by Lauren Layne
Fuck.
My thoughts exactly. Suddenly “I like piña coladas!” blares from every direction, and I groan. We were told on the car ride from the airport that “Escape” by Jimmy Buffett is our “summoning song,” and yes, that’s what the producers called it. Our signal that it’s showtime, the cameras are rolling, and we should be on our best behavior.
Or worst behavior. Whatever gets the ratings, I guess.
I hurriedly turn off my phone and put it back in my bag, though I guess it doesn’t matter much if I get caught with it, since I’m headed home shortly anyway.
I stand and do a quick glance in the mirror. I may not need Gage Barrett to think he’s in love with me, but I do have some feminine pride.
I wince a little at my reflection. I’ve pulled my hair into a beachy side braid, and that’s fine, but the makeup…Last night I thought I looked pretty okay with my tinted moisturizer, but that had been before a full night of almost no sleep, courtesy of LeAnn’s snoring, Eden’s gossiping, and the discomfort of sleeping in a top bunk like I was at freaking summer camp. The lack of sleep shows.
I know Paisley wouldn’t mind me borrowing her foundation, but she’s paler than me. With a quick glance at the door, I guiltily snoop through LeAnn’s and Eden’s bags, holding up both of their foundations to my skin and deciding Eden’s is a better match.
I hurriedly smooth on a quick layer of what feels like mud all over my face, then add a couple of coats of my own mascara, a swipe of dark eyeliner, and pink lip gloss. Apparently we’ll have the option of a makeup artist for the “invitation ceremonies,” but not for the day-to-day appearances. And since my first and last ceremony will be tonight…
I take a step back and check out my handiwork.
I look…well, not great. But better than before, and the big sunglasses Marjorie gave me so I’d “look the part” will cover up the worst of it.
“There you are!” one of the assistants hisses the second I come down the stairs. “You’re late!”
She drags me across the open-air foyer toward the pool, where the sounds of giggling are nearly deafening.
A towel is shoved at me, as well as a drink. “Wait until my go,” the assistant says. “Your chaise lounge is the one next to Morgan’s.”
“Yay,” I say flatly, my eyes scanning the pool scene in front of me. I see Cora already in the shallow end of the pool, wearing a yellow one-piece with a dramatic cutout along the side of her flat abs. I can’t see Gage, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he must be what Cora and a dozen other contestants are circled around in the pool.
The assistant barks something into her headset, then turns to me. “Get ready to go in thirty. The moment the cameras turn, get your ass out there, and try to look like you’ve been there all along, having the time of your life.”
“Got it,” I say solemnly. “Is there any confetti I should be throwing around when the camera lands on me? Or champagne I should pop to really sell the moment?”
“Sure,” she snaps. “We can get you some champagne.”
“No, I was just being sarcas—”
She puts a hand on my back, shoving me out onto the patio.
A handful of the girls glance my way, but mostly they’re either gossiping with whoever’s sitting next to them or staring at the group in the pool, no doubt trying to figure out how to get Gage’s attention.
I do a quick scan for LeAnn, but she’s not on any of the chairs, which means she’s probably in the pool. With all those girls crowded together like that, it’ll be hard for her to do any serious harm to herself in the name of staging her accident.
I go to my appointed chaise lounge, unfolding my towel. Morgan grins when she sees me, doing a little bounce. “Oh, good! They put me on the end, and right by an empty chair, and I was like, oh my God, who am I even supposed to talk to? I mean, I could go in the pool, but I don’t want to ruin my hair, you know, and do you think they’re going to feed us soon? I didn’t eat breakfast, just because you’re not supposed to eat before you swim, you know, and I was like, well, if I do swim…”
In my head, I mentally put a finger to my temple and pull the trigger. Morgan’s nicer than most of the girls, but she’s also hyper and never shuts up. I wonder if being put next to her is the producers’ way of punishing me for some sort of transgression. Say, paying the price for taking over my allotted two minutes during the first meet and greet.
