I spent the next day learning the ropes on set. Availing myself to Andrea, I ran errands in town when I wasn’t filming hot-seat interviews with my contestants. If I kept myself busy, I wouldn’t have time to even think about Dash.

Wouldn’t be thinking about how good his hands had felt on my body. Wouldn’t be imagining what might have happened if we hadn’t gotten interrupted, how maybe we would have stripped out of the remainder of our clothes, and I could have dragged my tongue down his body, pressing myself against his long, lean frame, feeling the weight of him above me. Beneath me. Inside me . . .

Nope. I was definitely not thinking about him. About any part of him. Especially not the part that had been long and hard and pressed up against me as I straddled him.

Damn, damn, damn.

Thankfully, today’s errand had taken me further away from the mansion than usual. I had been sent to fetch Dash’s best friend, another F1 driver named Jean-Luc. The two of them were going to be the guests of honor at tonight’s beach cookout. Food, booze, and bikinis was how Patrick had pitched it to all of us. Of course, he had done it with a very gross, very unappealing leer on his face.

It wasn’t hard to spot Jean-Luc when I went to meet the bus from NYC, known as the jitney. He looked every inch the French racing star. He was wearing expensive clothes, complete with a little scarf that would have looked ridiculous on most men, but looked pretty darn hot on the buff, blonde-haired guy who took my hand and kissed it when I met him.

“Bonjour,” he said with a wink. “Are you my chaperone for the weekend?”

“Not quite,” I told him, smiling. “Just the PA.”

“No, no, my dear.” He linked his arm through mine. “You are never ‘just’ anything.”

I would have rolled my eyes if he wasn’t being so playful and charming. Somehow, he pulled the overly flirtatious thing off. And he pulled it off really well.

“There won’t be any chaperones this weekend,” I informed him. “But I was told you weren’t going to cause any trouble.”

“Now who told you that?” Jean-Luc said with a wink. “I can’t imagine it was Dash.”

“No, not Dash,” I told him.

“Good.” Jean-Luc patted my hand. “Because I plan on having a lot of fun.”

* * *

The girls were already on the beach and in their bikinis by the time we pulled up to the mansion. I could see Jean-Luc’s jaw drop as he got out of the car, lowering his glasses slowly.

“Merci,” he said with a low whistle. “This looks like heaven on earth.”

I sent him off to meet with Patrick, and I headed over to the girls, some of whom were sunning themselves on blankets, while the others gathered in the shade where a small bar had been set up.

Free-flowing drinks were definitely a part of the filming process that I hadn’t anticipated. They seemed to want everyone in some sort of state of intoxication throughout the shoot. Luckily, my girls seemed to be sticking to the soft drinks, but unfortunately, that meant that they weren’t getting much screen-time: the camera crews were over with other girls, filming them frolicking in the water and sunbathing in their teeny-tiny bikinis.

“I love your bikini,” I heard Kimmie say to one of the other contestants, as I approached the bar. “You’re so brave to wear it.”

The girl in question looked down at herself. “Brave?”

“Of course.” Kimmie patted her shoulder. “I know that if I was feeling a little bloated, the last thing I’d want to do is wear a two piece.”

Ouch. I watched the other contestant’s face fall, and she turned and ran back into the house. Kimmie glanced up and caught my eye. She gave me a little shrug, and I just shook my head. Apparently that whole “no drama” thing was coming to an end.

“Where’s Paige?” Andrea’s voice crackled in my earpiece.

“Paige here,” I responded.

“We need you in the gazebo,” she ordered.

Immediately, I took off, crossing the sand and ignoring how my shoes were getting grimy and my hair was beginning to stick to the back of my neck because of the heat. Poking my head into the gazebo, I looked around for Andrea.

She waved me over. “There you are,” she said, stepping aside to reveal Dash standing behind her. He was wearing swim trunks and a T-shirt. Both were very fitted.

“Hi there,” he said.

I ignored him, turning to Andrea. “You called?”

“I need a PA to stay with Dash.”

Dammit.

“Sure.” I plastered a smile on my face.

“Great,” said Andrea. “Get him whatever he needs.”

She disappeared.

“Did you hear that?” Dash leaned in, his breath warm against my cheek. “Whatever I need. I love this place.”

I pushed him away. “Would you like some cold water?” I asked, thinking I could dump it down the front of his swim trunks. “You’re looking a little overheated.”

“I could say the same about you,” he said in a low voice.

To my great annoyance, I shivered, my body remembering exactly how overheated he had made me in that motel room. He was just too good-looking. And he knew it.

