7. Seven
seven
GINGER
My PA sobs brokenly, bent over her knees on one of the pool lounge chairs.
“If you can tell yourself it’s only for a few weeks, you’ll be in a much better headspace.” I know I will be—now that Elliot’s finally put his shirt back on. It was a hell of an afternoon with him strutting all over the final barbecue without it. Asking him to wear a Hawaiian shirt was a mistake, and he’s been taking it out on me ever since. Absently, I rub Vanessa’s back in a there-there gesture. “Once filming’s over, it’s easy.”
The PA shakes her head.
I rein in my impatience. In a voice as sweet as I can make it, I say, “Vanessa, your job is to stand next to me and do what I tell you. Unless you think Holden would be a better fit for me.”
Vanessa’s head snaps up. “Holden?”
“I heard he’s looking for a mentor...” I wait for the fire to come back into Vanessa’s eyes.
“You know I’m better than that spoiled Ivy League brat.”
“You sure?” I study the younger woman’s face, pleased to see that her tears have all dried up.
“Positive.”
With a firm nod and an even firmer pat on Vanessa’s back, I consider the crisis resolved. “Good. Now go check on craft services. The crew’s gonna be pissed if dinner’s late again.”
“I’m on it.”
Vanessa storms across the lawn, full hips swinging with determination to get the job done. But Jesus. Three days in and she’s breaking down? When I originally interviewed her for this job, Vanessa acted like she was ready to take on LA, one no-foam latte at a time. But sleep deprivation takes its toll on twenty-one-year-olds, too. It’s a special kind of torture.
I re-enter the control room as the last BBQ date waves goodbye to her family and hurries back into the Hacienda to get ready for the Farewell Mixer. I need to put my eyes and ears on The Panel, who are now settling into lounge chairs by the pool. It’s a glorious evening, seventy degrees without a cloud in the sky as the sun begins its descent beyond the valley.
On the screen before me, Lavonne sits in an upright chair, still poised after nine hours in the sun. Her navy slacks and subtle floral-print silk blouse show no sign whatsoever that she perspires. The renowned therapist listens to Natalie and Michelle bicker while taking copious notes.
Michelle interrupts Elliot’s sister again. “Let’s circle back around to Brianne for a sec.”
Natalie lets out a frustrated huff. “God—I knew you were gonna say that. She’s not right for Elliot!”
“Which is why I know he’ll try to send her packing again, but hear me out?—”
Irene pats Michelle’s tiny thigh. The gesture falls a little flat because her hand is limp with alcohol. She’s well-sauced, for sure. I drain the rest of my Pellegrino and nod toward Kat who gives me a big eye roll and returns her gaze to her own monitor.
Michelle’s resonant voice vibrates through my headset. “I think the point of all this is to get Elliot to see he hasn’t been going deep enough. Just because she looks exactly like every other girl he’s taken home from a party doesn’t mean there’s not something more to know about her. It’s a good lesson for him—especially when this gets down to the relationship work. It’s not like no one ever judges Elliot based on his looks.”
Natalie sits up, and Lavonne’s forehead lifts with interest. Her pen stops scribbling.
“I hear you,” Natalie says, “but I think the ship’s sailed with Brianne. He’s already tuning her out. Amanda’s still his type, and he seems more engaged with her.”
Michelle isn’t sold. “We already know he’s keeping Amanda. The point is who is he immediately discounting for reasons that might not be the right ones.”
Natalie raises her hand, like she’s excited to move on. “Okay—speaking to that—I think Elizabeth.”
“She’s too shy for him.” Michelle’s rebuke smacks of authority.
Natalie stands her ground. “I think she needs more time.”
I scoff internally. I’m with Michelle on this one. Time isn’t going to make Elizabeth right for Elliot. He needs someone with edge—someone to call him out on his moods—someone who can argue a point with him, not let him always have the last word?—
I press my eyes shut in an effort to halt the flow of thoughts. Matchmaking isn’t my job. My job is to make sure everyone is where they need to be, doing what they’re supposed to do—and making sure the right people stick around until the end. Elizabeth isn’t in my top three anyway.
Michelle refuses to back down. “He needs someone with more charisma.”
Lavonne flips a page on her legal pad and keeps taking notes.
“Ugh...can we decide already? I’d love a nap,” Irene says. I scowl at the screen. Is Irene only here for the open bar or what? She can’t keep her eyes open long enough to help determine the fate of her only son? She literally has one job here.
