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I pick at an unraveling thread on my pants. “I’d settle for a savings account, but an empire would be nice.”
“You know, your friend’s idea isn’t a terrible one. You wear the shirt every chance you get, and it stands out compared to the other girls all dressed up. Viewers are bound to notice, wonder what it’s about, Google you…”
“I know,” I admit. “I’m thinking about talking to one of the other girls when I leave, seeing if they have any interest in a few free shirts. I’m not much of a model, but if I could get someone like Brooklyn to wear it on camera, it’d be the ultimate marketing scheme. She’s gorgeous—people would kill to dress like her.”
Gage nods thoughtfully, and I feel a little stab of annoyance that he doesn’t contradict my statement about Brooklyn being a better model for my shirts than I am.
The silence stretches on, and though it’s not unpleasant, I’m increasingly aware of how much trouble I’ll be in if we’re caught. Our contract says we’re not to try to spend time with Gage when the cameras aren’t around. And though it occurs to me again that violating the terms of the contract might be the fastest way to get a ticket home, I don’t really want to go home because I got kicked out.
“I understand about LeAnn,” I say, standing and tugging at the zipper of my hoodie. “But you’ll send me home next round, right?”
He stands as well, studying me. “That’s what you want?”
I nod. “I’m not cut out for the camera or this fake falling-in-love thing. I want something real, with a real guy.”
He blinks, and I could have sworn I hurt his feelings. “I’m real, Ellie.”
“You’re Hollywood,” I correct.
“You’re right. Which equates to no brain, no substance, and I just bleed air, right?”
I feel a sting of regret. “That’s not—”
“Forget it,” he says, pushing past without looking at me. “I’ll send you home next round. Guaranteed this time.”
“Gage, wait—”
He slips out the door without a backward glance, the sound of his tennis shoes growing fainter and fainter until they disappear altogether.
I take a deep breath and reach up to flick off the light. I wait for the sense of relief. The next invitation ceremony is tomorrow, and I’ll be going home.
I have what I wanted.
But the longer I stand here, the more I have an annoying prickle of a feeling that this isn’t what I want at all.
Gage
Raven and Adam are waiting for me the second I step back into the villa after taking half the contestants out for our group breakfast date.
Do you have any idea what it’s like to try to enjoy a piece of bacon when ten women are competing to get your attention?
Let’s just say it’s a good thing I have another group date for lunch in a couple of hours, because I didn’t eat a damn thing. I was too busy listening to the Brittanys make a big deal about the fact that their high metabolism allowed them to indulge in the banana-macadamia pancakes while the rest of the women were eating birdseed (granola). I also learned that Jane plans to make me a “mean zucchini frittata” someday, that Sidney knows everything there is to know about the health benefits of chia seeds, and that Hannah’s allergic to grapefruit juice, which prompted Brittany B. to try to coax her to take a sip of juice, “just to test it.”
The only one who didn’t make my brain want to explode was Paisley, but she was at the opposite end of the table.
“You ready for the recap?” Raven asks. “We’ll talk, just us first, then turn on the camera.”
Fuck me.
I point at the large bag on her shoulder. “Any aspirin in there?”
She gives me a faint smile as she opens the bag and digs around. “That bad, huh?”
My only answer is to dump three pills out of the pill bottle she hands me. I take them into the kitchen and wash them all down with water from the fridge.
Five minutes later I’m sitting on the couch in the library, one of the few rooms designated as off-limits to contestants. That sounded great until I realized that it’s also my punching-bag room—the place where the producers drag me to tell me all the things to do more of or to do less of, the place where I go on camera to describe who I’m falling for after two fucking days in Maui.
I eye the fully stocked sideboard. A screwdriver wouldn’t be unwelcome right now, but I decide to wait until the headache passes.
