The Bachelor Beach: The Love Connection Series - Villa One

by Ryan, Shari J.

  “Ashley, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I can’t believe we’re here in person now after hearing so much about you. I’m Tristan Brown, thirty-two, a little shy, but ready to settle down with you.” Settle down with me? Is he on crack? We met less than thirty seconds ago.

  “Oh,” I interrupt, worried about what else he’s going to say. “Where did you hear about me?”

  Tristan looks around at the other guys as his eyebrows furrow with a look of confusion. “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “I mean, how do you know who I am?” I speak up so the rest can hear me.

  “How do you think we know about you? Why do you think we’re here?” I hear the questions among a few voices.

  “You’re all here on this beach … because of me?” What feels like flames of molten heat rush through me, adding to the strength of the three o’clock sun-glare.

  “No, not exactly, but don’t you know why you’re here?” Tristan says, questioning me more than stating the facts.

  “Oh, well, I knew I was moving into my brother’s villa. Is that what you mean?”

  The six guys plus Theo share a quick laugh.

  “You know what. Will you all excuse me for a quick minute. I’ll just—I’ll be right back.”

  “Well, wait,” another one of the guys calls over as I’m taking steps away from the volleyball net. “I’m Chad,” he shouts, waving with a still hand in the air.

  H-O-L-Y what is going on?

  I struggle to make my way out of the sand with my flip-flops getting stuck beneath the powdery weight, but I use every muscle I have to push myself ahead faster. None of the men are moving from where we’re standing, yet I feel like there’s a mass of hot male zombies in my footsteps.

  I close myself into the house, locking the deadbolt, and then I run to the back-slider and hit the lock.

  Pouncing up the stairs, I holler for Kricket and Krow. “Um, hi, girls? Could I have a word with you?” I call out from the hall, hoping one of them will answer me.

  Of course, neither respond.

  After a hearty knock on the first bedroom door, I don’t get a response. Then I move to the second door, but I stop before knocking because I hear their chatter.

  “Did you see her face?” It’s all I can make out between the laughter.

  I open the door without knocking, finding them laying on the bed, texting away on their phones. They startle when I make my abrupt appearance, though.

  “Whose face?” I cross my arms and purse my lips.

  “Look, this wasn’t our idea, okay?”

  “What wasn’t your idea?”

  The twins share a look before laughing again. The urge to walk out and slam the door is fierce, but I resist. “So, what, you think I’m some dumbass bimbo whose brother tricked her into some setup here?”

  One of the girls, with her twinning coy smile, shrugs her shoulders. “I mean ...”

  “I assumed you two were flat-out rude from our initial encounter, but I always try to give everyone a second chance to prove me wrong.”

  “Whoa, who are you calling rude?” I really wish I could tell them apart.

  “You don’t know me whatsoever, yet, you have no problem talking about me. At least you two have each other.”

  That was it. I have no intention of trying any harder here. I step back out into the hallway and close the bedroom door.

  The doorbell rings again. My only question now is how many of these men are living here, and why are they living here for that matter?

  I jog back down the stairs, glance out the side window, and find another tall and attractive man waiting. Reluctantly, I open the door.

  This one is holding a rose. “Hi, I’m Leland. I live just over there. I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

  I take the rose, giving it a quick whiff. “Wow, this is—thank you, the rose is beautiful.” Leland looks so sweet and unknowing of whatever it is the rest seem to know about me. Looks can be deceiving, though.

  “Are you okay? You seem a bit frazzled, Leland says asks. His short dirty-blonde hair blows against an incoming breeze, filling my space with a spicy scent of shampoo and the fresh aroma of detergent. He’s dressed like he’s heading to an office for an important meeting, but it’s later in the afternoon, so I doubt that is the case.

  “Yeah, I’m—ah—” I point behind me. “I’m just trying to get my bearings on the new place. Jet lag,” I try to use the excuse again.

  “Jet lag is the absolute worst,” Leland counters. “Can I do anything for you?”