Natalie sends a sharp look her mother’s way. “What are your thoughts then, Mom?”
Lavonne clears her throat, puts down her pen, and leans forward in her chair. “If I may, we could go down the list. To make sure we’re not overlooking anyone.”
Elliot’s mother heaves a sigh and collapses back into her lounge chair.
Lavonne presses onward, her soft, husky voice smoothing out everyone’s rough edges. Even mine. Lavonne is nothing if not good at calming things down. “We’ve talked about Brianne. Is she a maybe, a definite no, or a definite save?”
“Let her go,” Natalie says.
“She’s a maybe,” Michelle interjects.
“Irene?”
Elliot’s mom waves a hand in front of her like she’s shooing an insect and not totally phoning in her job. “Let her go.”
“I agree.” Lavonne strikes through Brianne’s name and continues down her list. I’m pleased when the cameraman zooms in on her clipboard. I make a mental note to cut in some tight shots of the list during editing.
The next few names are all keepers, and The Panel experiences a moment of accord. Until the eighth name comes up. “Cassie.”
“Ooo...Cassie,” Natalie says with some intrigue. “I’m not sure which way he’s gonna go with her.”
“Her mom was horrible,” Michelle agrees.
“She was. Like wow.”
Ultra-conservative politics aside, Cassie from Scottsdale has a mom who could spot your cubic zirconia studs from a mile away and find you fundamentally lacking. Cassie herself seems great. She’s a neonatal nurse with a fresh face and fun personality to match, but her family was a seriously tough crowd.
“Cassie deserves a save,” Natalie says with a sidelong glance at her mom. “We can’t judge someone based on their mother.”
“I heard that,” Irene mumbles, though her eyes are closed.
“Cassie and Elliot were like two bros at a frat party,” Michelle complains.
“He said he didn’t want chemistry,” Natalie reminds her.
My eyebrows rise. Did he? That’s a surprise, considering Elliot is chemistry incarnate.
Michelle gives her head a sharp shake. “That’s bullshit, and we all know it. I think he’ll try to send her home.”
Natalie squares her shoulders, ready to fight the battle. “I think you’re wrong, but if he does, we’re saving her.”
“Whatever.” Michelle gives up.
Lavonne makes a big circle around Cassie’s name.
After all is finally said and done, The Panel’s top three saves are Cassie, Elizabeth, and the overly charismatic Rena from the Jersey Shore who is a total mismatch for Elliot, but who everyone likes too much to send home so soon.
I need to speak with Elliot. As far as I and the show are concerned, Cassie and Rena need to stay, which means Elliot can’t put them up for elimination at the same time. They both have potential for next season.
I dial Elliot’s flip phone, and he answers on the second ring.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“The guesthouse. About to get in the shower.”
“Listen, I need to go over a few things with you before tonight.”
“Phone’s about to die, so good luck.” He sounds as exhausted as I am.
I rush my words in case he’s telling the truth. “Who are you planning to eliminate?”
No response.
“Elliot?”
I glance at my screen to find the call has ended. “Shit.” Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose and ask myself a very important question: can this wait?
I’ll see him before the elimination.
Six hours later when he might already have his heart set on eliminating one of my women.
No, I need to catch him before he takes a nap—get his mind right so he doesn’t sleep on the wrong decision. Leaving the control room, I start across the lawn. My stomach growls, and a wave of light-headed emptiness ripples through me. I chug some water, but it doesn’t do the trick. Maybe Elliot has some food...
Except I’m not going on a date with him. We’re going to have a quick strategy chat, and I’ll be on my way.
After all, there’s no reason to think this meeting will be anything less than professional. The past two days, I’ve done an awesome job producing him without pissing him off.
I wanted to tell him about ten different times to put his shirt back on today, but I managed to keep my ass in my chair.
My eyes drift closed at the memory of that inky-blue tattoo covering his bronzed shoulder blade, conjuring images of midnight, reminding me of a dark hotel room with the television on, and his face in shades of blue...
My shoe hits a rock and I stumble, jolting me out of my dirty thoughts.
Elliot’s suite is adjoined to the main house by a short sidewalk—a small guesthouse right on the edge of the drop-off to the valley. Darkness settles over the hillside in a thick mist as I approach his door.
