34 Pretending to Fall in Love
Pretending to Fall in Love
W ith waves gently lapping in the background, Spie filmed her pre-date confessional.
The crew was still setting up, the contestants being prepped by their handlers.
While Kalvin asked Spie pointed questions (in an apologetic tone) about which contestants she was looking forward to seeing in their bathing suits, she kept her gaze trained on Artemis.
The X-er stood barefoot in the sand, a look of apprehensive wonder on her face as she stared at the sea.
She’d wrapped herself tightly in a long-sleeved robe despite the sticky afternoon heat.
Her cheeks were already flushed from the sun.
Kalvin asked, “Let’s say, hypothetically, the show ended today and you had to choose someone, right now, to become your lifelong companion. Is there a contestant you’d be most inclined to pick?”
Her , Spie thought automatically.
In that exact moment, Artemis Ialan turned away from the sea. Across the beach, her gaze met Spie’s, as though drawn by the confession in Spie’s thoughts.
Spie’s chest swelled with a sudden, achy emotion. Carryover from the night before. But it was more than want, something equal parts more tender and more painful.
What have I done? Spie thought. And why can’t I stop?
A moment later, Artemis was called away by her handler. Spie told Kalvin, “I’m not answering that.” He gave her a quizzical look but didn’t press.
Today’s date was a hover net-volley competition (in the name of di plomacy, naturally). The remaining twelve contestants would be split into two teams of six. Spie and Nicky had been winnowing their potential suitors evenly—there were six left for each of them.
Spie would join one team, Nicky the other. The winning team would earn a private cocktail party with their heir. The losing heir would get to choose the player they felt best exhibited good sportsmanship and take them on a one-on-one sailing date. Both dates were to be filmed the next day.
Expan Proper’s Galactic Senator, Emris Expani, Nicky and Spie’s second cousin, a man with thinning hair and facial skin so tight it was painfully obvious he’d spent way too much time in a plastic surgery chair, was invited to oversee the game.
He’d judge the winning team on their ability to work well together.
The teams were assembled. For Spie: Arbora, Petra, Iasha, Milea, Yoshi, and Niyamin.
For Nicky: Artemis, Cailin, Qurain, Jasmine, Damaya, and Waiting Willow.
Producers arranged the contestants on opposites sides of a sand-filled net-volley court.
While Spie skirted to her side of the court, she couldn’t stop herself from walking too close to Artemis, covertly brushing her fingers along Artemis’s robed back.
A silent acknowledgment. I’m still thinking of you, of last night, even though I shouldn’t be.
Blessing Stone announced the rules, which were simple.
The hover-ball, which was programmed to float in intervals of five seconds, would be served across court.
The receiving team would have until the ball dropped to pass it back and forth, positioning it for one final hit back over the net.
If the ball hit the ground or didn’t make it over the net, it was a point to the serving team.
Some teams wouldn’t bother with positioning and would simply hit the ball right back over, where it would drop on the other team.
That usually turned into a reactive game of hot potato.
When Spie played, she always preferred the setup strategy; it enabled smarter play. Nicky’s team didn’t stand a chance.
Across the court, Artemis’s handler walked up to the X-er, holding her hand out. Spie couldn’t hear what she said, but based on the sudden embarrassment flaming Trash Girl’s face, it was likely some variation of Lose the robe .
Blessing Stone called out, “One-minute countdown! Camera two and camera eight, in position!”
Artemis shed her robe. And immediately sank in on herself, crossing her arms over her chest in obvious discomfort.
As far as two-pieces went, Spie had seen (and was presently wearing, as were many of the other contestants) far-more-revealing ones.
Objectively, Spie could see how Manny might’ve thought he was being considerate when he picked it out.
The suit was, aesthetically, a good choice.
The clingy fabric accentuated and flattered the curves of Artemis’s body, the soft gold color harmonizing with her loose cerulean hair.
Unfortunately, however, Spie was incapable of appreciating the effect because Artemis was clearly not okay with it. Like painfully not okay.
“And we’re filming!” Blessing Stone bellowed. “Highnesses, huddle up with your teams!”
For about five seconds, Spie willed her brother to recognize Artemis’s discomfort.
Willed him to do something about it. But the idiot seemed distracted.
Cailin was in his face, her producer hovering with some kind of throat spray in case she went into a coughing fit (she had some kind of cold).
She was being obnoxious, and Nicky had never been good at managing multiple things at once.