“I’m working, Dash,” I hissed at him, slapping away the hand that had come up to brush some hair out of my face.

“Oh, I know.” He leaned back in his beach chair. “Speaking of which, could you adjust my mic.” He lifted his shirt to reveal that incredible chest of his, his microphone wire taped down the center of it. “It’s a little uncomfortable.”

I glared at him, and he gave me a sexy grin. Part of me wanted to take a roll of duct tape and strap that wire down, imagining how much fun he’d have trying to get it off at the end of the day. Unfortunately, my job at the moment was to help him with whatever he needed.

“How do you want it adjusted?” I asked him, forcing a professional smile onto my face, even though I wanted to throttle him.

“Maybe it could go across my side, or down my back,” he suggested. “We wouldn’t want it to be visible under my shirt, would we?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t wear such a tight shirt,” I muttered, bending to examine the wire.

“Talk to wardrobe,” he told me. “They’re the ones putting me in these outfits.”

“And I’m sure you hate it.” I carefully peeled the wire off of his chest, trying to keep my fingers from brushing against his skin. It didn’t work. With each touch of his hot, smooth skin underneath my fingertips, I felt a jolt of desire. Ignoring it, I began strapping the wire down again, pressing it into his side. “All this attention. Anything you want, whenever you want it.”

Dash grabbed my wrist, my hand still against his side, down near his hip. I could feel his abs flexing beneath my palm. He had those incredible muscles between his hipbones, the ones that seemed to draw all attention to the bulge beneath his shorts. A bulge I had a pretty good memory of.

“Not anything,” he said softly.

I scoffed. “That is such a line.” I shook my head, trying not to be charmed by it. By him.

Putting his other hand under my chin, Dash lifted my face so I was looking at him. “Shockingly, this whole setup is not my idea of a good time,” he said.

I wanted to roll my eyes, but the expression on his face made me pause. He almost seemed serious.

“Right,” I told him sarcastically. “It must be such a hardship, having all these beautiful women competing over you.”

“It is,” he said. “When the one woman you want won’t give you the time of day.”

My mouth went dry. Was this another line? Was he actually interested in me, or was it now a case of wanting what you couldn’t have?

“Paige!” Andrea’s voice practically shouted in my ear.

I winced and pulled free from Dash’s grip.

“Paige here,” I said, stepping away.

“Come to the tent when you’re done with the suitor.”

“Heading over now,” I told her, casting a sideways look at Dash. “I’m done.”

* * *

The production tent was empty when I arrived. Empty, except for Andrea, who was watching footage of some of the introduction night. But instead of the contestants on screen, it was me during the lighting test. Me and Dash.

“Sit down,” Andrea told me, without looking away from the screen.

I did as ordered, watching myself. Watching the shock on my face when I first saw Dash. Watching the smile that appeared on his. And the chemistry. There was definitely chemistry between us—the tension so tight that I felt as if I was right back in that moment.

“You know him,” Andrea said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” I confirmed, but didn’t elaborate.

“I heard the two of you talking,” she told me, pointing to her headset. “His mic picks up a lot.”

Dammit. Even though I’d had my hands on the damn thing, I hadn’t even considered that it was on. That people might be listening to us.

“He’s interested in you,” Andrea stated.

“He’s bored,” I countered. “It won’t be a problem.”

“Good.” Andrea turned towards me. “Lorna told me you’re interested in staying in production, maybe making a career of it?”

I nodded. “That’s the plan.”

“You’re not a bad worker,” Andrea said, and I got the sense that it was high praise coming from her. “But I’ve seen girls like you get distracted.”

“I’m not distracted.” It was only partially a lie. I didn’t want to be distracted. I was actively trying not to be distracted.

“You need to be careful,” Andrea continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “If you want to make it in this industry, you need to watch yourself around the set.” She leaned back in her chair. “You don’t want to get a reputation for being . . . unprofessional.”

It seemed as if she was speaking from experience.

“I understand,” I said, reading between the lines.

“There are serious PAs, and there are fluffer PAs.” She pointed to the screen, and this time it was a PA that I had met, but only in passing. Trish, I think her name was. She was standing next to Patrick, the producer, fanning him with an oversized palm frond—and simpering at every word. “Everyone knows which is which. One of those girls gets jobs. One of them doesn’t. And you don’t want to be that girl.”

“No, I don’t,” I swore. “And I won’t be.”

“Make sure of that,” Andrea said, and she gave me a rueful look. “The guys here think that every woman is up for grabs—especially the talent.”

“I’m only here to make the show the best it can be.” I looked her straight in the eye. “And to make your life easier. That’s all.”

