3. Three
three
GINGER
In a dim, private room glowing with candles and strands of sparkling white lights, I gaze out a picture window toward the hillside pool, easily viewed from my vantage point on the plush and cozy sofa. Silk pillows and cashmere throws help further set the romantic mood in the Candle Room where Elliot will be sitting in less than twenty-four hours—his long legs spread, his gaze roaming, his tragically short hair... “I’d kill to make out here. You?”
Kat’s large blue eyes close as she sinks more deeply into the velvet sofa. She rests her cheek on her outstretched arm. “You offering?”
“Are you kidding? I’m exhausted.” Which surely explains my wandering thoughts. I yawn again. Curled up in cashmere, all I want in the world is a long nap, but we still have to do our final walk-through.
I run through my mental checklist. It’s currently two a.m. A seven a.m. meeting looms over the production staff where we’ll finalize the schedule for the week. If I get out of here by three, I’ll be able to nap before I have to be back at the Hacienda for the early meeting. The nap is all I can think about. Sleep is gold when production starts. Highly sought after, hard to come by, and immensely valuable.
Matt, the third and final member of the field production team, pokes his unshaven face into the Candle Room. “Ginger—there’s a problem with the hot tub.” He coughs and chokes on the last words. He quit smoking two weeks ago and can barely finish a sentence without the words getting caught up in the cleansing of his lungs.
I rub at my tired eyes. “What kind of problem?”
“There was a dead bird in it.”
“Of course there was.” The hot tub is the bane of our existence.
Matt clears his throat and coughs again, this time having the decency to do it into his elbow. “I added it to my list for the morning, I wanted you to know—in case it’s not up and running.”
Kat lugs herself off the sofa, pulling all her wilted strawberry-blond hair over one shoulder. Everyone I’ve run into since I arrived at the Hacienda needs a long shower and a week of sleep. “At least it’s not another bobcat,” Kat says.
I grimace as I also stand. The memory not a pleasant one. “No one’s gonna strip their ball gown off tomorrow for a dip. This isn’t that kind of show.”
Kat snorts a laugh. “I’m not sure I’d put anything past these ladies. Elliot changes the game a little.”
I glance sharply in her direction. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, all of America knows what he likes to do in the water.”
I scowl as I adjust my faltering ponytail. “Let’s try to keep this first episode PG.”
She’s referring to Elliot and Jenna’s Indian Ocean interlude. Everyone on the set, and pretty much everyone in America, could tell what went on out there. And behavior like that is not in line with the vision of the show.
I glance at the opulently romantic couch and remove a cashmere throw along with two of the pillows. I can’t have him making out with people on the first night. No reason for anyone to get too cozy. It isn’t personal. It just isn’t what the creators had in mind.
Although I wasn’t exactly clear about that in the meeting, what with waving Elliot’s test results around in front of everyone like I expected him to hit the ground running. Chewing on my lip as we leave the Candle Room, I weigh the benefit of meeting with him one more time before production starts—to give him a quick reminder about the tone of the show.
“Any other last-minute problems?” I ask Matt as we head down the hall to the main living area.
“A few light bulbs, but my PA is on it.”
I scowl at the reminder. “Speaking of, where’s my PA?”
“Vanessa’s taking an alcohol inventory.”
“Great. So we’ll be here all night.” Vanessa works hard, but she’s not exactly swift.
Matt scratches at his untamed beard and yawns loudly. “She’s almost done. Anyway, I think we’re about finished. Why don’t you head out? Get some rest.”
“Me, too?” Kat asks.
Matt looks at her like she just broke into song. “You can’t both leave.”
“Then why should she get to?”
“Look at her.”
Kat and Matt both regard me. I frown, resenting the implication that I look worse than they do. “I’m fine. Let’s do the walk-through.”
