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That asshole wasn’t just snooping on my phone yesterday, he was looking up my phone number!
I shouldn’t respond. For one thing, it’ll encourage him. For another, it’ll confirm that I still have my phone, which is probably what he’s testing in the first place.
I’m about to put the phone away when I think of LeAnn. Hopefully Paisley can talk some sense into her, but in case she can’t…
I reply to Gage’s text before I can rethink it. First of all, I think you accidentally signed up for the wrong reality TV show. This isn’t Girls Gone Wild. Second of all, you need to pay attention to LeAnn at the party today.
His response is almost immediate. Either he’s snuck his cellphone in as well, or he doesn’t have to give it up like the rest of us. Probably the latter. Why? And which one’s LeAnn?
“Jerk,” I mutter as I text him back. Curly brown hair, kinda short. One of the few you ignored last night.
How do you know which ones I ignored?
They were the ones crying themselves to sleep last night. The walls in this place are thin.
Could have come to my room. I could have comforted you.
I smile a little at the cockiness. Don’t be gross. Are you going to pay attention to LeAnn or not? I think she’s going to do something dumb to get your attention.
Dumb how?
Fake fall. Maybe hurt herself, I type.
Are you kidding me?
Nope.
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?”