She gave me a long look. “Good,” she finally answered. “Now get back to work.”

* * *

The rest of the day was a madhouse, and the contestants kept me so busy that I didn’t even have to actively avoid Dash, it just happened naturally. Everyone spent the afternoon on the beach, and we got tons of great footage of all the girls flirting with Dash, and acting passive-aggressively with each other. As they had been directed to do. I could already tell that this was going to be a good season, with tons of drama. Even if most of it was manufactured.

After the sun set, we all scrambled to get ready for the first elimination. All the girls headed back to wardrobe to get out of their bikinis and into gowns. Dash and Jean-Luc dressed in suits, and the rest of us had to prepare for the exit interviews we’d be doing as we cut the contestant pool in half.

I’d watched these ceremonies a hundred times before: how the suitor presented the winning princesses with heart-shaped balloons to show they’d be moving onto the next round. But I’d never experienced the tension behind the camera. Half of the girls would be going home right now, relegated to a few seconds of screen-time, and no matter how relaxed they’d looked hanging out on the beach, they were all focused and ready tonight.

At least they looked perfect. It was a truly beautiful night, and I watched all the girls come back down to the beach, each one of them sparkling in their expensive dresses, while I sat behind the camera, all in black, with a handful of extra balloons in my fist. We couldn’t have been more opposite if we tried.

But when Dash stepped out onto the sand, looking broad and handsome in his tux, all of us sighed. Even me. I tried not to, I tried to stifle it behind a yawn, but it was hard to ignore how good he looked. I could see that the girls were eying him like a pack of lions eyes a really attractive zebra. And if Dash minded—as he had claimed he had—there was no indication of it on his face, as he came to stand next to Cal, the host.

“Dash.” Cal’s bright white teeth were practically blinding as he faced the camera with a smile. “You’ve had the chance to get to know each of our lovely princesses.”

“I have,” Dash confirmed, winking at the contestants. “And they are all as lovely as they appear. Which makes this decision all the more difficult.”

Cal nodded. “Sadly, ladies, only ten of you will be continuing to the next round.”

The women all nodded as Cal handed Dash the balloons.

“Dash, who are the ten princesses you are hoping to get to know better?”

“I wish I could take all of you with me on this voyage,” Dash said, and I bit my lip to keep from laughing at the lines he was clearly being fed. “Unfortunately, some of us must say goodbye tonight. One of the women I would like to stay is—”

I found myself holding my breath. I wasn’t even sure why.

“Savannah, will you accept this balloon?” Dash asked.

Two emotions warred within me. I was happy that Dash had chosen Savannah—happy because it meant that one of my contestants was continuing on in the competition. And happy because Savannah was a really sweet girl, and maybe the one girl here who actually thought she might be able to find love. But there was also an uncomfortable twinge of jealousy. One that I didn’t want to examine any closer.

There was no reason to be jealous of Savannah. Dash wasn’t mine. We weren’t dating. We weren’t anything. And I hated that I had to keep telling myself that.

Which I had to do again when Dash gave Kimmie a balloon. And Jasmine.

All three of my girls were kicking ass in the competition so far. I should have been thrilled. Especially when Andrea came over after the cameras had shut off and the equipment was getting put away and told me that going three-for-three with my contestants had just earned me a bonus. One I desperately needed to, you know, go wild at Rite-Aid buying toiletries and razor blades.

But instead of jumping for joy, instead of texting Emmy with the great news, instead of being really damn happy, I found myself standing on the beach with a handful of balloons, wishing I didn’t feel so disappointed.

“So that’s where my heart went,” a voice said behind me.

I spun around to find Dash standing there. He was still wearing his tux pants, but his feet were bare and his jacket was gone, leaving him with a white shirt unbuttoned at the throat and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

My heart stuttered, then I realized he was talking about the balloons.

“Funny,” I told him, turning my back on him.

Instead of taking the hint, he came and stood next to me, his hands in his pockets.

“What are you going to do with those?” he asked.

I didn’t say anything.

“I would have given one to you, if I had an extra,” he said teasingly. “Want to lend me an extra balloon?”

I looked over at him, too damn hot, and totally off-limits. He may not have cared about following the rules and doing a good job, but I did. I remembered Andrea’s warning about getting the wrong kind of reputation. As much as it would have been fun to stand here flirting with Dash—and maybe doing so much more—I couldn’t risk it. Not for a charming playboy like him.

Without a word, I pulled out a pen that I had stuck into my hair. Then, I popped each last balloon. I handed him the strings with the deflated balloons at the end.

“All yours,” I told him, and walked away.