Elliot answers wearing sweatpants only. What’s left of his hair is slicked back, wet from a shower that left his body golden and glowing. The full-sleeve tattoo is all up close and personal. It’s graphic and bold, a design meant only to enhance the shape of him. There have been times I would have killed to trace a few lines of it again.
“Is this because my phone died?” His tone is dry, annoyed.
“Are we doing the rest of the show shirtless?”
“What?”
I cast my eyes beyond him and step inside, changing the subject to keep the peace. “You have any food here? I haven’t had a chance to eat.”
“We had six barbecues today.”
“I was working.”
The French doors in the bedroom are wide open, and the warm, romantic glow of gas lanterns on the terrace draw my gaze, but I didn’t come here to fall under anyone’s spell. I take a sharp right, heading for the kitchen where I find Elliot’s welcome basket full of nuts and protein bars. Tearing into one of the foil packages, I take a big bite. When I return my attention to Elliot, he’s standing across the island from me, his strong arms crossed over his bare chest.
My eyes aren’t the only ones roaming. To my chagrin, his penetrating gaze makes my inner thighs pulse with an all-too familiar ache.
“Hey.” I snap my fingers to get his attention back on my face. “Stop that.”
He blinks slowly. “Can we get this over with so I can sleep? What do you need?”
“Well, first, I need you to start charging your phone so we can avoid having to do this in the future.”
“The phone you guys gave me is a piece of shit.”
I take another bite of my bar and crack open a lukewarm bottle of water from the basket. “I listened in on The Panel going over their potential saves for tonight?—”
“Wait.” He holds up a hand to stop me. “Are you supposed to be telling me this?”
“I know how to do my job.”
“Did Jenna get tips on who her Panel was leaning toward?”
“Of course she did. I realize this is your life, but we’re also trying to tell a story.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “What story were you trying to tell with me?”
“Didn’t you watch the show?”
“No. I didn’t.”
I gape. “Seriously?”
His darkening glare assures me he’s absolutely serious. I avoid his eyes like I found the chalky bar in my hand totally fascinating, but also to avoid telegraphing the fact that it bothers me—the idea of his being so upset about losing Jenna he couldn’t even watch his television debut. “What are you planning to do about Cassie?”
“Keep her. Why?”
“What about her mom?” I ask.
“I’m not trying to marry her mom.”
“But I mean...you’d have to deal with her if you guys...”
He waves his hand in confusion. “I’m sorry—did you want me to send Cassie home?”
“No...”
“Did I answer your question? Are we done?” The sharpening of his tone betrays his impatience.
I cut to the chase. “Who are your bottom four?”
“I have to tell you?”
I roll my eyes. “Elliot, I’m not the audience. I don’t need to be kept in the dark about your desires and motivations, all right? You can be completely transparent with me. I’m like a confessional. You can tell me anything.”
“Is that right?” He starts to move, slowly, around the island until he’s on my side of it. I deliberately face forward, unwilling to look up at him. It doesn’t keep me from smelling him though. Spicy and woodsy, and all man. The entire side of my body he’s hovering near prickles with awareness.
I side-step to put some distance between us and finally turn to face him. My ears roar with the pounding of my pulse. My knees are even weak. If I were competing on the show, I’d be a jittering ball of nerves every time he so much as glanced my way. How are the women able to maintain their composure around him? Do they not see how disastrously hot he is? Does he not make them want to do things people only do on the internet? I fan my face and open my mouth to complain about how unpleasantly warm it is outside, but he speaks first.
“All my desires?”
“Have you been drinking?”
He grins. “I’ve only had six sangrias.”
His eyes show it, too, with the heavy lids and the wandering gaze. Anyway, it was a stupid question. It isn’t like I haven’t been watching him all damn day.
“Did you want to have a drink with me?” he asks.
A ridiculous giggle escapes my mouth. I have no idea where it came from. “No, thank you,” I manage. “Tell me your plan. I need some sleep, too.”
“Come on, Ginj. Let’s have a shot. One drink.”
Where have I heard that before? “I’m working.”
“You and your work ethic. Doesn’t it ever get old?”
“It’s keeping me employed, so I guess it’s still all the rage.”
Cocking his head to the side and giving me the most impossibly sexy look, he says in a low voice, “You had a drink with me once.”
Oh no he didn’t. He did not bring that night up. Again.
