Ellie

The caution tape is still blocking our hallway, although someone’s crossed out CAUTION and written COCKROACH CITY in black Sharpie.

Effective. Even knowing it’s a lie to keep the other women away, I find myself walking cautiously down the hall, practically tiptoeing as if to avoid the horror of a disgusting bug crawling over my sandaled foot. I swear I feel a little tickle against my arch, and let out a stifled shriek, rubbing frantically at my feet.

I glance up when I hear someone snicker in the darkness.

Gage is leaning against the doorway, looking every inch the Hollywood heartthrob even in his pajama pants and T-shirt. Two champagne flutes dangle from one hand, a bottle in the other hand.

“You’re such a girl,” he says as I get closer.

In response, I punch him in the arm, but it’s mostly pointless because his biceps is stronger than my fist. “ ‘Cockroach City’? Your handiwork?”

“It works,” he says, opening the door for me. “You don’t see anyone else here, do you?”

“No. Not even Brooklyn,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes and preceding him into the closet.

I wait for him to say that he doesn’t want Brooklyn to find him here, but he doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, he hands me the flutes before tearing off the foil from the bottle.

I hold up the glasses as he pours, then settle back on the love seat while he sets the bottle on the table and plops down beside me.

The silence stretches on for another minute, but it’s not uncomfortable. If anything, Gage seems relaxed. Thoughtful.

I take advantage of him being distracted to study his five o’clock shadow. The stubble there is lighter than his hair. Not quite red, but more mahogany than his hair, which is dark chocolate.

Oh, good Lord, Ellie. I decide to study the bubbles of my champagne glass instead.

He turns his head and looks at me. “So. What was with the hurry to meet?”

“What? Oh,” I say, remembering that I’m supposed to be the one who set up the meeting ahead of schedule, not Paisley.

For a split second I try to think of a lie, but I’ve always been pretty bad at the white lie thing. Once my mom caught me coming in an hour after curfew after letting A. J. Castor get to second base, and when she asked me where I’d been, I told her I wanted more bras—prettier ones. She took me shopping the very next day. In hindsight, that doesn’t exactly win her the mom-of-the-year award, but I certainly appreciated it at the time. So did A.J.

Anyway. Not a good liar.

“Paisley knows about this,” I say, gesturing between us.

He blinks. “Huh?”

I sip my champagne—it’s good, really good. “Don’t be mad. She won’t tell anyone.”

“Do I look mad?”

“No, but…just don’t eliminate her, ’kay? Not yet. She’s the only person who keeps me sane around here.”

“What about me?”

I study him over the glass. “I’d say it’s a bit the opposite. You’re the one making me insane.”

“And yet here you are.” He clinks his glass to mine. “So, Paisley’s the one who texted me the invitation?”

“Yeah, but—”

He lifts his eyebrows. “But?”

“How are you?” I blurt out.

I’m expecting some smart-ass answer, but he surprises me by holding my gaze, his expression serious. “Tired. Exhausted, really.”

“Not sleeping?”

“No, not that kind of tired. More just…this whole thing. I want it to be over with.”

“I know,” I say, shifting so that I can pull my legs up beneath me, smoothing the dress over my knees. “Who’d have thought that hanging out in Hawaii for days on end would be so exhausting?”

“Yes, and you’ve added to my stress by ignoring me. That must be tiring.”

“You know, it sort of is,” I say. “My eyes get very tired trying to avoid yours…oh, wait. No, they don’t, because you’ve been ignoring me.”

“Had to. My man pride made me do it.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s not often I kiss a woman and have her tell me it’s not real.”

My heart pounds, because though his tone is light and teasing, his eyes are intense.

“What?” he says with a smile when I don’t reply. “You thought we weren’t going to talk about it?”

I purse my lips. “Honestly? I thought we’d agreed that it was just…a thing.”

“A thing,” he repeats.

“You know.” I wave my hand a little desperately. “Like, we were arguing, and you wanted to shut me up, so you kissed me, and that was it.”

“If I kissed every woman I wanted to shut up, I’d have kissed almost every single one of the contestants on this show. Especially the ones I’ve already sent home.”

