Chapter 12
Because my just-repaired, ten-year-old car wouldn’t start this morning, I’m late for the meet-and-greet breakfast. My blue sundress brushes against my thighs and my curls fly around my head like a swarm of gnats as I push through the closed banquet room doors of the San Juan convention center.
The packed room smells of eggs and coffee and cinnamon. I blanch when I see that my fellow contestants sit on a stage at the head of the room. There is one empty spot between Colette and Sil. Ay. So much for slipping into my seat unobserved.
Heads turn in my direction as I make my way through the round tables draped in green-and-black table cloths with FTW logo centerpieces. A server with a huge tray crosses my path, and I pull up short to avoid a collision.
I’m nearly at the stage steps when Easton spots me. His eyes flash like he’s about to breathe fire. He drops his napkin onto his partially-eaten breakfast. He rises from his seat next to a man it takes me a moment to place. Stone. Drunken beach friend.
Easton puts a hand on my elbow and leads me toward the dais. “You’re late,” he growls.
“I don’t need your help,” I say, thrown off by his tone. It’s one I’ve never heard from him before. Cold and hard.
“I don’t play favorites,” he says, which I take to mean he’d walk any late contestant onto the stage. Presumptive.
His hand heats my skin as he leads me up the stairs. It’s annoying, and yet I find myself rushing to explain. “My car broke down.”
His brow softens with concern, then hardens again. “You’re not at the hotel?”
“No. Parker was kind enough to let me stay at my home as long as I’m on time.”
He pulls out my chair, and I sit down. Pushing in my chair, he leans to my ear. “It’s unacceptable to me that you get special treatment. Worse, that you abuse that special treatment.”
And with that bit of poison, he stalks off the stage. My face is hot from his words and the intense interest I’m getting from the other contestants. Flustered and sweaty, I place my napkin on my lap. Thankfully, this event isn’t being filmed as cast and crew are here eating.
“Way to play up the whole damsel in distress,” Sil says, appearing young and fresh-faced without a stitch of makeup around meadow-green eyes. They wink to let me know they’re teasing.
I manage a shaky laugh. “I have to do something. There are so many big personalities on this show that I’m starting at a deficit.”
From two seats down, Eli eyes me with a much-too-cynical-for-twenty-three crease at the corners of his brown eyes. “Reality shows aren’t known for attracting shrinking violets,” he says. “At least, not for long.”
Carajo. The former gymnast doesn’t mince words.
“Ignore him,” Colette says as she forks beans from a breakfast burrito into her mouth. “He’s just jealous because Easton is giving you so much attention.”
“Bite me, sweetie,” Eli says with a smile, but there’s a definite flush riding his high cheekbones.
I lean back as a server appears out of nowhere and places a plate filled with warm vegetable quiche, sweet potato hashbrowns, and a breakfast salad, heavy with strawberries. Looks amazing. I groan around my first bite.
“So, Yolanda,” Fonzie says, leaning forward so he can see me from his place at the end of the table, “why aren’t you staying at the hotel?”
“She’s special,” Cameron says, giving me a grin so big it should qualify as a parking garage. Even though he is nearly as far away from me as Fonzie, he’s big enough that he’s hard to miss. Like a skyscraper. Everything about the ex-MMA fighter is big. Head. Hands. Feet. Teeth. Thighs. Ego.
I answer honestly. “I have to work. There’s no one to take over for me.”
“No kidding?” Cameron says, and there’s more than a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. “I had to get someone to take over being a dad for me.”
“She’s so special,” Eli mutters, and I feel the jab of his words in my gut, sharp and pointed.
I don’t dare look in Easton’s direction, but I sense him paying attention.
Colette asks, “You didn’t get a stipend?”
“I negotiated to stay at my resort instead. It’s not far, and even if they paid me to stay here, I’d still have to work.”
I’m doing a terrible job of making myself not seem like I’m getting special privileges. The other contestants eye me uncomfortably.
Doc, a doctor whose real name is Henry, says, “Seems unfair.”
I open my mouth to explain, but Kay Lee—pink Stetson noticeably absent—pops her elbows on the table and says, “Agreed. It’s unfair to her. All of us have 24/7 access to the studios, the crew, coach, therapist, doctor, and support staff, but Yolanda has none of that. And she has to rush here before or after work every day? We’re the ones that benefit from that stress.”
“That’s my point exactly,” Doc says.
My eyes widen as Colette and Sil nod their agreement. I’m taken aback. I’d expected everyone to see the benefits to me—having my family around and being comfortable in my home—not the obvious challenges.
Blinking back unexpected emotion, I concentrate on my plate and fork another bite of broccoli-loaded quiche into my mouth.
“You’ll make it work,” Sil says, placing a hand gently against the top of my shoulder before quickly dropping it. I don’t look in their direction. Honestly, I’m not sure why I’m being so emotional right now. Except, maybe, that exchange with Easton.
What changed between opening night and tonight? What made him so grumpy?
* * *
The restof breakfast passes with pleasant banter and casual small talk, but every time I glance down, I find Easton’s eyes on me. It’s the oddest thing. Either we’re drawn to look at each other at the exact same moment, or he’s watching me. The weirdest part? Every time our eyes lock, for a flash, I see the old Easton, kind and interested. But then, as if he notices me noticing him, he glares at me. Like it’s my fault I caught him giving me soft stares? Díos.
Despite this unnerving situation, I manage to find out a lot more about a few of my fellow contestants. Cameron, twenty-eight, is married to a track-and-field medalist. They have an eighteen-month-old son.