I flop down on the chair and close my eyes.
“Aren’t you going to take off your shirt and shorts?” Morgan asks curiously.
No. No, I’m not. I want to go home.
But then a beefcake server dressed in a tight white T-shirt and even tighter white shorts comes over and hands me a glass of champagne, and it makes things a tiny bit better.
“Can I get one of those too?” Morgan asks.
He nods and disappears without a word, and all of a sudden I see Morgan change. I don’t know how to explain it. She goes from being relaxed and normal-ish, or at least comfortable, to some sort of weird swimsuit model pose, rolling to her side, back arched slightly to jut out her boobs.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She widens her eyes and gives me a look, then giggles hysterically for someone’s benefit other than mine.
Ah. The camera is on us.
I take a sip of champagne as I turn my head slightly, and sure enough, there’s a camera right there.
It’s tempting to give the whole scene the middle finger, but the contract I signed—against every ounce of common sense I possess—specifies that we’re only allowed to address the camera and the audience during the studio shots. During the “live” sessions, we’ve got to pretend we’re in the moment, and are highly encouraged to keep our conversations limited to Gage or the other women.
“So,” Morgan says in a slightly-too-loud voice as she waggles her fingers for a sip of my champagne as though we’re besties, “like, what do you think was going on with Gage last night when he talked to pretty much everyone but you? What was that about?”
I hand her my champagne even though I’m pretty sure I’m going to need all of it to survive this moment. “Not sure,” I say carefully. “Maybe he just ran out of time.”
Morgan’s shaking her head emphatically, choppy blond hair falling out of her bun and whipping against her round cheeks. “Nope. He was definitely avoiding you. Like, everyone was talking about it. Almost like he was purposely not even looking at you.”
I frown a little. Really?
I mean, I’d definitely noticed that he didn’t seek me out, but I thought that was because he’d already marked me for elimination and decided I wasn’t worth his time. The way Morgan phrased it, though, makes it seem more intentional than indifferent.
“He didn’t talk to LeAnn either,” I say, snatching my champagne back. It comes out pettier than I meant it to, but I’d rather not talk about me and Gage. The last thing I want is for anyone to think I care about being the first one to go home.
“Yeah, but he’s more than made up for it today,” she says, somehow managing to sound smug and disappointed at the same time. “He sought her out the second she got down to the pool, and hasn’t let her leave his sight since.”
My head whips around to the pool. The group of women has shifted just enough for me to make out a muscled male shoulder, although I still can’t see LeAnn in the crowd.
I want to ask Morgan for more details, but I can’t without betraying that I got down here late.
“So, are you like, hurt? Or just mad?” she asks.
I look back at her. “About what?”
Morgan blinks in exasperation at my denseness. “About him giving you the cold shoulder.”
“Oh! Right. Yeah, I guess…I don’t know,” I say, suddenly exceedingly aware of the camera and the fact that not only will my friends and family possibly see this interaction, but Gage might watch it, curled up on the couch with the “love of his life” in a few months as they laugh about all the poor women wh
o got eliminated.
Like hell.
I roll onto my side toward Morgan as though I’m about to confide something really juicy.
“Honestly…?” I say it in a whisper loud enough that the camera mic can pick it up, but it has Morgan leaning forward all the same.
“I’m not really surprised he avoided me,” I say. “Not after what happened.”
Her eyes go wide. “What happened?”
“Well, after that first day—you know, the interviews, where I went a little bit over?”
She nods, eyes wide.
“Well.” I lean forward. “He found me after. Told me he couldn’t stop thinking about me, and I just…I don’t know, it was so soon, you know? I told him I wasn’t sure I felt that way about him, and you could tell it just crushed him….”
I’m so into my made-up story that it takes me a second too long to realize that I don’t have Morgan’s full attention. Her gaze is locked over my shoulder, lips parted in surprise.
I already know who I’m going to see when I flip onto my back.
