Chapter Six
“The group dates are where rivalries form. That smiling Girl Next Door from night one? Give her twenty minutes on a group date and she’ll be the villain.”
—Lainey Williams, executive producer of Love Shack, in an interview with Cosmopolitan
“Rise and shine, ladies! Today could be the best day of your life!”
Norbert’s voice booms down the hallway, his Scottish brogue far too chipper for this early in the morning. He bangs on the bunk room door in an upbeat rhythm, and I can imagine his fiery mustache quivering with excitement.
“Up and at ’em! Roland is ready and rarin’ to see ye!”
I grumble into my pillow that I highly doubt that but drag myself up anyway. According to Norbert’s receding shouts, we have twenty minutes before we have to be downstairs.
“Make sure to eat something!” he calls. “No one likes a grumpy goose!”
I feel like I’ve been run over by a herd of wild horses. And I didn’t even drink half as much as the others. Monica pulls herself upright, clutches her stomach, and runs into the bathroom, where she throws up, making Addison shriek and poke herself in the eye with her mascara.
I peer at myself in one end of the bathroom mirror while Addison attempts to salvage her makeup job beside me.
My face has a giant pillow crease that makes me look like I’ve fought in (and lost) a violent battle.
I scrub the remaining makeup from my face, pull my hair into an acceptably fashionable messy-bun, and apply a few dabs of foundation that the producers can fix if it’s not enough.
We’ve been told to wear something athletic today (read skimpy) so I pull on high-waisted tomato-red bike shorts and a matching longline sports bra.
“Want to head down?”
I glance up from my suitcase to see Nina looking at me. She’s not nearly as hungover as Monica, who stumbles out of the bathroom, muttering about how angry her trainer will be.
Smiling, I nod and follow Nina out of the room. Downstairs, we snag seats in the corner of the large couch.
Nina rests back on the pillows and lets out a long sigh. “I’m used to not getting much sleep with my daughter, but last night was rough.”
She makes a snoring noise and nuzzles deeper into the pillows.
“Allllllll right!” Norbert’s voice cuts through the room, and Nina jerks her head up.
Beside Norbert is Lainey, looking fresh as a daisy without a wrinkle in sight. See my Botox theory for further details.
“Good morning, ladies,” she says once the others have piled onto the couch. As she turns her head to sweep all of us with her icy gaze, not a single silver hair flutters.
Behind her, the mansion’s huge front doors open and Rhett ambles in carrying a paper coffee cup. Where the hell has he been? He looks sleep-rumpled and exhausted as he walks over, his hair sticking up in the back.
“Nice of you to join us,” Lainey says, giving him a piercing look.
Rhett heads off to hair and makeup as she turns back to us, hands clasped.
“Today, seven of you will be going on a romantic group date with Roland. The rest of you will see him later this week for your own group date. At the end of both, one lucky woman will be chosen to have some one-on-one time with him, so make sure you’re putting your best foot forward.
Or…” Her eyes stray to Brooklyn and she falters. “Or your best wheel.”
Brooklyn stiffens but manages a smile.
Meanwhile, Lainey’s face splits into a grin like she’s just solved the climate crisis and she gives a phony thumbs-up.
I cringe all the way to my toes. Is this the first crack in Lainey Williams’s manicured facade?
Does this microaggression mean there’s truth to the rumors about her emotional manipulation of candidates?
“Any questions?” Lainey asks. No one moves. “Good. The buses will be here in an hour. We’ll film Rhett with you all and then get going.”
I’m confused for a second, but then Rhett emerges from the hallway, sans coffee, with combed hair and a fresher face. My exhaustion sits on me like a weighted blanket, but after makeup, Rhett looks bright and shiny. The stubborn circles under his eyes are the only sign that we were up until six AM.
Just like our first night together, he’s erased all trace of me.
The buses bring us to a luxury tennis resort on Laguna Beach. The main building’s white stucco walls gleam in the sunlight, framed by swaying palms that look almost too perfect to be real.
We’re ushered to a grass court overlooking the ocean, but no amount of picturesque views can stop the sinking feeling in my stomach.
If we’re playing tennis, there’s no doubt that Monica will win.
I won’t stand a chance. The last time I played a sport with a racket was in high school gym class, when I hit my doubles partner in the face and sent her to the emergency room.
Survival is all I’m hoping for here—for me and everyone else.
Norbert eyes me suspiciously as he hands me a racket. “Try not to hurt anyone there, lass.” He winks and tosses me a white visor.
“I’ll do my best,” I grumble, shoving the visor onto my head. The Velcro snags my hair, and I wince, trying to yank it off. With a trail of hair still clinging to the back of the visor, I back up to remove myself from the women who don’t seem to be having hair adhesion issues.
“Whoa there,” says a voice behind me. Warm hands clasp my shoulders and hold me upright as I stumble, then quickly let me go. I whirl around, the visor dragging in my wake, and come face to face with Rhett.
“You stuck?” He inclines his head to my Velcro situation.
When I don’t answer, he lets out a world-weary sigh and reaches up, gently untangling my hair.
He succeeds with minimal casualties and places the visor back on my head, tugging gently on the front.
He drops his hand, fingers brushing across my cheek, sending heat up my chest. I back up, glancing around to make sure no one saw.
A smirk plays on his lips as his eyes flick down to my blushing skin.
“Good luck,” he whispers, and turns away.
