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You are cordially invited to celebrate the wedding of Gage Barrett and his future bride on Saturday, May 21, at two o’clock in the afternoon. Dinner and dancing to follow.
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The Runaway Groom on why he jilted Hannah: “Sometimes you feel that click with another person—sometimes you don’t. Hannah’s great, but I just didn’t see her as the person I want to grow old with.”
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Dear Ellie—
You are cordially invited to stay on at the villa as Gage Barrett continues his quest for his future bride.
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Text message from Gage to Ellie: Meet me.
Gage to Ellie: Hello? We on for tonight?
Gage to Ellie: Damn it to hell, Ellie. Where are you?
Gage to Ellie: Please?
Ellie
I’m not going to see Gage tonight.
It’s been my mantra all day. All throughout the booze cruise, where I watched him make out with just about everyone with breasts.
All through the ride home, while I had to stare at the back of his head and listen to him laugh what I now know is his fake laugh.
All through dinner, where I did my best to ignore him. And all through the invitation ceremony, where we’d made eye contact only once, and it was rife with meaning.
What meaning?
I don’t know.
I feel my phone buzz under my pillow again, but refuse to look at it, because I’m pretty sure it’s him. I told everyone in my personal life that I wouldn’t have access to my phone for the month-long duration of the show, and most of them took it to heart. Other than a few thinking of you messages from my mom and Marjorie, my phone’s been quiet besides the texts from Gage.
Eden and Paisley both passed out almost immediately following one too many drinks on the boat, and then more drinking at dinner, then champagne at the pool. I’d cried headache and kept it mostly sober, although I’m not sure that was the best idea. The only thing my sobriety is earning me is crystal clear
images of Gage and Cora, Gage and Hannah, Gage and Aurora…
My phone buzzes again, and I reach beneath the pillow and hit the power button without looking at the messages, then roll onto my back, flinging both arms over my head.
What is wrong with me?
Surely I’m not turning into a Gage Barrett groupie. I’m better than that. I’m not looking for a relationship, and when I do get around to that, it’s not going to be with the hottest thing in Hollywood with a reputation for leaving women at the altar.
I hang over the side of the bunk to look at the clock. Twelve-thirty.
He’s probably not even there anymore. Gage doesn’t strike me as the type of man to wait more than five minutes for a woman. Not when there are dozens of others to take her place.
I wonder what would happen if I left. If I made him eliminate me. Would he find another “spy”?
Even more heartbreaking to think about—who would he propose to? Paisley would be a solid choice, but she’s too good for him. He’d probably choose someone like Brooklyn. Someone who’s sweet and gorgeous but who will never challenge him.
The kicker is, I actually do have an idea about who he should send home next. He’s not doing well on his own. I mean, Hannah went home tonight, and that was a solid choice—girl was mean. But last night he sent home Skylar. After I specifically told him to trust his gut and pick someone he wanted to see gone. And of all the contestants—the aggressive Cora, the mean Brittany B., the full-on-crazy Eden—he gets rid of Skylar? She was sweet and harmless. Not the love of his life, perhaps, but better than most of the remaining women.
He got rid of her for me. So he and I could keep meeting. Even though I told him I want to go home.
