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“It was nice to meet you, Samantha.” I manage a smile, even as I run my gaze over her small figure, looking to see if she’s carrying. If not a gun, maybe a shiv tucked into her cleavage…
She doesn’t move.
I clear my throat, and she smiles wider.
Finally one of the assistant producers has to beckon her forward. I know they’ll cut that part, but still, there’s no chance she’ll be voted into the next round by viewers.
Right?
If she is, I’m in serious trouble.
The next girl—number twelve of the night—is nice enough. Her name’s Skylar, she’s got dark blond hair and brown eyes, and even in a hot-pink cocktail dress, she’s got a vaguely tomboy vibe that’s not entirely unappealing.
Plus she’s not psycho.
“So, Skylar. Why are you here?”
“Honestly? I guess…” She purses her lips. “I guess I thought it sounded like fun. An adventure, you know? Something to tell my kids one day, you know?”
Not bad. The kid reference is a bit much on first meeting, but all in all, a refreshing break from the half dozen “To meet my one true love” responses I’ve gotten so far.
I see three more contestants: Brittany M., Brittany B., and Aria, all gorgeous.
Aria’s here to believe in love again after the passing of her boyfriend in a motorcycle accident last year.
Brittany B. wants to show her ex what he’s missing.
Brittany M. wants to make it to the Maui round because she loves sand. True story—I couldn’t make this shit up.
The headache starts around contestant seventeen, and by eighteen I’m seriously wondering exactly how ironclad my contract is, because I’ve just had my “aura” read. It’s gray, apparently. When I asked what that meant, number eighteen merely sighed and walked away before her time was up, saying, “I can’t even.”
Yeah. Because I’m the loose cannon here.
Nineteen is hot but vaguely predatory. Twenty wants to know my thoughts on paying cat-support money in the event of a divorce.
After she leaves, they refill my drink. And thank God for that, because twenty-one is not what I’m expecting.
To be clear, none of them have been what I’ve been expecting, but I do a legit double take at this one.
All of the women have been told to wear whatever they feel most comfortable in, which for most seems to be skintight cocktail dresses. I’m not complaining, it’s been pleasant on my eyes, but comfortable for them? My ass.
Twenty-one, though…she apparently took the memo to heart, because she’s wearing jeans, flip-flops, and a white T-shirt.
The combination is so confusing, given the circumstances, that it takes me a full ten seconds to register that she’s hot, and another ten to register that she’s picked up my bourbon and downed it before plopping into the chair across from me.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I say, risking a quick glance at the producers, who look a little surprised, but also vaguely pleased.
She sticks out a hand, and I study her as I shake it. She’s slim, not packing much in the curves department, although it’s hard to know given that the shirt is flattering but hardly formfitting. Her hair’s long and loose around her shoulders, although I have the distinct impression she’ll pull it back and out of her face the second she’s off camera.
It’s her eyes, though, that I can’t seem to quit. They’re…hazel? Grayish blue? Light brown?
“I’m Ellie. And apparently I’m not allowed to have a last name on the show.”
“Nice to meet you, Ellie. I’m—”
She holds up a hand. “Let’s not. I’ve been to a movie theater.”
