“So,” Raven says, sitting across from me and crossing her long, thin legs. She leans forward, iPad balanced on one palm, as she studies me. “How are we doing?”
How are we doing? Well, let’s see, Raven. The first contestant I sent home was completely unstable. Most of the rest of the contestants don’t seem to have a single interesting thought to split between them. The one contestant that I find even a little bit interesting is heading home tonight, because I promised her.
The pain in my temple skyrockets at that thought, and I realize that’s the crux of my bad mood. Not Sidney and her chia seeds, not the Brittanys and their insistence on feeding me bits of pancake, not even psycho LeAnn. It’s Ellie who’s bugging the shit out of me. Ellie and her easy dismissal of me that kept me up all night. Ellie and the way she looked with that fucking T-shirt plastered to her slim curves that I can’t get out of my mind.
You’re Hollywood.
Her off-the-cuff comment still chafes, hitting an Achilles’ heel I didn’t know I had—or at least not one that I let myself admit existed.
Ever since Layla rejected me for something—someone—more “reliable,” I’ve been telling myself that it was fine. That the joke was on her, because I was spending my days eating sushi in the sunshine while she cooked pot roast for my banker brother.
I don’t regret following my dreams to Los Angeles.
But I regret losing the girl, and I don’t need Ellie and her fancy T-shirts reminding me of that.
She needs to go.
“I’m fine,” I say, leaning my head back against the couch and closing my eyes. “How long do I have until lunch?”
“Two hours till you meet the A group in the living room.”
I don’t bother to open my eyes. “Why are they the A group if they’re second in the day?”
“You have more chemistry with the lunch group,” she says.
I open my eyes at that. “Says who?”
“Us,” Adam says, coming into the room with his ever-present Diet Coke in hand. “We’ve been reviewing all the footage, figuring out where the sparks are.”
Adam’s a mostly decent dude. A little too slick, the way so many career TV hosts are. He’s slight, with blond hair held in place with so much gel a tornado wouldn’t muss it and an ever-present gray pinstripe suit. But he’s not as much of a douchebag as he could be.
Right now, however, he’s annoying me.
“Why not just ask me?” I ask irritably, sitting forward. “Or do I play no part in determining who I have ‘sparks’ with?”
“All right,” Raven says pleasantly, fingers poised over her iPad. “Where are the sparks as far as you’re concerned?”
I open my mouth, and the only name that readily comes to mind is Ellie’s, so I close my mouth again. I can’t say her name now and then eliminate her tonight without raising eyebrows.
Apparently assuming I’m unable to remember any of their names, Adam hands me his own iPad, where he’s pulled up the two groups of women. Those in the A group (lunch) are listed first, followed by the B group (breakfast).
Brooklyn’s at the top of the list. No surprise there. Sure, we have chemistry. A woman who looks like that probably has chemistry with a cabbage.
Ivy’s great too, and I can see why she’d be on the list, especially since I picked her for the walk on the beach yesterday and didn’t want to blow my brains out afterward.
Cora, Naomi, and Aurora are all on the list—I don’t know that I have chemistry with a
ny of them, but they’re among the least annoying of the contestants, so that’s got to count for something.
The other three…
“Eden, Maria, and Ellie should have been on the B list,” I say, handing the iPad back.
Raven’s nose wrinkles. “Really? Eden I guess I see—she’s a handful, but we keep her there for interest. And Maria’s a drama queen—she’s ripe for a diva moment to spice things up. Ellie, though…thought there was something there.”
I lift one shoulder. “Nope.”
“You got handsy with her in the pool yesterday,” Adam reminds me, as though I’ve forgotten what she felt like.