  “No, you’re sweet to offer, though. I think I need to lay down for a quick minute.” Leland reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a business card, handing it to me.

  I read the card:

  Leland Patrick

  Finance Manager, Savannah Real Estate Firm

  Tel: 1-232-234-5667 - Fax: 1-232-234-5666

  “Finance manager?” I question. Just the guy for me.

  “Yeah, I’m a numbers guy,” he says, coyly.

  “Well, it's a good thing because now I have your number,” I joke with him, trying to pull off the flirtatious wink without looking like something is stuck in my eye.

  “Exactly,” he says, releasing a heavy breath. “Well, again, if you need anything … give me a ring.”

  I smile and wait for him to take a step away from the door before I close myself inside, alone.

  I place the rose down on the coffee table and go to pull my phone out of my back pocket, but the doorbell rings again.

  Seriously. This isn’t funny. Why are all the men courting me like I’m the last woman on earth?

  I open the door, finding a mail carrier with an envelope. “Are you Ashley Spencer?”

  “I am,” I answer sincerely, and yet, curiously.

  “Good luck,” he says, handing over the envelope.

  I didn’t agree to this living situation, I sing to myself. Again, I close the door and toss the envelope onto the coffee table.

  I yank my phone out of my back pocket and scroll through my contacts, slapping my thumb against Bradley’s name before holding the phone up to my ear.

  How many rings does it take to get to Bradley’s voicemail? Let’s see ...

  A one, a two, a three ... it takes three rings to get no answer.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Bradley Spencer. I’m not available to take your call right now, but if you would like to leave your name and number, I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you!” Beep.

  “How could you do this to me? I’m your sister. Shoving me into a living situation like this is along the lines of ... you being a pimp. How are you going to fall asleep tonight knowing what you conned me into?”

  I hang up.

  Bradley and I have gone through phases of pranking each other, but nothing to this degree. I can’t even think of a suitable retaliation.

  A text comes through, and it’s from Bradley. “I’m on another call right now, but hang in there. You’ll thank me someday. I swear.”

  Just to add the whipped cream on top, the doorbell rings again.

  “I’m not home!”

  A knock on the glass slider pulls my attention to the other side of the house.

  “Leave me alone!”

  I’m feeling borderline trapped as I send off another text, but this time, to Gracie. There’s not much she can do for me from New York, but I need to share this absurdity with someone.

  I tap the message out.

  Me: Hey girl, I’ve got a bit of a problem.

  Gracie usually has her phone adhered to her body in some fashion, which makes her dependable for a quick response.

  Gracie: A problem? Lady, you’re living in paradise for free. What could be wrong?

  Me: Nothing is wrong, really, but all the neighbors are single men ...

  Gracie: Jackpot! How many are there? Are they hot? Have you met all of them? OMG I need photos!

  Me: They’re smoking hot, but, Gracie, I think I’m the first woman they
’ve talked to in a long time ...

  Gracie: Huh? How do you know?

  Me: They’re foaming at the mouth when they walk by. One even brought me a rose. Something is off about this place.

  Gracie: Hold up ... one brought you a rose? This is bad. Ash, stay where you are. I’m coming to save you. ::rolls eyes::

  Awesome. She thinks I’m losing my mind. Maybe I am losing my mind. Maybe, they’re all just super friendly and are offering a warm welcome to the neighborhood.

  If only I could convince myself this is the case.

  Chapter 6

  I don’t know if the guys got the hint or what, but the doorbell rings and knocking seemed to have ceased for the moment.

  I’m just going to tell all of them I’m not interested and to go bark up another tree. The last thing I want or need right now is a bunch of men banging on my door. While I realize this is something I might have dreamed of a few years ago while partying every night, my current focus is strictly on finding a job and ingraining myself into the real world. Relationships must come second.

