Cabot
"All right, everyone, thank you for joining me today.
" I bring my hands into a prayer position in front of my chest, bow my head, and pause, letting the camera zoom in nice and close on my tanned arms, which are popping like crazy in my KUWTV tank top.
Custom-made, of course. "Now, humans, let's get into a wide stance, really earth yourself into the ground in this beautiful park that we're in on this sunny Los Angeles morning, and doggos, let's get those tails wagging. "
I hear a groan to my right and grin. Scooter Burns isn't buying my shtick. I could tell he didn't like me from the moment we met last week. My mom would describe him as the type of person who wears his heart on his sleeve, and his face was firmly set to I do not like the new guy.
My one and only job, the sole reason I've been brought in to shake season six up, is to get Scooter Burns to hate me, and so far, my mission is on track.
I just have to keep it up for one season, make enough money to pay for my brother's medical bills, and then I'll be able to help Mom out and get that sleazy producer, Riff Kruger, out of my life once and for all.
I've never had a one-night stand in my life, and of course the first time I do, it's with a fucked-up maniac who is now blackmailing me.
I guide the six ladies, two guys, and eight adorable doggos through the rest of the beginner doga—dog yoga—routine.
"Cut! That was great. Take five, everyone," the director calls out after a few minutes.
I join Scooter by the snack table laid out under a wide jacaranda tree and help myself to a turkey wrap.
"Having fun?" I ask.
"Couldn't be having more fun if I tried," he shoots back, lifting an apple Danish.
My job in the scene is to lead the class, and his is to deal with any naughty dogs who might play up.
He was thrilled when we got the assignment this morning, his face so tight the muscles around his eyes pinched into hard little lines.
He wears his heart on his sleeve by showing every emotion on his face. And what a captivating face it is. Too bad the only emotions I'm drawing out of him are anger and irritation, but it's the role I've been assigned, so what can I do?
"Are you sure about that?" I eye the pastry then pat my stomach. My flat stomach.
He lets out an irritated huff, his eyes sharpening as they glare at me. "There's more to life than washboard abs. But I guess you wouldn't know that being, what, two years out of high school?"
"I'm twenty-six, thank you very much."
"So you just finished vet school?"
"Correct."
He scoffs but drops the Danish and picks up a protein bar instead, tearing the wrapper open with his teeth.
It sucks that I've only been brought in to stir the pot and piss Scooter off.
I've had the biggest crush on him since the show started five years ago.
He's outspoken but fair, funny, charming, and totally the kind of guy I'm into looks-wise.
The thing about LA is that you're constantly surrounded by perfect-looking people. Give me real over perfect any day of the week. Scooter is both cute and quirky, a combo that drives me wild, with big ears that hang low on the sides of his face, a well-kept bushy beard, thick, unruly hair I’d kill to run my fingers through, and hazel eyes that can go from playful to intense in a nanosecond, which I've witnessed firsthand multiple times already.
We chew in silence, and as I steal a sideways glance at him, I wonder if he already knows his fate or if the producers are going to spring his departure on him the way they did my arrival.
I'm what's called a wild card, brought in at the last minute to shake things up. Being a reality TV junkie, I know the tricks of the trade.
If only I'd been smarter with Riff.
"We're about to shoot." Scooter's voice is clipped as he tosses the wrapper into the trash can. "Don't be late. Again."
The rest of the doga segment goes well. By the end, though, the doggos are well and truly over it, and not even Scooter crawling around on his hands and knees bribing them with organic treats makes any difference.
The director has enough footage, so we wrap up.
Since the other guys are out filming when we get back to the Hollywood Hills mansion the six of us share during filming, one of the story producers suggests a mid-afternoon Jacuzzi so that Scooter and I can 'get to know each other better,' which is definitely not a ploy to get us in Speedos again.
I don't remember there ever being this much skin on the show before, but I guess after so many seasons, they need to spice things up a bit.
"So, tell me about yourself," Scooter says for the third time—since his first two takes were so bad he had to redo them—once we're in the hot tub. He still doesn't sound as if he actually cares, but since the director isn't yelling 'Cut!' I guess we're going with this one.
"What would you like to know, Dr. Burns?"
He rolls his eyes. I hate that I have to hide how much I like him. Well, I'm hiding it on my face. What's going on in the bubbling water below is another matter entirely.
He spreads his arms along the tub’s edge, the shift showing off every line of muscle. "Where are you from?"
"Loadsmouth," I reply. "It's a small town in New England."
Interest flickers in his eyes. "I'm from Clovelly."
I smile. "I know." He scowls, and it's the most adorable thing ever. "I've been watching you closely, Dr. Burns."
"You sound like a stalker."
"Nope. Just a fan."
He pauses, his face caught between expressions, like he can't make up his mind what to settle on. I can hear the dramatic melody in my head that will play when this scene airs, so I do my best to keep my expression neutral. I'm a villain, after all.
"So what made you want to be a vet?" he asks, and my composure cracks. I've been instructed how to answer this very question, but that rehearsed response flies out of my head. Guess watching a ton of reality TV shows didn't prepare me as well as I thought it would for actually being in one.
"My dad was a vet," I answer slowly, swallowing around the knot building in my throat.
"And you wanted to follow in his footsteps?" Scooter prompts, tilting his head slightly like he's trying to get a read on me.
One of the rules the producers drummed into me as I prepared for the show was to never self-edit or end a scene myself.
That's where the so-called 'golden moments' often lie, they said, and as much as the narrative can be edited in post, they can't do much if a cast member gets up and calls it quits.
"Yeah." I dip my head so low the spritz from the bubbling water splashes against my face. "Something like that."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Scooter look off camera to Riff, standing behind the director. Riff nods and motions for Scooter to keep going. I didn't think it was possible to hate that asshole any more than I already did, but it turns out I can.
"Wanna talk about it?" Scooter asks, sounding a touch uneasy.
I don't. I really don't. But this could be one of those 'golden moments,' and I am getting paid a ton of money my family desperately needs, so I don't have much choice but to go along with it, do I?
"My father was killed in a car accident when he was taking my brother, Billy, to soccer practice. Billy survived, but the crash severed the nerves in his lower spine, leaving him without sensation or movement from the waist down and dependent on a motorized wheelchair for mobility."
Breaking the cardinal rule, Scooter motions to the director to cut the scene, but Riff, being the giant asshole that he is, steps in, shakes his head, and gruffly commands, "Keep going."
With a heavy exhale, Scooter turns to me, the discomfort loud and clear in his voice. "I am so sorry to hear that. Is that why you wanted to be a vet? To honor your dad?"
I drop my head again. "Yeah."
That's all I can say. But I've got three cameras focused on me, so I assume they're getting what they need from me. Drama and a sad backstory rolled into one.
"And cut! Great work. We're done here. Let's get you guys out of the tub and onto the lounge chairs by the pool for some more Speedo shots."