6. Six
six
ELLIOT
Backyard BBQ sounds simple. A few hours, some flirting, some meat. But according to the spreadsheet I received this morning, it’s an endurance challenge.
Not one barbecue, but twelve. Six today, and six tomorrow, one hour each with fifteen-minute breaks in between. One column of the spreadsheet specifically lists who’ll be attending each shindig. The names of the competing women, I recognize, but the lists of names next to theirs varies in length from four to ten. Family members? Friends? Who the hell are all these people?
The Hacienda looms at the top of the Camarillo hillside. Cut into the slope slanting toward the valley is a palatial pool with an outdoor kitchen and plenty of semi-private places to talk. I sit in the shaded outdoor kitchen tilting my face to let Rachelle apply finishing touches of sunscreen and anti-shine powder.
Up and to my right, Ginger appears on the lawn in a black tank top with fraying edges, the same pushed up joggers as the previous night, and pulled-back hair that looks like it might not even have been brushed. But when she passes behind me on her way to the grill, I get a whiff of it. It’s freshly washed, the damp scent of cool jasmine unmistakable. It wafts through me, reaching some primal levels and sending a surge of sensation straight to my dick.
If I let myself fully remember that night six months ago, my stint on the show could all be over in the time it would take to flush my contract down the toilet, so I can’t go there. I shift my attention to my mother. It’s a cold shower equivalent.
She toys with her large beaded necklace as she eyes the watermelon sangria on the long, decked-out table beside us.
“Mom. It’s ten a.m.”
“They wouldn’t have put it there if they didn’t want anyone to drink it.”
“I can’t have you getting hammered before noon,” I warn her as a deep-seated anxiety threatens to take hold. “We’ve got a lot to get through today.”
“Did you pee yourself when you saw the schedule, too?”
“Not exactly.”
“Someone must really have it in for us.” She gestures at the sangria. “It’s not gonna be any better than it is right now. The ice will start melting, and it’ll get all watery.”
The smell hits me again. Jasmine. Ginger’s standing right beside me.
“Have some before the ice melts, Irene. We have a new flavor for every barbecue.” She gives his mom a sweet smile. “Enjoy. Elliot, a quick word?” She clears her throat softly, then adds, “Please?”
I take a few steps away from the table with my infuriatingly hot producer. She starts talking again before we stop moving. “First up is Brianne. She gets an hour and a half since you tried to send her home. She has her dad, both her brothers, and her stepmom. Also, her best friend Kate. Oh, and Kate’s boyfriend. Last minute add-on.”
“Super,” I mumble. I’m still pissed at Michelle for saving Brianne last night. I wouldn’t marry that woman if she were the last one alive. A year ago, I would have taken her to bed in a heartbeat, but aren’t I supposed to be trying something new here? Michelle is supposed to be the one making sure I don’t repeat old mistakes, and yet...
“Talk to me about what you didn’t like about her.”
My face does an involuntary scrunch like I’m tasting something bitter. “Do I have to?”
Ginger rolls her head on her neck, annoyed, the thin veneer of professionalism from five seconds ago already cracking. “Yes.”
I find her and everyone else’s level of exasperation with me uncalled for. I’m the only one here actually going through something. Would it kill my mom or even Ginger to offer a kind word? Apparently. “Did you want to film me talking about it?”
“No. This is for my personal knowledge so I know where to point the story. You can talk to Davis about it on camera whenever the hell he gets down here.” She turns briefly to speak into her headset. “I need Davis on the lawn ASAP. So what didn’t you like?”
It’s my turn to be irritated. “You’re talking to me now? It’s my turn?”
She ignores my questions. “What was it? Nothing in common? Too good-looking for you? She’s out of your league and you were intimidated? What?”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “She’s my type.”
Ginger blinks. “And?”
“And...this is about trying new things, right?”
“It’s about finding your life mate. Why would you rule out someone because she’s your type? I don’t get it.”
“Good thing this show isn’t geared specifically to your little audience of one. I don’t have to explain my choices to you.”
“I mean...you kinda do.” She gives her ponytail an indignant flip. It should fall completely apart. It doesn’t. I can’t stand it. “Look— you —get off my back. I’ve got an hour and a half with her looming over my head like my own personal rain cloud, all right? I don’t need your judgy judgy hands on hips—” What the hell am I even saying?
I take a breath.
Ginger looks down at her hips where her hands clearly aren’t. “Can I get you anything, Elliot? Water? Xanax?”
A hand job would be great, Ginger. Thanks so much for asking. “Just go—prep someone else. I’m all good here.”
She bows her head for the amount of time it takes to adjust her expression. When she finishes, she looks almost contrite. “Can we—? Let’s start over. I get today is a lot. Whatever you need, ask one of us, we’ll do our best to help. I’ll be out of the way, in the control room—Vanessa’s my eyes and ears. Anything you need. Okay?”