“You should start a checklist,” I say, trying to keep us in light territory so he won’t know how badly I want him to kiss me again—me, and just me. “Then you could rate us all, and read the list in the final episode. So far we’ve got me, Cora, Hannah, Aurora, Brooklyn—”

His stupid avocado eyes twinkle enticingly. “Someone’s keeping track.”

“If I’m going to be your spy, I have to have all the facts.”

“All right, then,” he murmurs, leaning toward me.

For a wonderfully awful moment I think he’s going to kiss me, but he merely sets his glass on the table beside the bottle.

His eyes flick toward mine, giving me a knowing look. “Expecting something else?”

“Shut up,” I say with a little laugh.

In response, he takes my glass and sets it on the table beside his.

“Hey, I was drinking that—”

Gage’s right hand scoops beneath my butt, hauling me toward him. I squeak in protest, and before I know it, I’m straddling him.

“That’s better,” he murmurs as my knees settle on either side of him.

“Better for who?” I say, wriggling in an attempt to get off.

His big hands settle on my hips as though they belong there. “Ellie.”

“What?” I mutter. I notice my skirt’s ridden up nearly to my lady bits, and I tug it down irritably.

“Ellie.”

“What?” I finally give up on him letting me go, and I cross my arms and glare.

His gaze is as warm and intense as I’ve ever seen it. Uh-oh. I am so in trouble here.

“Not Brooklyn,” he says quietly.

“Not Brooklyn what?”

“You wanted to know which women I’ve kissed. You said, you, Cora, Hannah, Aurora, and Brooklyn. All correct except Brooklyn. Really, though, the others are only partially correct, since they kissed me.”

“I didn’t.”

“You kissed me back.”

I narrow my eyes.

“And you want to kiss me right now.” His hands move forward slightly, drifting up along my thighs.

“Is this what happens when you stay in Hollywood too long? You start informing women what they want? Does it ever work?”

“I’ll tell you what,” he says. “I’ll drop the entire subject and let you go if you admit one thing for me.”

“I can’t wait to hear this,” I grumble.

His hands continue their light stroking along my thighs, and though the gesture is casual, almost as though he’s doing it on instinct rather than as part of a deliberate seduction, my body responds in all sorts of feminine ways. Goosebumps. My nipples at full attention beneath the dress. Panties damp.

“Admit that it bothered you tonight, seeing me with Brooklyn,” he says.

His hands stroke all the way down toward my knees, and this time when they begin their ascent upward again, they’re under my dress, his fingers hot against my skin.

“I didn’t care,” I say, the words coming out a little breathless. “I like Brooklyn. I’m your spy, remember? And except for Paisley, she’s the most decent one here.”

“So you wouldn’t have cared if I kissed her?” His thumbs brush my inner thighs.

“No,” I whisper, my eyes closing as I give in to the pleasure of his hands on me. “Maybe. But seeing you laugh with her hurt worse. Knowing that you like her, really like her. That hurt me.”

Gage’s hands go still, and my eyes fly open as I realize what I’ve said.

I groan and try to crawl off him, but this time an arm slips around my waist, holding me all the way still. “Damn it, Ellie, quit wriggling. You’re like a cat.”

I struggle a moment longer before going still, realizing that in terms of physical strength he’ll win every damn time. “Please let me go. I get that you’re used to these kinds of games, but I’m not. I’m in over my head. Is that what you want to hear? You win.”

He frowns. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Why do you assume that everything I do is pretend or a game? Why assume that I’ve got no brain, no feelings, no wants and needs just like you?”

“Because you treat everything like a game. The other day you tried to press me to admit I was jealous when you kissed other girls. Today you need to hear me say out loud that I didn’t like seeing you with Brooklyn, all so you can declare victory—”

His hand skates up my back, fisting in my hair as he pulls my face closer. “It wasn’t Gage Barrett the Jilted contestant who wanted to hear that you were jealous. Gage Barrett the man wanted to hear that. Wanted to hear that you want him the way he wants you. Wanted to know that—”

I press my lips to his. A hard, shut up kind of kiss. I pull back and glare at him.

He glares back.

I don’t know who moves next. Maybe both of us, because this time when our mouths collide, it’s not him kissing me, or me kissing him. It’s simply two people who want each other and are done with the games.

