Chapter Fourteen
Kristina knows that Good Ol’ Boy Bill and I are like oil and water.
Literally. He works for an evil gas corporation, and I once volunteered at an oil spill to clean up the polluted water.
I overheard her saying, “I can’t wait to see the sparks fly with this one.
” Fine by me, Kristina, as long as they land on Bill’s flammable cowboy boots.
The good news is that we’re just having dinner. At sea level.
Blue walks me down to the beach where production has set up a romantic candlelit dinner.
The view is breathtaking—the sun setting over the Pacific, its pastel hues bouncing off the waves.
From this vantage point on the windswept dunes, I spot a pod of short-beaked common dolphins in the distance.
But even that doesn’t stop me from humming Chopin’s “Funeral March.”
“At least there’s tofu stir-fry,” Blue singsongs, trying to cheer me up.
“At least I can throw myself into the ocean,” I singsong in response.
“I’m honestly not sure what would be better for ratings—you drowning yourself or bludgeoning Cowboy Bill with a candlestick.”
“I see where your priorities lie.”
Blue laughs. “Just eat fast and get it over with. And remember, you’re on national TV and you want people to like you. Now go, my little grasshopper.” Then he leaves me to walk the rest of the way to the table where Bill is already seated.
I take in Bill before he sees me. As much as I hate to admit it, he is objectively handsome.
I already know he has a very muscular, very shiny body despite his weird obsession with his calves, but tonight he looks surprisingly polished in khakis and a sports coat.
And thank the cosmos, he’s not wearing that dumb Stetson.
Instead, it looks like he put product in his hair as if he’s actually trying.
When he sees me walking over, he stands to greet me. At least the cowboy has manners.
“Well, don’t you look prettier than a peach pie,” he says, and I want to vomit.
I thank him for pulling my chair out for me and then can’t help but add, “You don’t have to lean into the whole Southern charm thing for me.”
He must think I’m teasing because he just laughs. Then he pours me some wine as we settle into our seats. “I’m really glad we got picked to go on this date together, Grace.”
“You are? Why?” I ask as I take a big gulp of wine.
“Because we haven’t really gotten to know each other, and it seems like you don’t like me. So I’m grateful for the opportunity to change your mind.”
Well shit, now I feel bad. “It’s not that I don’t like you . . .” I ramble, lying through my teeth. “It’s just . . . I don’t think we have very much in common. So I, uh, didn’t want to waste your time when you could be looking for an actual love match that you mesh with . . . better.”
“That’s sweet of you. But I wouldn’t rule yourself out just yet,” he says with a cheesy wink. It takes everything in my being not to audibly groan. I once went out with a guy wearing a wooden tie, hinges and all—and it was still cooler than Bill’s wink.
Just then, a waiter—or maybe an actor who was hired to pretend to be a waiter—comes over with our dinners and cans of what looks like designer soda. Kristina mentioned there would be product placement on our dates, and I can’t help but wonder if this is one of them.
Bill leans in close to the steak on his plate and inhales obnoxiously. I divert my eyes and dig into my tofu stir-fry. I’m starving, and hopefully, if our mouths are full, we can’t talk.
I must be getting punished for something in a past life because Bill keeps on chatting. “So you’re a biologist, right? How much money do you make?”
“What?” I choke, whether on a bell pepper or his audacity, I’m not sure.
“Whatever it is, I bet my company would pay you double, maybe triple.”
“Your oil company that has built the largest pipeline in the US through countless natural habitats you mean?”
“Yeah, we hire biologists all the time.”
“More like biostitutes. I would never sell my soul to an oil company and approve construction that could devastate entire species just to line my pockets.”
“Well, when you put it like that . . .” Bill laughs good-naturedly and keeps eating.
I frantically shovel tofu into my face to get this date over with as fast as possible.
I consider putting food in the pockets of my baby shower poncho when Bill chuckles.
“Whoa, someone’s hungry. So how long have you been vegan?
” He asks this in a getting-to-know-you kind of way that makes me think he doesn’t realize what a complete dumpster fire this date is.
I take another sip of wine as I consider Blue’s advice to play nice until the cameras stop rolling.
I try to torniquet the displeasure flowing out of me and make small talk like a normal person.
“Ten years. But I’ve been a vegetarian since I was five.
My grandparents had a farm when we were little, and they had this cow that used to follow me around like a dog.
