Chapter 5
SYDNEY
The door has barely closed behind me when I whip out my phone.
My fingers tremble as I type out a message to Jessie and Leigh, my racing heart causing an adrenaline rush as well as a collision of sixteen-year-old me—the poor na?ve child who was attracted to Cy—and the me I am today.
You know what’s worse than seeing the man you want to punch in the face but can’t?
Having him spill coffee on your white shirt AND the dress and still wanting to punch him in his smug asshole face.
A face that has aged too damn well. I can’t attribute his chiseled good looks to the magic of AI. Not after being close enough to smell him. To feel the heat that radiated off his toned skin when he passed me the shirt I’m still holding now.
The coffee has cooled and my shirt is stuck to my skin, the smell of the dark brew teasing my nostrils while I shiver in the air-conditioned building.
“Can I help you?” A young woman approaches me, a badge dangling around her neck. Her eyes widen as she takes in the rapidly expanding stain on my shirt.
“I’m here for the contestant photo shoot for Searching for Love. Sydney Turner.”
She nods. “You’re the first one here. You just missed Cy actually. God, he’s such a hottie,” she says, fanning herself.
Sure thing, babes.
Because while he is attractive—I’m not blind—I refuse to acknowledge it out loud. Not like I could anyway. Not based on the position I’m in.
“I didn’t actually miss him,” I say with what I hope is a conspiratorial wink.
Even if I wish he’d missed me.
“Did you bring your dress? I thought Mara said—”
“My dress had a run-in with the rest of this.” I gesture to the stain on my shirt. “It should be back in a couple of hours.”
As she chews on her lip, surveying me, my phone buzzes in my hand. It’s only by sheer willpower—and the way notifications are set up on my phone—that I don’t glance down at the screen.
Thank God the electronics rule doesn’t go into effect until tonight. I’m already having withdrawals.
“We’re on a pretty tight schedule. If the dress isn’t back by the time we’re ready, I can probably find something for you.”
Jeans. Tell me I can wear jeans. Maybe not my coffee-stained shirt, but my jeans somehow made it out of the incident unscathed.
“Is there somewhere I can go to clean up?” I ask. My first order of business is getting out of the clammy T-shirt.
“Yeah. Follow me.”
When I’m safely locked inside the restroom, I strip out of the ruined cotton and wipe at the sticky residue on my skin with damp paper towels. The coffee scent grows stronger at first but eventually disappears.
For a moment, I focus on my breathing, in and out, willing my muscles to relax. In this room, I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to like Cy. I don’t need to have my shit together. I’m just me.
I’m going to be spending a lot of time in bathrooms if just one five-minute interaction with him alone has me wishing I could do something else. But I don’t look good in orange, and I’m supposed to be protecting him, not murdering him.
I’d prefer doing anything over spending time with him.
“You can’t. You have a job to do,” I tell my reflection.
Sighing, I grab the stained shirt off the paper towel dispenser and run it under the tap. I’ve only worn it once, and I love how soft the cotton feels against my skin. When the coffee is mostly gone, I wring it out and toss it into my bag.
Fuck, I wish I had another T-shirt or tank top in my bag instead of the mountain of makeup Jessie forced me to pack.
Jessie.
My phone.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket and open it to read the texts waiting for me.
JESSIE
Do NOT punch anyone in the face.
LEIGH
Is the dress okay?
I snort a laugh. Of course Leigh is concerned about the dress.
Not sure.
Cy had his assistant run it to a one-hour dry cleaner.
Because of course the pretty boy can snap his fingers and have a lackey do his bidding. I bet he has an army of them.
LEIGH
It should come out if they get to it right away.
That dress was perfect for tonight.
JESSIE
He had an assistant take it in for emergency dry-cleaning? Is he really as bad as you think he is?
“They have no idea,” I whisper. My reflection nods in agreement.
He did it because he was trying to make a good first impression.
Little did he know that wasn’t the first impression of him I’ve had.
He wants in my pants.
I know enough about men to recognize the signs. His attraction to me was as clear as the reflection in front of my face right now.
That’s never been the problem.
He was attracted to me when I met him when I was sixteen. And I was dumb enough to be attracted to him too. Now I’m old enough to know better.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“Okay, fine. He’s still fucking hot. But you are not going to act on it,” I tell my reflection. She only stares back at me.
LEIGH
We talked about how this wasn’t going to be easy.
JESSIE
You can do it.
Eyes on the prize.
I take a deep breath, assess myself in the mirror, and square my shoulders.
Beast mode activated.
The end goal has to stay at the top of my mind.
Help the studio.
Get the cyber security arm I want for SAFE Haven.
It takes effort to ignore the way my body heats as I slide the butter-soft button-down along my arms, and it’s virtually impossible to forget the memory of shirtless Cy Darby standing in front of me, holding out a garment that smells like all manner of sinful temptation.