Gage Barrett is staring down at me, six feet two inches of dripping-wet, half-naked, angry man.
Yum.
I push the thought aside and give him a bright smile. “Hey there.”
His eyes are hidden behind aviator-style sunglasses, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s glaring. I’m grateful for my own sunglasses, which I hope keep him from realizing just how much I’m enjoying myself.
I have to admit, the guy looks really good fully clothed, but even better in the navy-blue swim trunks. His torso is perfect, all sculpted muscle and bronze skin, with just the right amount of body hair to remind me that he’s all man.
Of course, I’m not the only one aware of this fact. LeAnn is plastered to his side, and he has one arm around her waist. She goes up on her toes to whisper something in his ear before giggling wildly.
He smiles, and I can tell it’s fake, but it doesn’t matter. At least by paying attention to her he’s keeping her from doing something stupid.
I’m both relieved and annoyed: relieved because the last thing I want to see is some desperate girl get a head injury in the name of fake love, annoyed because it means he’s a decent enough guy to want to prevent that.
“Ladies,” he says, directing his attention to both me and Morgan, who’s since sat up and is arching her back toward him, “it’s hot out. Care to join us in the pool?”
“Absolutely,” Morgan says, scrambling to her feet.
“Nah, I’m good,” I say at the same moment.
“Oh, are you?” Gage says flatly. “Enjoying your time here?”
I hear exactly what he’s not saying out loud: Enjoying your last day?
“Very much.” I take a sip of the champagne. I hadn’t really wanted it, but I have to admit it tastes damn good right now.
“Gage, come on,” one of the women calls from the pool. “She doesn’t want to come in.”
I’m suddenly aware that everyone’s attention is on me and Gage, and the other women look anything but happy with the way I’m monopolizing his time.
Really? Do they not see the annoyance rolling off him? Or the way I’m sooooo not interested?
Even LeAnn is glaring at me now, though his hand still rests on her waist.
“I’m actually not that hot,” I say, waving my champagne. “I’m fine here. You guys go play, though.”
“Do you, like, not know how to swim?” Morgan asks, as though that’s the only possible explanation for why I’m still on the chaise lounge and not falling all over myself to frolic with Gage in the pool.
“I can, I just—”
“Prove it,” Gage says, leaning down and plucking the champagne from my hand, dripping pool water all over me.
“Hey!” I exclaim as he downs the rest of the champagne. “What are you—”
He sets the empty glass on a side table and, before I can react, wraps strong fingers around my wrist and hauls me to my feet.
“You want to keep the shades on for this?” he asks, nodding his chin in the direction of my sunglasses.
“What? Keep them on for what?” I ask.
He ignores the question, tugging me forward. He’s also released LeAnn, resulting in yet another feminine glare directed my way. Why is he doing this? Why can’t he just ignore me altogether, and then nobody will be the least bit surprised when he sends me home at the ceremony tonight?
Too late I realize what he’s pulling me toward. I balk, but it’s useless. He’s got a hundred pounds on me and is very, very determined.
He pauses just briefly at the edge of the pool, but it’s only to pull off his sunglasses, then mine, handing them to someone beside me before grinning down at me wickedly.
“Time to prove myself right,” he says, his anger shifting toward playfulness.
“About wha—”
My question’s cut off as he wraps one arm around my waist and hauls us both into the deep end of the swimming pool.
I saw it coming, and I have just enough time to hold my breath, but the cool water’s still a bit of a shock.
He releases me as we hit the water, and I push to the surface, sputtering in outrage as I shove my hair out of my face.
“Really?” I snap when he pops up beside me, looking completely pleased with himself. “This seemed like a good idea to you?”
“Actually, yes,” he says, as we tread water, staring at each other. “Like I said, I have something to prove.”
“What, that you’re a juvenile ass?” I say as I start swimming toward the ladder.
He catches up with me just as my hand finds the side of the pool, pulling me around to face him.