I’d look into her warm brown eyes, and I swear, I could see into her soul. Daisy was just the sweetest—”
“No way! I had a pet cow named Daisy!” Bill says, slapping the table. “See? We do have stuff in common.”
“You had a cow named Daisy?” I ask suspiciously, as I stare at Bill through my fake glasses.
“Yep. And then Daisy 2, Daisy 3, Daisy Jr., Day-Z because he was a bull—”
“What happened to them all?”
“We either sold them at auction or slaughtered them,” he says nonchalantly.
“Oh my God, you ate your pets?!” I put my fork down because I can’t even stomach tofu anymore.
Bill shrugs as he takes a sip of wine. “I grew up on a cattle ranch.”
“Of course you did. And let me guess, you hunt too?”
“Sure do.”
I shake my head. “This . . . this is why we would never work out. I’m a biologist who works in animal conservation, and you gleefully kill animals for sport.”
“And food. And leather,” he says, lifting up one of his boots. “We use the whole buffalo. Hunters are conservationists too, you know. Just ask Teddy Roosevelt.”
“Are you actually saying you consider yourself an ally to animals?”
“Sure do. Hunters buy hunting licenses and pay ammunition taxes every year. That money goes to wildlife agencies, right? Not to mention our help in population control.”
My head is spinning. Yes, I know state and federal wildlife agencies need to employ hunters at times to help with invasive species. But for some reason, Big Oil Bill doesn’t strike me as someone who hunts out of the goodness of his heart and for the love of animals.
I exhale loudly and pour myself a very large second glass of wine. At this rate, I’m going to become a lush like the rest of the contestants. I take a sip, trying to compose myself before I say, “I’m sorry, Bill. I just think we’re too different.”
“But you know what they say about opposites . . .” he counters. Oh God, please don’t mansplain polarity to me. “. . . They attract.” Yep, there it is.
I reach for the wine bottle to refill my glass, but it’s empty.
Since I need something to do with my mouth before I say choice words that definitely won’t make America like me, I reach for the can of whatever new trendy brand of soda this is.
Poppy Lite? Well, that’s a ridiculous name, but I take a sip anyway.
And immediately spit it out. “Oh God, this is horrible.” Bill looks up at me in surprise and tries to give me a discreet headshake, but I keep going. “Seriously, what kind of artificial sweeteners and chemicals do they put in here?”
“I think it’s supposed to be a healthy alternative to regular soda. It has probiotics,” Bill says, like he’s a walking spokesperson.
“It’s criminal to call this healthy.” I read the ingredients on the back. “It has a shit-ton of aspartame in it. Aspartame can damage neurons in your brain. Not to mention it can increase insulin levels, which leads to plaque buildup, inflammation, and increased risk of heart attacks.”
Just then, from out of nowhere, Andrew Benson comes running in the sand toward us.
He looks like business casual David Hasselhoff.
He’s taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and I’m suddenly distracted by the sight of his forearms. Why does he have muscular forearms?
Is it all the paperwork? And more importantly, why of all the forearms in the world are his appealing to me?
I try to shake this thought out of my head because I’m sure once he opens his mouth, he’ll ruin every part of the arm for me forever.
When Andrew gets to our table, he tells the camera operators to cut, and I notice he’s not even out of breath. He must exercise regularly, which explains the forearms and possibly some of his arrogance.
I’m jarred from my hate-ogling when he says, “Grace, may I speak with you please?” His voice has dropped an octave, and his eyes are darker than usual. Yeah, he’s pissed at me. I try to ignore the perverse thrill that rushes through me at that thought.
I excuse myself and follow Andrew away from the table and crew. When we’re out of earshot, he spins on me and says, “You can’t spout off unvalidated health claims! Poppy Lite is one of our biggest sponsors.”
I scoff, “Why? Were Red Dye and High-Fructose Corn Syrup already taken?”
Andrew rubs his temples. “You’ve only been here for twelve hours.” The gesture aggravates my temper.
“Maybe you should’ve gotten Advil as a sponsor.”
“Then you’d just rail against Big Pharma,” he responds, flicking his eyes my way in annoyance.
I stop, momentarily disarmed by how quick and accurate his response was. “Probably,” I admit.
This seems to both placate and surprise him. He sighs and brushes sand off his pants as we stand there in a détente.
I try really hard not to sneak a peek at his forearms, but they seem especially muscley when he crosses them over his chest like that. He catches me looking, so I snap my eyes back up to his.