“Cut!” Spie called before she could talk herself out of it. Then jogged off the court to where Manny was reclining on a beach chair.
She heard Blessing Stone’s echoing Cut and ignored her shouted “Your Highness! Where are you going?”
Spie kicked Manny’s dangling foot. “Get up. And go get Artemis Ialan a new outfit. Some cute shorts and tank top. Now.”
Manny lowered his sunglasses, then bolted upright.
“Your Highness! You want me to”—his gaze skipped past her to the net-volley court—“get Temmi a new outfit? But I’ve gone out of my way to see her wardrobed excellently.
And you cannot tell me she doesn’t look fantastic in that suit.
I cannot denigrate my work by willingly giving her a . . . tank top .”
“What about me standing here right now makes you think I was asking?” Spie gave him a withering glare.
“Apologies.” Manny jumped to his feet. “I’ll get right on it.” He gave her a precise bow, then walked away to shout at one of his assistants. They took off in the direction of the manor.
“Your Highness?” Kalvin asked in Spie’s ear.
“Tell Blessing Stone there’s been a wardrobe malfunction,” Spie said to Kalvin. “Ten-minute recess.”
“Copy,” Kal said.
It took closer to twenty minutes for Manny’s assistant to return with a suitable alternative for Artemis. After the X-er was handed the folded shorts and tank top, she looked at Spie with palpable gratitude.
Spie held back a grin that she felt swelling up her whole chest. There would be enough rumors circulating after this; she didn’t need to add to them by giving the trash collector any more special attention.
While Artemis changed in a portable privacy tent, Nix walked up to Spie. He was wearing a casual white button-up, the top three buttons undone, and board shorts, his hair mussed artistically. Instead of black leather gloves, thin waterproof blue ones clung to his hands and arms like a second skin.
“What was that about?” he asked quietly.
Spie shrugged. “I’m tired of Manny putting that poor girl in outfits that clearly make her uncomfortable. That’s not what we’re about.”
Nix studied her for a moment. Spie refused to meet his gaze, tried to ignore the guilt festering in her gut.
“That was considerate of you. Thanks.”
“Oh, please, baby brother, don’t act like this is the first time I’ve ever been considerate.”
“Is it not?”
She elbowed him in the side. Her CB vibrated a moment later.
Trash Girl: Thank you. Now if you can somehow rescue me from embarrassing myself in today’s game? I promise you, no one needs to see exactly how uncoordinated I am.
Spie: Don’t push your luck, Trash Girl.
In the end, Spie’s team smashed Nicky’s. How could they not? Between Spie herself, Arbora, and Petra (who could move exceptionally well on her lame leg), they were a force to be reckoned with. That, and Nicky’s team had the three worst players: Nicky himself, Artemis, and Cailin.
Yet, despite her team’s win, their Senatorial second cousin named Nicky’s team the victor on account of their “excellent attitude in the face of certain defeat,” which translated to because Blessing Stone thinks it’ll be more fun to have Cailin and Artemis at a cocktail party together .
(Much bad blood had passed between them during their game.
And honestly, Cailin disliking Artemis was a green-flag character trait for the X-er).
Spie was left with choosing a solo date. She met Arbora’s gaze. Maybe it was finally time.
· · ·
That night, Spie brought a joint to her brother’s room. She flopped onto his bed and took a drag.
“Wanna get a little fried while we chat eliminations?” she asked, holding it out.
He relaxed into his armchair, looking exhausted. After a moment of staring silently at her, he said, “Actually, yeah, I think I do,” and pushed back out of the chair to retrieve the smoking joint.
“We gotta cut two,” Spie said while her brother took a drag, coughed, then took another. “Blessing Stone would prefer one tonight and one tomorrow for max dramatic reveal. I’m thinking Milea.”
Nicky returned the joint. “No, she’s good for Fleet recruitment. We need to keep her around until at least the final six.” He slumped back into his armchair.
Spie made a face. “Fine. Yoshi, then. They’re lovely but I don’t feel any chemistry.”
“Good with me.”
“Great. I’ll bridge Kal so he can send a PA to their room.” She did exactly that. When she was done, she found Nicky with his head back, eyes closed. “Hey, wake up! Your turn.”
She threw a pillow at him. It hit him square in the face, then dropped into his lap.
“That was uncalled-for,” he said, adjusting his now-askew glasses. “I think it’s time I send”—his voice wobbled—“Temmi home.”
Spie about grabbed another pillow, this time to wallop him upside the head. “Come again?”