Gage’s green eyes lock on mine for a long moment before dropping deliberately to my chest. His grin grows wider. “Yup, I was right. Your precious T-shirt really does look good wet.”
I return his grin with a sweet smile of my own before planting my palm on the top of his head and using all my weight to push his stupid head under the water and use him as leverage to haul myself out of the pool.
Gage
I should let her go. Obviously. Not only am I showing Ellie clear favoritism, but the woman pisses me off like none other.
But she also makes me forget. She makes me forget that I’m at the center of a ridiculous farce of a TV show. Makes me forget that I’m surrounded by women who care far more about fame than they’ll ever care about me. Makes me forget my brother. Layla. The baby.
I resurface just as her foot finds the top rung of the ladder. Grabbing a handful of her soaking-wet T-shirt, I haul her back into the pool with an indelicate splash.
Her expression is murderous when she comes back up, and before I can think better of it, I reach out and rub a thumb across her cheek. “Didn’t anyone tell you to wear waterproof mascara?”
Both of her hands fly to her face, only she needs at least one to keep treading water, and she promptly starts to sink. Acting instinctively, I wrap an arm around her slim body, pulling her close. “I’ve got you.”
She responds by sweeping her arm toward me, sending a wave of water into my face as she moves once more toward the side of the pool.
But I’m right there with her, my body blocking her access to the ladder. Ellie gives me an exasperated look, one hand on the side of the pool, the other wiping the black streaks from beneath her eyes. I almost wish she wouldn’t. There’s something alluring about the imperfection, especially when paired up against the other women I’ve been stuck talking to, their perfectly styled hair, the makeup that I’m sure has been carefully selected to stay put all day.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
I don’t know. I don’t fucking know. All I do know is that outline of her black bikini beneath the white shirt is turning me on more than the exposed flesh of the other women, and that it nearly killed me last night at dinner to ignore her completely when all I really wanted to do was figure her out—to understand why she’s so determined to leave the
show as soon as possible.
I move closer to her, my lips close to her ear. “Thanks for the warning about LeAnn.”
She relaxes a little. “You’re welcome,” she says in a low voice. “But this little show’s only going to encourage her crazy plan. She’s lost your attention and she’ll want it back.”
Ellie’s right, and I’m annoyed with myself that I didn’t find time to grab one of the producers before filming started and let them know about LeAnn’s planned little stunt.
I glance up, unsurprised to see eighteen female gazes and a handful of cameras on me. Carefully ignoring the cameras, I scan until my eyes see LeAnn, who, sure enough, has a borderline crazy look in her blue eyes. She’s a pretty girl, and sort of sweet in her way, but there’s a desperation there that doesn’t bode well for any of us.
I catch her gaze and force a smile, gesturing her toward the pool. She lights up immediately.
“Good boy,” Ellie mutters under her breath, trying to move around me toward the ladder.
Instead of letting her escape, I wrap an arm around her waist and haul her back against me. “Nope. If I’m stuck in this mess, so are you.”
My arm still around her, I use my other to propel us backward in a lazy backstroke toward the shallow end, where most of the rest of the women are quickly gathering around the wide steps.
At least it would be an easy backstroke if the woman would cooperate instead of thrashing her limbs and muttering profanities. I can’t hide the grin. Ellie really doesn’t like me. Nor does she want to be here. It’s…refreshing.
Skylar, a sporty-looking woman with dark blond hair who’s less annoying than most of the rest of them, executes a perfect dive into the deep end, surfacing alongside Ellie and me with a friendly if triumphant grin.
“Hey, guys!”
“Hey,” Ellie mutters, right before digging a sharp elbow into my side. I release her, and we both can stand now that we’re in the shallow end.
I’m immediately surrounded by a dozen women all talking at once about a million topics, clearly wanting to end my alone time with Ellie in whatever way they can.
Fingers touch my shoulder, and I turn to see the hotter-than-hell Brooklyn sitting on the side of the pool. She gives me a knowing smile and extends a hand holding my sunglasses.