“Right.” The word comes out both exhausted and bitter.
“Want some advice?” she asks.
I eye her warily but eventually nod.
“Find something you like about each one of them. Something that makes her stand out. Something she has that no one else has. Tell her what it is. Can you do that?”
“Just one thing?” I ask.
“At least one thing.”
I nod. I’ve gotten worse advice.
“You got this, Elliot. We’re gonna have a great day.” She gives me a firm nod and starts back up the lawn. I refuse to watch her walk away.
The point she’s trying to make is clear. I’m her job. The disappointment on the back of that revelation is acute. The way my body aches to be near hers again is one-sided, and she’s all but erected an actual physical barrier to keep it from happening. Although—in the grand scheme of things, the barrier I put up is somewhat bigger as evidenced by our surroundings.
“Is it me, or do you two have some tension?” my mom asks.
I yank at the collar of my shirt while my mom hands me a freshly poured cup of watermelon sangria. “It’s delicious,” she whispers with a sage nod of her head and a slight batting of her false eyelashes. The frosted helmet of her hair doesn’t budge an inch.
I glance up as Natalie sweeps in for a quick hello. “Hook me up, too, Mom.”
My sister looks me up and down as she sits. “Outfit number one, huh? I’m liking the coral on you. Brings out your eyes.” With that, she snickers.
“All of you can go to hell.”
Michelle is right behind Natalie, one of her thin arms sliding across my back as she winds her way around me, performing her own assessment. Dressed in an altogether uncharacteristic floral sundress, her usually intense brown eyes shine bright with hope and the possibility of the day. “Relax, babe.”
“Wanna trade places?”
“You’re doing great.” She squeezes my arm. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I mumble.
She gives me an indulgent grin. “I need you to relax. Open up.”
“Open up about what?”
“Just—open up. Every woman here wants to know you.”
Not every woman.
“Why’d you save Brianne?” I ask, since I might not have another chance to talk to Michelle in person. Contact with The Panel will be harder to come by as the weeks pass.
“She’s a challenge.”
The answer couldn’t be more vague, or obnoxious.
As if she were summoned by the speaking of her name, marching toward us from the house, with zero warning from anyone, is Brianne and her entire entourage, plus camera crew.
Brianne stands out at the front of the pack, but this time in a white one-shoulder swimsuit and a wrap skirt. Her thick golden hair billows behind her, caught in the breeze off the valley. She gazes at me with a singular intention behind her eyes.
“Ooo!” Natalie exclaims. “She came to play. Go get her, Elliot.”
If someone cut open my body right now, they wouldn’t find blood. All they’d find are second guesses. I picture all the doubts like they’re printed on little fortune cookie papers, spilling from my veins. What the hell have I gotten myself into? How am I supposed to get to know any of these women when they look so good all the time? Like they’re all in a bar at closing time.
Reminding myself to keep my eyes on her face, I formulate a quick mental questionnaire of everything I need to find out about each of the women, including whether they’re pro public school, who they voted for in the last election and why, and what exactly they do for a living. Also, how fastidious are they about their dental appointments? That’s the important stuff. No touching, no talking about myself until I know there’s compatibility beyond attraction. Lavonne would approve, and besides, according to Ginger, it’s the job.
“Good morning,” I tack on a smile and leave The Panel to meet the approaching group.
Brianne hugs me to her, flattening her breasts against my chest and gives a long, slow stroke down my back. “Mmm....” she moans. “How are you?”
So much for no touching.
As greetings go, it isn’t bad, and if I were to come home to it at the end of a long day, it would relieve a lot of tension, but I didn’t come here for chemistry. I force myself to pull back and check out her teeth. At first glance, they seem well cared for. “Good. You?”
“Perfect.” She runs her fingertips down my chest and lifts her eyes to meet mine. “You look amazing.”
So does she. A little too good. It begs the question whether she would spend as much time caring for a family as she obviously cares for herself. She doesn’t strike me as the nurturing type, but if Michelle wants me to give Brianne a chance, I have to dig deeper. After forcing a smile and shaking everyone else’s hand in her entourage, I invite them to meet my family.
My mom is already refilling her sangria cup, but it’s early. If we work to get enough food in her, we might all come out of the day unscathed.
Brianne hangs onto my arm as she reintroduces herself to my Panel.
With the same air of cool detachment she maintained all of last season, Lavonne sits quietly in her matching pantsuit on the other side of the picnic table taking notes and intimidating the hell out of everyone.
I rest my arm loosely around Brianne’s waist like I’m trying her on for size.
“Brianne, what do you do?” Natalie asks.
“I’m an influencer.”
My mother frowns. “What does that mean, sweetheart?”
