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“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.
“Thanks,” I say with an answering smile. In addition to being gorgeous, the blonde’s normal, which is more than I can say for most of the rest of them.
As though proving my point, one of the Brittanys has wrapped herself around me, asking if I’ve ever seen her YouTube channel where she performs Broadway musicals with food puppets.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a redheaded contestant smile sympathetically at Ellie and hand her her sunglasses. She says something to Ellie, and then they both begin moving toward the steps at the shallow end.
I watch as the redhead—damn it, what’s her name?—sits on the middle step and links arms with a still sulking LeAnn. Ellie sits on LeAnn’s other side, and I feel a rush of gratitude as I realize they’re babysitting the crazy one for a while.
It frees me up to do what the producers have instructed me to do today—pay attention to as many contestants as possible so that viewers don’t think I favor any one woman yet. I’ve been told to “keep the mystery alive” about who I care for. Not a problem. Nobody’s more in the dark about that than me.
“So, Gage…”
At the words, I turn my attention toward Jane, an aggressive woman who strikes me as the type who plans to win the competition by sheer force of will.
She smiles when I meet her eyes, although it’s not particularly friendly. She lifts her eyebrows. “We girls have all been wondering…why did you leave not one but two fiancées at the altar?”
The pool seems to go very still: the girls who were splashing each other with annoying squeals stop, and everyone else quiets down to hear my answer.
I’m not fazed—much. The producers warned me that the question would come up sooner rather than later. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d planted the question. That is, after all, the premise of the whole show: The Runaway Groom finally finds his way to the altar.
I have no intention of marrying any of these women, but I’m also not ashamed of my past.
I unwind Brittany’s arms from my waist and casually move backward until I can hoist myself up onto the side of the pool beside Brooklyn.
“Well,” I say, nodding in thanks as someone hands me a beer, “the truth is, I never should have been engaged to either woman in the first place.”