Well, if we’re playing dirty... “Right. In that brief period of—what was it?—five seconds that you weren’t on the show.”
His eyes narrow. “Ouch.”
Six sangrias, and he’s totally disinhibited. He isn’t thinking clearly. I need to get out of this. It occurs to me that I can go around the island the other way, so I do that, grabbing another protein bar for the road.
“What’s the matter, Ginger? You can’t keep me company for a few minutes?”
“You’re not even dressed.” I hate that those words are the first to blurt out of my mouth. I should be pretending I didn’t notice.
“Is that a problem?”
I muster up my best disgusted look and even make a grossed-out sound to go with it.
Elliot laughs. He isn’t buying my disgust, so it must not be too convincing. He’s highly aware of how gorgeous he looks. His body is in the best shape of his life, the sun from the mid-afternoon party settling into his skin, turning it a deeper tan, and with that midnight-blue tattoo covering his right arm... Yeah. He knows how hot he is. It isn’t like it doesn’t take confidence to come on a show like this.
“Look, I’m trying to keep this professional. I expect you to do the same. I’m your producer. Don’t treat me like some midwestern dental hygienist at one of your mixers.”
He smirks. “Don’t treat me like I’m some slob from accounting. You and I both know where your hands have been.”
I hold up one of said traitorous hands to shut him up. If we’re going there, I’m determined to steer the ship. “What happened was one night, months ago, and has nothing to do with the show. It was fun, but it ended the second I left the room.”
“No shit.”
“Frankly, as far as I’m concerned, it never happened.” Although if I’m honest with myself, it’s been impossible to forget.
“As long as we’re discussing it?—”
“We’re not. The discussion’s over.”
His smirk disappears, along with some of his composure.“Goddammit, Ginger. How’s it fair you get to say what you have to say, but I have to keep my mouth shut?”
“My show, my rules. Now tell me who you’re sending home tonight.”
“Go to hell.”
“Let’s not make this personal. You didn’t come here to rub my face in a mistake I made six months ago.” He didn’t—did he? I press on. “You came here to change your life. So let’s talk about the show. Can we do that?”
His eyes blaze—all fury and frustration. The Elliot no one wants to work with rears his ugly head. “Fuck the show.”
If straight talk won’t work, I’m not above begging. We need to get back on track, for both our sakes. “Elliot. Please. Let’s sit down so we can talk.”
“I’m not sitting with you,” he fumes.
“Okay, then let’s take some deep breaths. Can we do that?”
Shoving his hands through his wet hair, he grips his scalp and tugs hard. “Fuck!” he shouts. “Get out!”
“Elliot, seriously. Take a breath.”
He exhales harshly, the sound of it sending a shudder through me. I wait for the inhale, but it doesn’t come.
“Breathe,” I say again.
In through his nose, with his eyes closed, he slowly heaves in some air. As he blows it out, his eyes drift open.
We stare at each other across the kitchen island. His shoulders rise with his next inhale as my heart slams itself repeatedly into my chest wall.
“Rena, Brianne, Lucy, and Elizabeth,” he says.
“Elizabeth? Why?” I’m curious to know if he came to the same conclusion about their future compatibility as Michelle and I have.
“She’s a virgin.”
My eyes widen. “She told you that?”
“Her sister implied it.”
How did I miss that? “Virgins are a hard no?”
“Can you picture me with a virgin?”
All the air evacuates my chest in a gasp. Sense memory floods me. His demanding touch, some of the filthiest things I’ve ever heard... He’d scare a virgin half to death.
I gather my wits. I can’t think about that right now. “I think they’ll save Rena then. Any chance you’d want to keep Elizabeth around? Virgins make good TV. But it’s totally up to you.”
He gives me a look like I’m full of shit, and I can’t help but note he has a point. When it comes to the ending, very little will be left to Elliot. “I’ll send Katy then. I don’t care.” He sounds all defeated.
His tone concerns me. “You holding up okay?”
“I’m fine.” His voice is tight.
“Because I’m around if you need to talk.”
Grimacing, he waves his hand at me, turning toward his bedroom, as if he can erase my presence with the gesture.
I follow him only to the edge of the doorway.
He’s already collapsing on the bed face first, his long limbs loose and splayed. “Go away, Ginger.”
“Did you set your alarm? We’ll see you at nine-thirty?”
“Get. The hell. Out.”