“I do makeup tutorials, and now makeup companies pay me to advertise their products on Instagram.”
“I see.” Mom still looks confused.
“You must have a ton of followers,” Natalie says.
Brianne gives my sister an unassuming smile. “I mean...four hundred thousand.”
That’s what she does for a living? If we got married, would I be forced to participate? Try on hats and sunglasses for her latest Instagram story?
“Were you always so popular?” my mother asks.
“I guess I was. What about Elliot? Was he super popular in school? Football captain and all that?”
Natalie snorts. “No. Elliot was the guy dressed in black in the back of English class bitching about how the teacher’s lectures were derivative.”
Michelle snickers behind Elliot’s other shoulder. “Truth.”
It’s surreal. Natalie, Michelle, and my mother all resemble their actual selves, but it’s like their volume is turned up to twelve.
Remembering Ginger’s advice, I speak up. “I admire your confidence.” It’s a decently good quality I can highlight. “It must take a lot to put yourself out there on social media like that.”
Brianne blushes, flashing a surprised smile and giving me a brief glimpse of her as a person, not a participant.
Maybe Ginger knows what she’s talking about.
In the PA’s outstretched hand is the most obnoxious Hawaiian shirt I’ve ever laid eyes on. “This is what Ginger wants you to wear.”
I refuse to look at it for another second. I haven’t seen Ginger since yesterday. I don’t care what she wants. For two days, I’ve behaved myself. I drank my weight in sangria, ate every single thing that came off the grill, and dealt with eleven women, their family, and friends.
I will not wear a Hawaiian shirt that looks like it came off a Tommy Bahama clearance rack. I’d rather be naked.
“It’s the only thing left you haven’t worn,” Vanessa pleads, a few of her dark curls stick to her cheeks with sweat. She waves the shirt in my face.
“Then someone needs to go shopping.” I hope it’ll be her. Vanessa’s intensity is a lot to deal with when I’ve been day-drinking.
Her voice stretches thin, begging. “Elliot. Please.”
“I’m fine in this.” I gesture at my bare chest and navy board shorts.
Her eyes widen in horror. “She’ll kill me.”
I stretch out on the bed in the Hacienda’s guesthouse, tuck my hands behind my head, and close my eyes. I’m half drunk, completely exhausted, and only have one barbecue left to go before I get a six-hour break. “Is she that hard to work for?”
“I’m lucky to work for her.”
I grunt a laugh. “Why’s that?”
“She started as a PA like me, and she’s always been on my side. That’s sometimes hard to find with women in this business.”
I lift my head. “You can call her a bitch if you want. I won’t tell.”
Vanessa’s dark brown eyes narrow. “Awesome. Thanks. Except she’s not.”
“She is if she expects me to wear that shirt.”
Ginger’s PA resorts to an all-out whine. “You can’t repeat a look, Elliot.”
“You can tell Ginger she can dress me in that shirt when my body is cold and dead. Better yet, send her in. I’ll tell her to her face.”
Vanessa cracks. The clatter of the shirt hanger hitting the floor is loud enough for me to know she hurled it. The door slam is her punctuation mark on the moment.
I prop myself up on my elbows, mind swirling with seasoned wine. I picture the expression on Ginger’s face if she were to walk in on me now to find me shirtless, in a bed…
A frustrated growl makes its way up my throat. I resent the fact that after getting to know eleven women better over the last two days, the only one my mind keeps wandering to has virtually disappeared.
Ginger’s done her part and kept her distance, but I could use a few more pearls of wisdom from my producer. I’ve been looking for her constantly, hoping to catch a glimpse, curious about what she’s seeing in my interactions with the women. If any stand out to her in a way they still haven’t managed to for me.
More than that, though, I want to talk to her. Hash things out. Understand what went down between us so I can move on from it the way I moved on from Jenna. It might have been a simple one-night stand for her, but my heart was so open to making a connection it’s possible I read too much into it. Maybe relationships aren’t her thing. But I can’t help but think, after the way we were together, that if it hadn’t been for the network’s determination to have me back at any cost—Ginger would have responded differently to the emails I sent after that night at the Hilton.
If I’m her meal ticket, I need to hear it from her mouth. Maybe once I do, it’ll put to rest some of my second-guessing. Re-establish my reasons for coming here.
I stand, giving myself a once-over in the mirror, satisfied with the work I’ve done in the last few months to make myself camera-ready. Problem is, I’m not considering the camera’s thoughts on my hard-earned physique. Again, I’m imagining the look on Ginger’s face while her monitor screen displays me emerging from the guesthouse without a shirt. Will she remember the way she dug her fingernails into my shoulders, or traced the outlines of my rib cage? My breath swells at the memory.
Not just my breath.
Fuck me.