I glower at his back. It’s one thing for him to interrupt when I’m in the middle of a private hair situation, but fixing it followed by a subtle cheek caress? Borderline unacceptable. It’s like he wants me to get kicked out.
We’re corralled onto the center of the court so the cameras can get a group shot. I’m squeezed between Nina and Monica while Sonya and Briana complete our row and Addison and Olie sorority squat in front of us, Olie’s backside bumping against my legs.
“All right, ladies,” Rhett says. He’s wearing his own black visor now. I hope the Velcro tears a bald spot into his wavy, movie-star hair. “Today, you’ll be playing tennis with Roland Marchetti himself—an opportunity most only dream of.”
“You’ll get to see my competitive side,” Roland chimes in, somehow winking at all of us at once. Is eyelid carpal tunnel a thing? If so, Roland is in deep danger of it.
Lainey motions for Rhett to continue, but he glares at her and shakes his head.
“Say it,” she hisses.
“But on this court,” Rhett continues through gritted teeth, “love doesn’t mean nothing.” He pauses, but the effect of the pun is dampened by the scowl on his face.
“Good enough,” Lainey huffs. “Move on.”
“You’ll be playing seven on one,” Rhett says. “Elimination style after a little warm-up. If you hit the ball out of bounds, then you’re out of the game. At the end, the winner will get one-on-one time with Roland.”
“I can’t tell you how excited I am,” Roland says. “Ever since my injury I’ve been itching to be back on the court, and if I’m going to make it back to Wimbledon this year, I have to get in some practice. Let’s do it!”
He adjusts his knee brace and trots to the other side of the net.
Production assistants arrange the seven of us around our side with Monica near the back, which seems dangerous.
With so many of us in front of her, this could turn into target practice as she picks off her victims one by one.
I’m shuffled right up to the net, mere feet from Roland, who winks at me and mouths, “You’re going down. ”
I smirk and shake my head. “No way.”
He looks to my right, where Addison is crouching low, her dark hair glistening in the sunlight. On the sidelines, I catch Rhett’s eye and he raises his brows. I raise mine right back and stare at him until he stalks off to the water cooler. I win.
Within minutes, tennis balls are whistling past my ears, and I wish I’d paid more attention in gym class. If I want extra time with Roland, I need to stop ducking every time the ball comes within a yard of me. Soon, Nina gracefully exits the court, followed by Briana.
Monica holds down the court for the remaining five of us, delivering fierce volleys with earsplitting grunts. Olie hits a few balls over, but when Addison tries to get in the game, she misses spectacularly and sprawls on the court, grass stains blooming on her knees.
“Addison!” Roland calls. “You okay?” He jogs up to the net and reaches over to her, pulling her up by the hand. She leans into it and kisses him on the lips before turning around and walking right into me.
“Watch it,” she snaps, stumbling back. “Are you trying to trip me?”
“Wh—no!” I protest. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Love-all!” Roland shouts, jumping to deliver the next serve. He must be contractually obligated to say it, because this cannot possibly be the right score. Maybe someone will edit his shouts into the Love Shack theme, which, of course, is the 1989 song by the B-52s.
On Roland’s next shot, Addison jumps into the fray.
Whipping her racket through the air, she sends the ball so close to Roland’s feet that he almost misses.
He sends it back, and Olie leaps forward, hitting the ball enthusiastically.
It goes flying over the chain-link fence, and a few seconds later, we hear a crash, someone swearing, and a car alarm.
“I’ll just nip over there,” Norbert says as he takes off in the direction of the alarm.
“Olie!” Roland calls. “You’re out, babe.”
Olie pouts and, hips swinging, jogs over to Roland and gives him a kiss that the cameras zoom in on. When she breaks away, Roland looks dazed. The glare Addison gives her can only be described as murderous, teeth bared and eyes narrowed to slits. If Olie is found dead, I’ll know who to point to.
“And then there were four,” Roland taunts, sizing us up. “Why don’t you spread out a bit? Monica, stay on the long line. Georgia, come up to the net. Then Addison, go opposite her, and Sonya, you can stay opposite Monica.”
In our respective quadrants, we ready ourselves for Roland’s next serve.
“Love-all!” Still not the correct score, but as long as Roland is shouting about love, no one seems to care.
Within minutes, Sonya is out. Is it possible my ball-avoidance strategy could actually work? Addison moves to the back of the court with Monica, leaving me alone at the net.
Bouncing the ball, Roland winks at me, then sends his serve straight to Monica, who returns it neatly to him. He hits it back, and this time Addison lunges forward, sending it onto the line at his feet.
“In!” he calls, shuffling sideways to return the ball. This hit comes straight to me, and I manage to send it right back to him.
“Come on, Georgia, don’t let him win!” Olie shouts.
“I’m trying not to!”
From the sidelines, I hear Rhett’s low laugh and look over, missing the next ball as it whizzes past my head to Monica, who slams her racket through the air and makes Roland stumble on his return.
“They don’t call you the One-Hit Wonder for nothing!” he shouts. His next shot goes to Addison, who runs forward and trips into me again.
“Dammit, Georgia! Get out of the way!”
The next hit goes to Addison again. I glance behind me as she takes aim, an expression of deepest loathing on her face. I’m no tennis expert, but her hit seems too low to make it over the net.
“Duck!” Monica screams as the ball slams into my face.