bit so I can hear anyone coming.

  Eden’s right, phones are a big no-no here. We were allowed to check in with our family when we arrived, but then we were supposed to put our cellphones (most of which had pink glittery cases) in what seemed to be an iPhone graveyard.

  I’ve managed to keep mine hidden so far, although now that I think of it, maybe getting caught with it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Could be my ticket home.

  “You were on TV!” Marjorie says, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice.

  I bite back a sigh, trying not to rain on her parade. It’s her fault I’m here, true, but she’s also my best friend, and she genuinely digs this whole reality TV thing.

  Now that she’s got a cute husband and an even cuter baby, she’s living vicariously through me, even as she pretends that it was for the sake of “free publicity” for High Tee.

  “I swear, El, the way he was looking at you—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure I was very beguiling,” I say, waving my hand. “How’d I look? Decent enough to sell a T-shirt or two?”

  “So fab. And your evasion about not saying the company name was brilliant. People must have Googled you, because the website saw a huge influx of traffic, and there were a ton of people on the forums wondering where you got your shirt.”

  I smile, slightly mollified.

  “How’s the fabric on the prototype for the gray shirt coming out?” I ask. I’m worried that if we go too high for the thread count, it’ll look heavy, but if we go too low, it’ll look faded. “I’ll wear the prototype first chance I get, but—”

  “I’ve got it, hon,” Marjorie interrupts. “Your only High Tee duty for the next few weeks is to wear the shirt whenever you can, but not too much.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean, not too much?”

  “Well, there’s a pool, right? And a beach? You can’t be wearing a shirt, no matter how fabulous, when all the other girls are in bikinis. Not if you want him to keep you around.”

  “But that’s the thing,” I say, nudging a bucket with my flip-flop. “I don’t want to be kept around. This whole thing is beyond weird, Marj. I knew that when I let you talk me into it, but it’s also cutthroat as hell. There are two hours every day devoted to personal grooming, and the producers are always telling you how to act, and their suggestions are insulting to women and all of humanity, and…”

  “We knew the girls would be catty and the drama high,” she says gently. “It makes for good TV. But quit holding out on me. Tell me about the guy. Please.”

  “I met him for all of two minutes.”

  “Two minutes and thirty seconds,” she corrects. “A full thirty seconds longer than anyone else.”

  I wince. Me going over my allotted time is part of what’s made life with the other women so rough. Some outright accused me of cheating, while most just settled for dirty glares and whispering behind their hands. Thirty seconds—that’s all it took to turn me into the most hated contestant here.

  “I didn’t know I was going over,” I explain, for what feels like the hundredth time. “I don’t know why the producers didn’t cut me off. Or why he didn’t.”

  “Because he was captivated by you.”

  “The word you’re looking for is surprised,” I say. “Surprised because my tits weren’t hoisted up to my chin like everyone else’s.”

  “Well, whatever, it worked. Not only did you not get eliminated, but he opted not to use his veto to save one of them, which lessens the competition by one.” She sounds way too happy about this.

  “You know I’m not going to win, right?” I remind her. “There’s not a trophy and bragging rights at the end of this, Marj, there’s a wedding and a husband.”

  “But you want those things.”

  “Not with Gage Barrett!”

  “Why not? He’s gorgeous, rich…”

  “Unpredictable, a playboy…,” I counter.

  “But what if you fall in love?” she asks dramatically.

  I refuse to dignify this with a response, and my best friend of more than twenty years sighs. “Fine. At least tell me what it was like to meet him in person. Exaggerate if you must.”

  I run a finger along a mop handle as I consider this. I’m not even going to pretend that I didn’t come into this thinking Gage Barrett was hot. I mean, he’s Gage Barrett. I’ve seen his movies. Hell, I like his movies. They’re fun, he’s talented. And with his dark hair, friendly eyes, and easy smile, he’s like the next generation’s George Clooney.

  Was there a little breathlessness the first time our eyes met? Sure. I’m not immune to the fact that I was meeting Hollywood’s hottest actor in person.

  But then he’d just been sort of…

  “Hot and hollow,” I say, finally answering her question. “I’m not sure the guy’s ever had a thought that wasn’t scripted for him.”

  “Damn,” Marjorie mutters. “Well, I just hope he doesn’t fall for that Eden woman. Did you hear what she said about you? She thinks you’re fake and that you’re merely trying to seem different from the rest of them.”

  “Oh, well, gosh, I’m going to lose all sorts of sleep tonight,” I say, straightening the mop and turning toward the door. “But speaking of Eden, she’s actually one of my roommates, and she saw me on the phone, so I really need to go before I get caught.”

  “She’s your roommate? Oh, damn. That’s bad. You need to keep your head down, don’t engage…”

  I don’t hear the rest of what she’s saying. My heart’s stopped completely, because I’m not alone in the closet.

  I’ve been caught all right, but not by bitchy Eden.

  By Gage Barrett himself.

  Ellie

  I hang up on Marjorie. She’ll unde
rstand when I explain later.

  Shit. Crap, shit, and the f-word too.

  “So,” I say, forcing a smile at the unsmiling man leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “Awkward, right?”

  Gage says nothing.

  The light coming from the cracked door is enough to let me know it’s him, but not enough to let me read his expression.

  I start to slip my phone into my back pocket, but he wordlessly holds out a hand.

  I give him an incredulous look. “Um, no. I’m not going to just hand over my phone because Hollywood commands it.”

  “No phones allowed,” he says. Gage pushes away from the wall and plucks the phone out of my hand. He glances down at it, his thumb moving across the screen, as he unabashedly snoops through it. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Give it back.” I try to grab for it, but he holds it higher, still snooping. “I’ll turn it in, I swear.”

  He gives me a skeptical look but finally hands the phone over, and I shove it into my back pocket and glare up at him.

  I’m a little surprised by how tall he is.

  I always heard that actors were shorter in person, but Gage has to be at least six-two, and he towers easily over my five feet four inches.

  He’s wearing shorts and a button-down linen shirt, but the casual attire does nothing to diminish his masculinity. A fact I’m pretty sure he knows, because he steps closer, then grins when I back up and stumble over a bucket.

  Gage reaches out a hand to steady me, big and warm on my waist. For a second I think he’s lingering, but then I realize his fingers are simply testing the fabric of my T-shirt.

  “So, this is the business,” he murmurs. “Looks like a men’s undershirt to me.”

  I bat his hand away. “The cut of a man’s undershirt doesn’t adequately account for a woman’s—” I break off.

  He lifts his eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “Never mind,” I mutter, not about to say the word breasts or boobs when I’m in very close proximity to a man who’s making me too aware of my boobs.

  He drags his eyes from my shirt up to my face. “The person you were talking to. Was this the same friend that made you come here?”