Chapter 18
Nina
The next morning, I’m late for work because Isaiah spills orange juice on his shirt and Aunt Hope panics about the stain.
Isaiah has approximately twenty other shirts he’s brought on this trip, but for some reason Aunt Hope determines that this particular shirt must be saved at all costs.
And because I’ve been the one doing all the laundry in the household for the last fifteen years, my services are suddenly deemed indispensable, even if it might mean I’ll lose my job for being late.
As I rinse out the juice with cold water in the suite sink and then apply dish soap to the stained area, I try to practice patience.
Aunt Hope has decided this shirt is important for some reason, even if it doesn’t seem all that important to me.
Even if, as I’ve gently reminded her many times, the Lodge has a laundry service on-site.
Even if anyone could google how to get an orange juice stain out of a shirt, so I’m not sure why it has to be me.
Only . . . my job in the wardrobe department is important to me, too. I know that part of belonging to a family means compromising, but why does it always feel like I’m the one giving up what I want? Sacrificing my time, my energy, my needs, for the sake of everybody else’s?
At least Uncle Aaron stays in his room, working on . . . whatever it is he does when he locks himself away to escape all the family drama. I couldn’t possibly dare to think such rebellious thoughts in his presence. Somehow, he would look at me and just know.
After finishing up at the sink, I run the shirt down to the laundry service before sprinting to the ground floor of the Lodge, where the wardrobe department is currently being hosted in one of the conference rooms. I’m almost half an hour late.
Hopefully I still have a job. If not . .
. my life will go back to the way it’s always been.
The thought sends such an unexpected surge of panic through me that I have to lean up against the wall to keep from falling over. Another few seconds of precious time, wasted. Happy thoughts, Nina. Happy thoughts.
Puppies. Ice cream. My friends. The Vogue September issue that Helen always smuggles to me once the library takes it off display. That slice of Derby pie I ate the other day at Daisy’s Nut House, that I’ve been dreaming about ever since.
Gathering myself, I run the rest of the way to the conference room.
Deja all but accosts me as I walk through the door. “Nina! There you are. Thank God! We have twenty-four mountain men who need red boxer briefs and chest contouring.”
I was so prepared to be fired that my brain takes longer than it probably should to process what she just told me. “So they’re going to be . . . ?”
“Practically naked.” Deja gives a wolfish grin and waggles her eyebrows theatrically. “Don’t say this job doesn’t come with any perks.”
This might be a good time to laugh along and pretend I’m totally unfazed by the prospect of a bunch of half-naked men.
But thinking of Uncle Aaron hearing about this sends my stomach roiling.
“Is there a reason they’ll be almost naked?
” I ask, trying not to sound like the wet blanket I totally am.
“Isn’t that . . . I don’t know, a little exploitative? ”
Deja shrugs. “Maybe. But Sienna and Rae have this whole thing about the importance of the female gaze and using it as a critique of the oversexualization of women in media. I wouldn’t recommend asking them about it—seriously, that’ll be at least an hour of your life that you’ll never get back.
” She waves her hand. “And anyway, it’s for charity.
The men will be doing a photoshoot for a calendar, with the proceeds going toward helping women’s shelters.
So, you know, soft-core porn for a good cause, and all. ”
I try to smile back, but I’m having some mixed feelings.
Uncle Aaron will definitely not be happy if he finds out Harmony was on set with a bunch of men in their underwear.
If I tell him about it, he’ll want Harmony to quit the show, and she’ll be furious with me for snitching.
But if I don’t tell him about it and he doesn’t find out until the episode airs, he’ll punish me for keeping it a secret.
Well, maybe by then he’ll be in prison. The thought, flippant and hardly recognizable as my own, comes into my mind unexpectedly. Guilt floods through me, but the more I think about it . . . He’ll only go to prison if he’s committed the crime, right? So why should I feel guilty about that?
I don’t know. But I still do. Kind of. Sort of. Maybe?
Before I can dwell on it for too long, Deja loads me up with an armful of bright red underpants. “Come on. Let’s go teach a bunch of ripped dudes how to tastefully tuck in their schlongs . . .”
When we arrive in our production truck at the log cabin, I see some of the men blinking blearily and drinking coffee outside.
I instinctively scan the faces for Wes but don’t spot him yet.
Even though it’s creeping up on ten o’clock, some of the men are clearly still struggling to wake up; shooting lasted until early this morning, since the first Axing Ceremony had the most men to sort through.
Thirty-two men have now been narrowed down to twenty-four, which is still an absurd number of men I’m about to see in their underpants.
Deja pulls out her phone and uses it to emit a loud audio clip of an air horn. “Wake up, mountain men!” she shouts through cupped hands to amplify her voice. “It’s time to get naked!”
After that, the truck is swarmed with men.
Deja and I climb into the bed to better distribute the costume pieces.
All the men will be wearing red underpants, matching red socks, and boots, but production has also chosen some of the men to have extras—suspenders, beanies, lumberjack caps, etcetera.
As the two dozen men gather around the truck, I unsuccessfully attempt to stop myself from searching again for Wes in the crowd.
We’re not supposed to know each other. I’m not supposed to give him any extra attention. And yet—
As soon as I spot him, standing a few feet away, I find that he’s already been watching me. Our eyes meet. It feels like sticking my fork into a toaster, but in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant. My eyes skitter away, and I use all of my willpower not to look back again.
“Listen up, boys,” Deja calls, completely unflustered by being surrounded by so many beautiful men. She might be one of my new heroes. (WWHTMKGL&DD?) “Here’s how today is going to work . . .”
To my relief, it seems like all the contestants are genuinely psyched to do the photoshoot, and no one is being coerced into doing something that will make them feel uncomfortable. I sigh at the invisible weight being lifted from my shoulders. That’s one less thing to worry about.
No sooner has the thought crossed my mind than movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention. I glance over just as one of the men—Steve, I think his name is?—whips off his shirt, then starts on his pajama pants.
I hastily look away, only to see most of the other men following suit.
Shirts are being shucked off left and right.
Sweatpants, too. Even . . . underpants?!
I quickly turn my eyes heavenward. Holy guacamole.
I was so worried the men might feel pressured to get naked that I didn’t consider the alternative—that they might be willing and eager to strip off all their clothes.
How long will it take before they put on the red underwear? It’s going to be very difficult to do my job today if I can’t stop looking at the sky.
Do not look at Wes, I warn myself sternly.
I mean, it doesn’t matter now, but I’ve definitely daydreamed about what Cass looked like underneath that prison uniform.
Wes isn’t Cass, though. They might have the same body, but that’s it.
And bodies have always been the least interesting thing about a person to me.
It was who I thought Cass was that drew me most to him, not his beautiful face and lean, muscular body.
Wes’s beautiful face and lean muscular body.
Also, I want to respect his privacy. After all .
. . after all, how would I feel if I were peeling off my clothes, knowing Wes was watching me?
The thought sends a hot, heavy current streaking down my lower belly.
I look. I don’t mean to! My eyes just keep finding him naturally of their own accord. This time, he’s facing away, his backside completely bare. I swallow as I follow the path of muscles down the slope of his broad shoulders and tapered waist and the perfect bubble crescent of his—
Lord in Heaven. (Lust. Lust. Lust!)
Deja nudges me with her elbow and I’m so surprised I have to bite back a yelp. She just grins. “Perks of working in the wardrobe department, huh?” Her eyes track something going on out of my field of vision, and she bites her lip in obvious appreciation.
I cast my gaze up to the sky again. “Mm-hmm . . .”