Chapter 3
SYDNEY
“One formal dress for every compass ceremony.”
I huff, glowering at my closet.
“Like a ballgown? For every ceremony? Who even owns a ball gown, let alone one for every ceremony? And how many ceremonies are there anyway? You’d think they’d include that information in the stupid email.
But no. That would be too fucking easy.” With a grunt, I yank little black dresses and oversized T-shirts on their hangers across the rod.
My empty suitcase is open on the floor and the email mocks me from one of the monitors set up on my desk. Like a massive middle finger to my sanity.
“This is the dumbest waste of time ever,” I tell the clothes.
My wardrobe is basic. T-shirts, yoga pants, and a handful of dresses for when Jessie and I go out.
Went out.
The last time we went out together was before she started dating her now-husband almost a year ago. My bestie moved fast, and before I could blink, she was married and had a four-year-old stepson.
And that’s great—for her. She deserves her happiness.
But now that she’s gone, I keep myself busy with work. I’d rather not go out and deal with the mouth-breathing, business-suit-wearing gym bros that frequent the clubs anyway.
They’re more hassle than they’re worth.
Spinning from my lackluster closet, I reach for my phone and pull up the group text I started with Jessie and Leigh when I found out I’d be posing as a contestant on Searching for Love.
I changed my mind.
Okay, I didn’t.
You guys should see this ridiculous packing list.
I toss my phone back onto my bed and pace to the closet again. With both hands, I yank several T-shirts out and toss them at the gaping black hole of my suitcase. Then I stalk to the dresser and snag two pairs of yoga pants.
“Does that count as ‘athletic wear’?”
It fucking better.
It’s what I would wear if I went to the gym.
Not that I have time for that bullshit.
“I doubt that’s what the producers of Searching for Love meant,” a voice says from behind me.
My heart lurches and I scream, the underwear in my hand flying as I spin and find my two best friends in the doorway of my room.
My second scream is for an entirely different reason. It escapes me as I launch myself at them. Bouncing up and down, I wrap them both in an awkward group hug.
“Holy shit. What are you guys doing here? I didn’t hear you come in.”
For the first time in almost a week, since I was given this assignment, I feel okay. Like everything will be fine. Like I’m not going to screw this up for me. For Sawyer. For SAFE Haven.
Jessie laughs. “I still have my key, goofball.”
“And we figured you needed reinforcements,” Leigh adds.
“You guys have no idea,” I tell them, the burn of tears stinging my nose.
My trepidation has nothing to do with my loathing for Cy Darby. No, the anxiety is about sequestering with seven other women for weeks, all the while filtering what I say. I haven’t had to be that person in over ten years.
I don’t know how to do that anymore.
But I’ll have to figure it out. I have no choice.
“We could tell. Every time you texted, you got a little more…” Jessie pauses, searching for the right word.
“Unhinged?” I suggest.
“Fiery,” Leigh corrects.
Jessie nods. “Fiery. That works.”
That’s one way to describe the debate I’ve been having with myself about the assignment.
I panicked when I realized I’d have to share a room—something I’ve never done before.
Fortunately, when Sawyer spoke to the head of the studio, he discovered that for the first time in twenty seasons, each contestant would have her own room.
Only one assistant producer on the set will know why I’m there, and she convinced them that because Cy was a celebrity, our accommodations should be a little more luxurious.
An emotion far harsher than panic hit me when I was told I couldn’t bring my laptop. The show doesn’t allow contestants to have access to electronics. No cell phones, computers, or any connection to the outside world.
Clearly, I’ll have to be in communication with my team, so I’ve been told I can smuggle in my cell phone. No matter how loud I got, my laptop remained a no-go, let alone the computer system that takes up the majority of one wall in my bedroom.
The best that Sawyer could come up with is an iPad we can stash in the lining of my suitcase.
“They sent me the packing list today.” I gesture to the monitor.
Squealing, Leigh darts for the monitor. Jessie follows more sedately behind her.
“I’ve always wondered about what the girls are told to bring,” Leigh says.
Being a super-fan—she’s seen every season at least three times—she’s been the most excited about my undercover gig.
Even Cy won’t know who I am. Not only because I’ve changed a lot since I met him at sixteen, but because we aren’t telling him.
Sawyer, Cole, and I agreed that the fewer people who know why I’m there, the less likely it’ll be to tip off Scarlett.
We don’t want anyone to accidentally make a comment about it or treat me in a way that reveals that I’m not there to actually find love.