  I tear open the envelope the mailman awkwardly handed me, finding an invitation that says:

  * * *

  Welcome to Bachelor Place

  Tonight, on The Bachelor Beach deck, join us for a welcoming party at our weekly bonfire. Be prepared to eat, drink, and fall in love.

  * * *

  Um. Bachelor Place, The Bachelor Beach? I stroll over to the refrigerator where Bradley left our address. My gaze catches on the printed words from the invitation, but then I easily match the words to the address on the hanging note. “1 Bachelor Place, Bachelor Beach - Tybee Island, Georgia.”

  I pull my phone back out of my pocket, hitting Bradley’s name again. The rings come in succession, one, two, three, four, then voicemail, and beep.

  “I am going to hurt you, Bradley.” I hang up, knowing there are going to be many more of these voicemails coming his way unless he picks up and explains to me what the hell he was thinking.

  The twins cascade from the stairs as if they’re sauntering down a catwalk. “We’re going out for a bite to eat. Want to come?”

  Shocked they invited me, my instinct is to reject them, but this may be a window of opportunity to find out what they know, and why the doorbell doesn’t seem to be ringing for them.

  “Sure, yeah, I’ll go with you. Is there a place to eat within walking distance?” None of us have a car yet, or not that I’m aware.

  “There’s a place,” one of them says.

  The moment we step outside, I stop and take in my surroundings. This place is beautiful, and the layout of the villas makes the inset development look like a small paradise. However, it all seems staged, so I can’t help but wonder if people are living inside any of these homes.

  “What do you know about this little development?” I ask them, trying to sound casual.

  They stop walking and turn around in sync.

  “Didn’t Bradley explain everything to you?” I wish they would wear name tags.

  “He told me there was a social study going on here.”

  “So, you know what the deal is then?” I’m being quizzed.

  “Well, yes and no.” No, I have no freaking clue what the deal is. I didn’t even know these kinds of studies existed. Who would sign up for this crap?

  “Basically, they shoved fifteen men into a small community and left them without any on-site female interaction for six months. If the men worked outside of the development, they were allowed to converse with women on a strictly professional level, but it was ensured that they did not break any of the study’s rules. If they work remotely from within the development, it was easier to monitor the flow of incoming guests. When a man leaves the property, they are monitored. Females were not allowed within Bachelor Place until this week.”

  “Why?” I follow.

  “Why is the sun yellow?” One of them asks.

  “So what, we’re expected to fix their issue of loneliness now?” The anger is searing through me, considering the thought that Bradley used me as a tool for what sounds like a brothel.

  “No, actually, they gave the men the option to cash out the earnings for their part in the study or continue for another six months for triple the award if they are able to complete the rest of the time here. All but five chose to stay. Considering your brother was overseeing part of this program, I would have thought you’d know more. Anyway, he chose to leave so he could be with our sister. That’s why we’re here, living rent-free for a while.”

  This explanation makes more sense, which makes me wonder why Bradley couldn’t have left me with a few extra details. It’s just like him to take part in debauchery like this.

  “I see,” I tell them. Basically, my brother is a moron. There’s a shocker.

  “If you ignore them, they won’t bother you ...”

  “Ignore who?” I question.

  “The men. Right, Krow?” Kricket asks. Now, I temporarily know who’s who. Kricket seems to be the only one of the two who talk. She’s also wearing a charcoal neck-tie, versus the black neck-tie Krow is wearing. God forbid they pick a non-neutral color to distinguish one from another.

  As expected, Krow nods her head. “Well, they seem nice but definitely lonely. We got an invitation to a bonfire on the beach tonight from them. Or, at least I think it’s from them,” I add.

  “We’re not going. Those men are desperate to meet us. Giving into that will be like walking into a gauntlet.”

  “We’re not allowed—” Krow attempts to say.

  “Krow,” Kricket interrupts.

  “Sorry,” Krow follows.

  I’ll pretend like I’m not curious at all as to what she was going to say. In any case, they have a point. The men’s aggressive introductions were a bit unsettling.