Starting at the front door, we enter the house the way one of the contestants will—as America will. Adjusting flower arrangements and perfecting candle placement, we turn down the hall toward The Panel’s viewing room. The converted media room has no windows, but it houses a wall of television screens, a brand-new leather sectional, and a separate sitting area where each woman will come for a brief introduction to Elliot’s friends and family before heading into the mixer.
“Lavonne wanted us to take out all the hard liquor,” Kat mentions, referring to our relationship expert.
“You didn’t, did you?” I ask.
“No,” Matt says with a short laugh. “I didn’t order blackout curtains for the guesthouse, either.”
The guesthouse will be Elliot’s main living quarters as it is for every star. What does Lavonne think he’ll be doing in there? I give my head a little shake. I don’t want to know. Better the windows remain uncovered.
Leaving the viewing room, we continue down the hall into an open living area complete with a chef’s kitchen, plenty of seating, and another expansive view of the lit-up, heated pool outside. I fluff pillows and arrange drapes while Kat wipes smudges off the sub-zero. The ritual is like decorating a Christmas tree. It’s hard to imagine doing a job like this without Kat and Matt. But then again, if I’m showrunner, other people will be doing all of this for me, and I’ll be asleep in my fancy Australian penthouse.
“I could stand to stay here a few weeks,” Matt says as he nudges a sofa an inch to the left.
“Maybe we’ll consider you for next season.”
The thirty-something producer glances at me with tired eyes and a face I remember being attractive when we both started this job. “I’ll pass, thanks,” he says. “I don’t want my mom picking my next wife. She’ll do a worse job than I did.”
“What about Lavonne?”
Matt only chuckles and shakes his head.
Kat joins us at the French doors. “I’m giving the Hacienda my stamp of approval. Can we go now?”
The next day, operating on only two hours of sleep, I wait for Elliot to arrive at a quiet Italian restaurant in Moorpark, down the hill from the Hacienda. The early production meeting went as smoothly as anyone could have hoped, but after spending four hours with Kat visiting the hotel rooms of all fifteen women to give them the ground rules for show etiquette, I no longer believe I’m living my best life. Having to picture each one of them walking into the sunset with Elliot was more nauseating than I expected. But maybe I’m just tired.
If he doesn’t show up soon, I’ll be falling asleep on the bar.
Like an alarm clock blaring, my phone rings. The sight of my twin sister Anise’s face sets my nerves even more on edge. “Ani, this isn’t a good time.” I’m in no mood to justify my life choices.
“Hazel wants to talk to you—it’ll be quick, promise!”
“Hi, Ginger!” my five-year-old niece chirps. Despite the inconvenient timing, Hazel is the hardest to resist.
“Hey, Hazeldoodle. What have you been up to?”
“Waiting for you to come back to visit. Today we made the best ever clam chowder. It tasted just like Grandma’s! I saved some for when you come.”
I grimace as the little girl somehow manages to sum up all my childhood struggles in the space of an innocent offer of a bowl of soup.
According to our mother, my twin and I were opposites since day one. Anise was good, I was bad. Anise breastfed beautifully, slept soundly, and never complained. I required months of lactation training, rarely slept, and screamed all the time. By elementary school my parents had written me off as an unruly rebel when all I’d really been was a kid with chronic stomach cramps due to a dairy allergy.
Diagnosed finally at age eight.
My mother, the gourmet chef, has never forgiven me for it. She detested cooking without butter, and chowder is her specialty. Basically, I’m the family pain in the ass.
“I wish I could come sooner, but I’m so busy sweetie. I love you, though. Could you put your mother back on the phone, please? Talk soon. Kisses.”
I smooch into the receiver as Hazel hands the phone back to my diabolically sweet twin. At what point will she stop using her adorable daughters to convince me to move back to the Bay Area? Why the hell would I want to return to living in Anise’s shadow? “Not cool,” I admonish.
“I use the weapons I have at hand.” Anise snickers. “So what are you doing? Working? You work too hard. You know if you worked for me, I’d actually give you two days off a week. Think of all the fun you could have with forty-eight whole hours at your fingertips.”