In their mid-twenties and taller than me by at least six inches, Sil is a former swimmer and current personal fitness instructor in L.A. They’ve worked with some of the biggest stars in Hollywood.
Fonzie, early thirties, runs a fitness farm. It used to be a farm-farm, but when he inherited it, he decided to merge his father’s cattle ranch with his vision of fitness. Cameron jokingly called it a “fat farm” which Fonzie took offense to. There was a moment of real hostility before Sil intervened. They have a knack for dialing down the drama.
Because Eli has barely spoken to me and Doc and Kay Lee are engaged with each other, I haven’t learned much about them, except that Doc is a team doctor at a Virginia university. And Kay Lee, who lives in an RV, is well known for her fitness videos filmed at national parks.
I thank the server as she removes my plate. At the end of the podium, Parker has taken the stage. She leans into the microphone and adjusts it to her height. “First, let’s give a round of applause to Paul and Putnam from the FTW headquarters for this amazing feast.”
Everyone looks toward Easton’s table, clapping respectably. I crane my head to see the two people who reluctantly stand at their places. They’d probably gotten an intro earlier when I wasn’t here.
Parker continues, “There’s been a few last-minute changes to the show’s schedule that everyone needs to be aware of. All contestants are now required to meet one-on-one with Easton Blake for a personal on-camera interview.”
There’s a flurry of excitement from the contestants around me, but Easton looks like he’s chewing nails. Did he know? Does Parker have that much control that she can simply make that change? My stomach drops. This is my fault.
When Parker asked me to do a one-on-one interview with Easton to “fix” the “misconception” that the show had been insensitive to my health issues, I’d begged off, insisting it would be unfair to the others. Which was true, but only part of my reasoning. The other part being Easton. Looks like she found a way past my objection. Co?o.
As Parker continues to speak, my head buzzes with the dread of having to interview with growly Easton. A text message appears on my phone. Absently, I pick it up from the table.
Haydée: My investor wants to meet you. She saw the first show and is afraid you’re going to make a deal with Easton.
If it’s not one thing… I text back: No. You agreed to wait until I won or lost the show.
Three little dots blink for a long time before…
Haydée: I’m losing my investor while you go on and get all this attention. I want to be included. You need to wear my fashions on the show.
Díos. Haydée has been trying for years to create fashions for me. Which, to my mind, makes no sense. It’s not like I have a fashion model physique. Still, the show has designers, and there’s no way Parker is going to let me bring my nobody prima in as my costume designer.
Me: I’ll have to ask Parker. It’s her show and her decision.
Haydée: Not just the fitness stuff. You’ll have to wear my fashions for your routines, your practices, and any special footage nights.
I’m not surprised, she’s trying to get more concessions. This is how these conversations typically go.
Me: Only if Parker agrees.
Wait. What if Parker actually allows this madness?
Me: But you can’t overemphasize my breasts.
The response flies from her fingers as fast as it would from her tongue.
Haydée: Too late. Nature did that for me.
With dread heavier than the food in my stomach, I wave goodbye to Sil and Colette, then rush to catch up with Parker on her way out.
She weaves through the crowd as if she’s afraid someone might catch her. To be fair, quite a few people try. I have no idea why, when she spots me, she waits for me to catch up, but she does.
“Thanks for waiting,” I say.
“Yes. Thanks,” Easton says, and I realize she was actually waiting for him. I close my eyes against the flood of heat and embarrassment.
“Let’s keep walking,” Parker says, sweeping her gaze over the attention we’re attracting.
We keep walking, and before Easton can divert the conversation, I quickly say, “My cousin is a well-known Puerto Rican designer.” A bit of an exaggeration. “She wants to design my fashions for the show.”
“It’s perfect,” Parker says, not missing a beat. “You’re all about the family resort. You have your brother playing bomba. Having your cousin as your designer solidifies the whole brand.”
“Your brand sounds a lot like your reality,” Easton notes, a bit sarcastically.
Parker gives him some Olympic-level side-eye. “For point of reference, my job is not reality. It’s to create a bite-sized semblance of reality with digestible drama.”
“Que?”
“Don’t ask,” Easton says. “It’s a rabbit hole.”
Parker stops, causing me to draw up short. Easton and Parker eye each other. He seems angry. I wonder if it’s about her announcement.
She exhales a breath. “What I’m trying to say is… yes. If you trust her, your cousin can design your fashions for the show.” Her dark skin is flushed along her cheeks. “Still, if I see one nip-slip, she’s out.”
Easton chokes on something, coughs, then looks away.
Ay. Díos. “You’re really direct.”
“It saves time. And since I have you both standing here, are you good with a dinner for your one-on-one session?”
If Easton was angry about the one-on-one sessions, Parker just cut him off at the knees.
“It’s a request, not a demand,” Easton says, turning to me, as if hoping I’ll say no. “If you’d rather not, then don’t.”
Well, I’m not getting in between these two. “As long as the other contestants get a personal interview, I’m okay with it. Sí.”
He seems annoyed by my announcement. A muscle in his jaw tics. “And you’re sure about it? You definitely have a choice, you know.”
Although, it seems like he’s looking out for me and caring about me, his tone is pure shithead. How annoying. “Sí means yes, Easton.”
His eyebrows go up, his eyes darken, and I’m instantly taken back to the roof of La Vida Buena, when Easton, holding back all that power and heat and strength, and had asked in a gruff voice: “Are you sure?”
“Good to know,” he says, his tone a bit stiff. “A dinner will work then.”
“For me, too,” I say.
He walks away. Why can’t I seem to stop throwing our night in his face, even when I’m trying not to?