  “I’m sorry you two are stuck with me,” I offer as an olive branch, hoping they realize I mean no harm to their life. By the way they keep looking at me, one might think I killed someone in their family. All I know is, I’d rather not make this living situation worse than it currently appears to be.

  “We don’t dislike you,” Kricket says, turning to walk ahead toward the street.

  “Oh,” I respond, keeping my response subtle.

  “Krow is going through a nasty divorce. Her husband left her with nothing. She’s not in a great place right now, and I’ve been trying to pull her out of a funk for weeks. My lease was coming to an end, and Krow had moved in with me, so when Katarina told us about this opportunity, I thought it would be good to get her away for a bit, while we had the chance. We both landed jobs in Savannah, which start in a few weeks, so it’s an ideal situation.”

  Maybe their front of hatred is not about me. “I’m so sorry to hear about your marriage, Krow,” I say to her, receiving nothing in return except a cold stare. It’s like she’s still in shock, which can’t be healthy.

  “She’ll be fine once she snaps out of this funk,” Kricket says. “Sorry if we came off a little uptight.”

  A little. I want to tell Kricket I thought the three of them were a part of the Addams Family, but I’ll refrain. Plus, I heard their chatter in the bedroom, and the text exchanges, it all seemed pointed. However, I’ll let it go and hope for the best.

  “It’s okay. It’s never easy to make big life changes.”

  By the time our conversation comes to an intermission, I see a restaurant ahead at the end of this block.

  The Clam Pit. It sounds good. The interior is encased with glass windows and it is wide open at the other end leading out to a wooden deck covered with tables, overlooking the ocean. This doesn’t suck.

  What sucks even less is the “Hiring” sign I notice on the way inside. I was a server in college off and on, so I have experience. I bet the tips are good at a beachfront restaurant too.

  Kricket asks for a table fit for three, but I’m glancing around the place, taking in the worn wooden, beachy feel. “Oh, excuse me. Before you seat us, do you have an employment ap
plication? I saw your hiring sign, and I’m new to town.”

  “Of course,” the hostess says. She’s dressed in a white polo that accentuates her golden tan and light blonde, shoulder-length hair. She reaches below the podium and retrieves a sheet of paper filled with typed questions and a pen. “Here you go.”

  With the menus pinched between her arm and side, she swivels away from the stand and trots to the back-porch, showing off the sharp movements of her hips in the cutoff black shorts she’s sporting. If this is the attire here, it’s even better. It’s not hideous like the uniform at most restaurants. I don’t know if my hips move like that, but I can try.

  We’re seated against the enclosure of the deck, giving us the perfect view of the calm teal and turquoise waves. “Enjoy,” the hostess squeaks before making her way back inside.

  “You want to work here?” Kricket asks.

  I shrug. “Sure, why not. Of course, knowing my luck, I won’t be fit for the job since that seems to be the story of my life lately.”

  “Didn’t you just graduate?” she presses.

  “Yes, in hospitality management.”

  “And you want to waitress now?” That’s a kick below the knees.

  “I just need a job. You know, for that whole money thing?”

  Kricket seems disturbed with my idea of job choices, but it won’t be so bad. I like to be on my feet and interacting with people. Plus, food is my thing. I don’t see how it’s not everybody’s thing, but it’s definitely my favorite thing in life.

  “To each their own,” she says with a sigh.

  A waiter approaches our table with his hands folded behind his back, indicating that he plans to memorize our order. “Can I start you ladies off with some beverages?”

  “We’re ready to order, Kricket snaps.” The waiter looks taken aback by her tone, as I would.

  “I will have the Cobb salad, and so will my sister,” Kricket spouts off.

  The waiter nods his head with understanding and pivots his position to face me. “And you, miss?”

  “The blue cheese turkey club looks amazing. I’ll have that,” I tell him. “Thank you.” I’m a big hearty sandwich gal, and they eat like birds. How fitting. I wonder if crows eat crickets. I wonder what their parents must be like.