“I have fun,” I lie. “And I’m not interested in the food service industry.”
“You’re a snob, is what you’re saying.” Anise’s tone is light, joking. “You’re too good for the family business?”
“I hate food.” It isn’t that I’m think I’m too good for my family. They just don’t get me. Fighting to be heard was key to my survival.
Early on I had big plans. Anise may have been content to follow in our mother’s footsteps, but I had dreams. While my elementary school teachers likely cringed every time my name showed up on one of their rosters, and I spent my fair share of time in the principal’s office explaining my resistance to traditional learning, my high school theater director—a Hollywood veteran herself—was different. She was the first adult in my life who recognized how badly I needed a safe way to express myself in a medium other than summer vacation essays or food. And she gave me the keys to the theater.
Anything is possible on a stage or screen. Once a pastime, it became my passion.
After years of sacrificing friends who didn’t “get” my hectic schedule, potential boyfriends I never made enough time for, and more family functions than I can count, I’m finally, finally on the verge of having something to show for myself. My own show. An executive producer credit. A chance to create something all my own.
I’ve seen Marlon’s Emmy, and I want one, too. If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that the only person I can count on to put me first is me. It’s something my sister couldn’t possibly understand. Anise has come first since day one.
Speaking of runners-up, outside the restaurant, Matched ’s most famous loser pulls up in a limousine. “Ani, I have to go. Seriously. Give my love to all the people, and I’ll catch up with you another time.”
“Wait—Ginger?—”
“Bye.” I hang up before Anise can toss another guilt trip at my feet. I have enough problems already, and he just walked in the door. I don’t allow myself to spare a thought for my casual work clothes or disastrous hair. In fact, the less appealing I make myself, the better to distinguish this encounter from the last time I watched him walk into a bar.
God, he looks ridiculous. So hot it burns even from a distance. The way his dove-gray suit fits his long, lean body almost makes up for the fact that some asshole cut two inches off his hair.
I sip the one drink I’ve allotted myself for this meeting, hoping it will take the edge off being in a room with him.
Elliot approaches with his signature stalk, the type of walk only the sexiest men are given by whatever higher power they subscribe to. His stride is long and strong, but his shoulders remain relaxed, as if he doesn’t give a damn about anything. Despite his new, polished look, he remains insanely appealing.
The air in the restaurant grows thinner as he approaches, but there’s still enough of it to carry the spicy, clean scent of him. Eau d’Temptation.
Leaning against the bar top, he stares down at me. His perfectly tamed hair hasn’t moved an inch, and my hand twitches with an urge to ruffle it up—grab a handful of it and make a mess. “Here I am,” he says.
Yes. He is. Here. Jesus, this is weird. And familiar. And I cannot go there right now! Clearing a sudden clog from my throat, I indicate the stool behind him. “Have a seat.”
He does what he’s told, pulling up on the legs of his pants to give himself the required slack. Resting an elbow on the bar, he waits with an expectant lift of his finely groomed eyebrows. De?ja? fucking vu.
Makeup has done some nice work on his face. His complexion is poreless. He’s glowing. His strong jawline is shaved so close I’d question whether or not he grew hair there if it hadn’t roughed up my own cheek once upon a big mistake. After blinking the memory away and giving myself a swift reminder that none of his amped-up good looks are for my benefit, I move straight to the point of our meeting.
“I needed a chance to talk to you about tone,” I begin. “We didn’t get to discuss it yesterday.”
“You were too busy making sure I didn’t have chlamydia.”
“I mean—it can be a full-time job.”
His deliciously sensual mouth quirks, but he wipes off what might have turned into a smile fairly quickly when he sees I’m not returning it. “Tone, then,” he says.
“As I reminded the women today, Matched is geared toward a wide audience.”
His stare remains blank and flat, but his dark blue eyes have some sort of gravitational force working...so obnoxious . I drive my point home. “Meaning it isn’t meant to be some late-night hot-tubbing bachelor fantasy.”
“I’ve been on the show, Ginger.”