“Look at that first line. A ball gown for every ceremony. I don’t even know how many there are. I don’t even own a ballgown, let alone multiple.” With a beleaguered sigh, I collapse on the bed.
“There are eight,” Leigh says automatically.
I huff a laugh. Of course she knows.
“We could go shopping,” Jessie offers.
Fuck. That. Noise.
I open my eyes and glare at her.
“I know you hate shopping,” she says, “but what choice do you have? How many of these items do you actually have?”
“I have the swimwear covered. And pajamas.”
“When do you leave?” Leigh asks, finally looking away from the email.
“Tuesday.”
My friends share a look. One even I recognize.
Yes, Tuesday, as in two days from now.
“I know, I know. I need to get my ass in gear.” But I don’t move off the bed.
Leigh comes into my view, looking down at me and holding out her hand. “Get your shoes. We have some shopping to do.”
I groan but reach out and let her pull me up.
“We have our work cut out for us,” Jessie adds.
“Gee, thanks, guys. Tell me how you really feel,” I grumble.
Leigh giggles. “We don’t have time for that.”
Huffing, I snatch the remote from the coffee table and pause the show. On the screen, the contestant goes still, tears streaming down her face in freeze-frame glory.
“People actually buy that shit?”
“Huh?” Leigh turns away from the screen, a sheen of tears in her eyes shining in the light.
I shake my head. Question answered. “No. No. No. It’s fake. This is bullshit.” I toss the remote onto the couch and stand.
“I don’t think that’s acting,” Jessie adds with a sniffle.
“You can’t be serious.” I throw my hands up and stalk to the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” Leigh asks.
“Grabbing more snacks.” And giving myself a break.
After six hours of torture—also known as shopping—the two of them promised me a night in with junk food. Like a parent promising a toddler on the edge of a temper tantrum a reward if they behave.
What they didn’t mention? Watching Searching for Love. Multiple episodes.
Traitors.
In two days I’ll be stuck in a house full of strangers while I pretend to like an asshole I swore to hate for the rest of eternity, and now I’m being forced to watch episodes of the damn show like a football player studying game tape.
Research, they call it.
As if I haven’t suffered enough.
They dragged me to store after store for dresses, jeans, pants, sweaters, shoes, and makeup, when I prefer buying my clothes online.
Then there were the hair products. Multiple. When I consider shampoo and conditioner almost every day good, with dry shampoo as a bonus.
Bag after bag of clothes.
It was like the Miss Congeniality movie that Jessie loves, but without the all-night makeover operation in the airplane hangar.
I should probably thank God for small miracles.
But at least Sandra Bullock had a gun. Okay, maybe I don’t want to be carrying a gun. The point is that even after all the changes, she managed to stay her badass self.
“Can’t we watch something else?” I ask, tossing a bag of popcorn into the microwave.
Am I even allowed to eat stuff like this when I get to the show? So far, I haven’t seen any of the women actually eat. They picked at charcuterie boards like they had just come from an all-you-can-eat buffet but didn’t want to be rude.
Just watching them makes me hungry.
“You leave the day after tomorrow,” Jessie reminds me. “It’s important to know what you’re walking into.”
I grit my teeth. Her logic has no place here.
As the popping continues, I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of butter and salt as the popping continues.
“Are you coming back or do we need to drag you in here?” Jessie calls as the timer on the microwave beeps.
“I’m coming, I’m coming. Want anything while I’m up?”
“Quit stalling. We have another season to watch,” Leigh says.
With a groan, I dump the popcorn into a bowl.
“What the fuck did I do to you to deserve this torture?” I ask, flopping back onto the couch without spilling my popcorn.
A talent I’ve perfected since Jessie moved out.
“It’s not that bad.” Leigh giggles, reaching for the popcorn.
“I’d rather watch the BBC’s Pride & Prejudice miniseries than any more of this brain cell-killing reality dating show,” I say around a mouthful popcorn.
My friends share another look. They’ve been doing it all fucking day.
But they also know how much I dislike Mr. Darcy.
The guy was a dick.
Just like the one I’m going to have to spend time with.
Darcy. Darby. Coincidence?
I don’t think so.
Leigh waves the remote. “Ready to keep watching?”
I sigh. “If I say no, does it matter?”
“What do you think?” Jessie asks.
I think I’m fucked. So I shove another handful of popcorn into my mouth and settle in.