He’s only gotten better looking with age. The toned arms and shoulders, the hard chest that tapers to the shadows of muscles I want to count with my tongue.
As I button the shirt, hints of his panty-melting cologne tease my nostrils. I groan. Dammit. I’d rather have the cold coffee smell back. The shirt is massive on me, so I tie the ends into a knot at my waist and roll the sleeves up so they cuff at my forearms.
By the time I step out of the bathroom, there are three other women picking at the food set up on a table near the white backdrop and two others in makeup chairs already being worked on.
“Ready or not, here I go.” I head toward the table.
I don’t have any electronic surveillance. I have to commit everything I learn about these women to memory, and I have to make it seem like I don’t have any interest in them beyond their status as my competition for Cy’s heart.
I deserve a cookie for not gagging as those words cross my mind.
Gingerly, I pick up a maple bar donut and lift the sweet confection to my lips. The icing instantly melts against my tongue, pulling a groan from deep in my chest.
“I hope you’re going to eat some protein with that,” a woman with a ponytail dressed in joggers says, lifting a celery stick from a tray.
I shrug. “Probably not.”
Sugar and carbs don’t ask questions. They don’t demand anything other than enjoyment.
And I fucking deserve that after the day I’ve had.
Ponytail—I nickname her Sporty Spice—narrows her eyes at me as she chomps on the stick. I try not to grin. Making enemies before we’ve really begun wouldn’t help me complete this mission.
“Don’t mind Simone. She’s a physical trainer and nutritionist,” the woman at the other end of the table says with a slight drawl.
Sporty Spice—Simone—rolls her eyes and strides toward the makeup area.
“Hi, I’m Josie.” This woman’s soft brown waves are held back with floral clips, her brown eyes warm and genuine.
“Sydney.” I shake her hand, then snag a bottle of water from the table.
Josie peppers me with questions, tossing in facts about herself here and there. Within minutes, I’ve learned that she’s a second-grade teacher from Dallas.
She lights up when she finds out I was born and raised in LA. “Oh. You’re from LA? Do you know anyone famous? What do you do for work? Are you an actress?” Her questions are rapid fire as she moves around the table to stand next to me.
I hold back a snort at her question about being an actress. I’m putting on an Emmy-award winning performance, but it’s not like I can tell her that.
“Born and raised. I’m in IT.” While we stuck with many details from my real life, like being from in LA, it’s best if I keep my actual career field to myself.
Working in IT is vague enough and close enough to the truth make sense and not raise questions.
I don’t answer her about knowing anyone famous.
That’s my business, not hers or anyone else’s.
“IT? I bet you’re super smart.” She gives me another bright smile.
I’m equal parts flattered and suspicious. Is she really as sweet as she acts?
I shrug. “I guess. You must have a lot of patience, working with seven-year-olds all day long.”
She laughs. “They can definitely try my patience, but I love kids.” She peers around the room.
“You’ve met Simone and me. Kendall was here a second ago.
She’s from Denver. Brielle and Renee are both in makeup over there.
Brielle is from Las Vegas. Can you believe that?
What a fun place to be from. And Renee is from Kansas City. ”
“Aren’t there supposed to be eight of us?” I ask, making note of names and cataloging faces.
“Mmm.” Josie makes a noise of agreement around a strawberry.
She chews delicately and swallows before answering.
“Cassidy is in the bathroom. Poor thing was in tears when she came in. One of the assistants took her to freshen up. I’m not sure about the last contestant.
Maybe there are only seven of us this time?
Did you hear that Cyrus Darby is the searcher this season?
” she asks, her expression turning to one of awe.
“I love him. Boys Next Door was my favorite band in high school. I can’t wait to meet him. ”
“Do you always talk this much?” an unfamiliar voice says.
“Take a breath. I’m the eighth contestant.
Jade Sinclair. And before you can ask, I’m an attorney from Seattle, Washington.
” Her dark hair is pulled back into a complicated knot at her nape, her makeup already flawless as she glides smoothly toward us from the exterior door.
Fuck. I need to pay better attention.
I didn’t even notice her until she spoke.
Part of me wants to agree with her. Josie has talked nonstop in the three minutes I’ve known her. But the way she inserted herself was rude, and Josie looks crestfallen.
“Sounds like someone is jealous that she isn’t the center of attention,” I spit at her, grasping Josie’s arm and tugging her away from Jade.
God, what a bitch.
The word nearly comes out of my mouth, but I suck in my lips to hold it back.
“Oh. No, she’s right,” Josie says. “I tend to talk a lot when I’m nervous, and I’m really nervous. Seriously, if I’m talking too much, you can tell me.”
I want to. It’s on the tip of my tongue.
But with that earnest look in her eyes, it feels like I’d be reprimanding a sweet little puppy.
And there’s no way can I do that.
“You’re fine,” I tell her.
While she talks, I can watch the other six women.
There’s no way Josie is the woman we’re looking.
One down and six more to go.