“I’m aware of that, Elliot , and yet—you still managed to have on-camera sex with a woman in the ocean.”
It’s his turn to clear his throat as he takes a glance around the bar. “I forgot you were paying such close attention.”
You’re in charge, Ginger. Handle him. “You need to understand the network isn’t interested in making that type of behavior a regular occurrence. We understand things happen when feelings start to get involved, but in the end, this is a relationship show. Not a hookup show. If anything, it errs toward educational.”
He smirks. “Is that the kind of thing you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?”
“I don’t have any problems sleeping at night.”
“No?” Sitting back, Elliot runs his hand slowly up his muscled thigh. “You’ll have to tell me your secret.”
The movement of his hand lights a match inside me. His tone is overly intimate and all-too reminiscent of a conversation I’ve tried very hard to forget. Nevertheless, my nerves come alive with sparks of flame, and if I were the type to blush, my face would be beet red as I glance exactly where the movement of his hand leads me. His crotch.
He meant to do that.
I snap my gaze back to his face. “We need to be on the same page, Elliot. Otherwise, this doesn’t work.”
“Then why don’t you get me there, Ginger?”
I huff. “I— we don’t want you making out with anyone on the first night, or the second, or the third. We want you focused on getting to know people. In the platonic sense.”
“Right.” He nods like he’s on board. “What all great marriages are made of.”
“If you plan to end up with a life partner at the end of this, it’s in your best interest to explore true compatibility.”
His eyes hold onto mine with the type of pull the moon has on the ocean. How does he do that?
“Sometimes things happen, Ginger. Nature takes its course.”
God, am I really going to have to stand on the sidelines again while he gets his game on with fifteen different women? I want to gag. Forcing my expression to remain neutral, I lay down the rules. “Nature’s gonna have to wait. Once you’re down to about four women, we’ll be allowing a little more intimacy than usual.”
His brows lift with interest. “Oh? Why’s that?”
“Because you’re you. And you and Jenna set a precedent. And it’s what the network wants.” The words burn my throat like battery acid.
“And if I’m not feeling it?”
“I’m sure you’ll have no problem feeling it,” I say before I can stop myself.
His gaze sharpens, and I freeze when the pointed edge of it pins me in place. The air between us suddenly gets steamy, too thick to breathe. Was it the way I said it? Too sultry? Or is the weight of the unspoken words between us making the atmosphere heavier?
He straightens in his seat, breaking the spell. “So six weeks? No touching? That’s what you wanted to tell me?”
“Yes.”
He sighs. “We could’ve done this on the phone.”
“I wanted you to see my face so you know how serious I am.”
“Maybe you should get me a phone that supports FaceTime.”
The attempt to suppress my laugh comes out as a snort. He finally cracks a smile. Lowering his voice, he adds, “I admit, I kinda thought you wanted to talk about?—”
Tension spikes through me, forcing my spine to stiffen. “Don’t.” I raise a hand to stop any further words that might even be thinking about coming out of his mouth. I have a job to do, and strolling down erotic memory lane isn’t part of it. “That was a mistake. There’s nothing to talk about.”
His face goes instantly blank, his entire body rigid.
“Good. Because it was meaningless. That’s what you need to hear?”
Meaningless? The cruel word lands like a sucker punch. As much as I’ve repeated the same phrase in my own head, hearing it from his mouth knocks the wind out of me. I exhale through my teeth. He needs to remember who he’s dealing with. “Elliot—I swear to God. You breathe one single word about that night to me or anyone else, and I’ll make sure you end up with the girl of your worst night- mares.”
He stands, straightening his slacks, my empty threat having zero effect. “You’ll have to get through Michelle first. Are we done?”
“Yeah. We’re done.” I’m already breathing easier.
Elliot stalks away from me. “I’d offer you a ride, but I know how you get in limos.”
Frustration and rage make for a sour mix in the back of my throat. “Fuck you, Elliot.”
“I believe you already did.”