His fingers knot harder in my hair, and I return the favor by threading my own fingers in his hair as I press him back against the love seat, my tongue tangling with his.

Gage’s free hand slips under the back of my dress, palming my ass. He groans. “A thong? Are you trying to kill me?”

I pull back just enough to trail my lips over his neck, punctuating the embrace with a quick nip of my teeth.

His fingers flirt over the V of my thong, pulling my face back to his. He pauses before he kisses me again, searching my face. “Are you going to accuse me of this not being real again?”

I smile and press against the erection I’m straddling. “Feels real to me.”

He grins. “Damn straight.”

With impressive quickness, he flips me to my back, pinning me to the love seat with his weight. It’s too short to accommodate me, much less him, but we make do, our hands and mouths exploring everything that’s not covered with clothes.

His tongue runs along the spaghetti strap of my sundress until he reaches the top of my dress. His green eyes meet mine as he drags the tip of his tongue along the neckline of the dress, teasing the very tops of my breasts.

I arch into him, and he slips a hand behind me, easing the zipper down with unabashed ease.

“Wait,” I say on a pant. “I’m not—it’s too soon.”

“Second base,” he says. “Just let me get to second base.”

I can’t stop the giggle. “I was just thinking of second base a few minutes ago.”

He stills and glances up. “It’d better have been in reference to a fantasy involving me.”

I grin. “Nope. Another guy. Backseat of his mom’s Honda.”

“Amateur.”

“Says the guy trying to seduce me in a closet.”

“Trying? Or succeeding?” He answers his own question by sliding his thumbs beneath the straps of my dress, pulling it down.

I’m fairly flat-chested, and the dress is lined, which means—

“No bra,” he says with a reverent groan. He palms my breast, watching as his thumb plays over my nipple.

“Remind me again, what constitutes second base?” he murmurs.

“Um, I’d say you’re there,” I say on a gasp as he lightly pinches.

“Is it just hands, though,” he says in a musing tone, as though trying to figure out a math problem, “or do lips qualify?”

“I seem to recall that A. J. Castor got a hand under the shirt, but I don’t recall him ever getting the shirt off me. Nor do I remember any mouth action.”

“Then A. J. Castor was fucking doing it wrong.”

Gage grabs both my hands and pins them to the love seat as he slides his tongue over my nipple in a slow lapping motion, which he follows up with a quick, hard lick.

I buck off the love seat. “Gage.”

“That’s right. Gage. Not K.J.”

“A.J.,” I correct.

He pulls back and shakes his head. “Why’d you have to do that? Now I find myself determined to make you forget the guy altogether.”

His tongue coaxes my nipple into his mouth as his other hand slides down my stomach.

“Hey!” I manage around a pant. “You seem to be heading for third.”

He makes a frustrated sound, but his hand retreats, moving upward again until it closes over my breast. He pinches one nipple as he sucks the other, moving back and forth between the two until I’m little more than a wriggling mess of pleas.

Gage slides upward to nuzzle my neck. “Damn it, Ellie, let me under that skirt.”

Somehow, somewhere I find the self-control to squirm out from beneath him, pulling the dress straps up over my shoulders.

He looks so adorably frustrated that I laugh. I take his face in mine, brush a kiss against his lips. “This is moving fast. I just…I want to be sure.”

“I’m Gage Barrett. You’re supposed to let me get around all the bases without thinking about it, and then regret it later for fear I’ll think you’re easy.”

I lift my eyebrows. “That how it usually works?”

“Yes,” he mutters before gently maneuvering me so that he can zip up my dress. He’s surpassingly gentle, straightening one of the straps before gliding the zipper back up.

He plants a kiss on my shoulder. “I deserve a medal for this.”

I turn my face so we’re eye to eye. “Do I need to run out of here before you get handsy again, or can I sip my champagne and trust you to act like a gentleman?”

“Stay,” he says without hesitation. “You’ve got to tell me who to send home next.”

All of them. Send them all home but me.

The thought is so unexpected, so unwelcome, that I gasp.

Gage frowns, his hand stilling in its gentle stroke over my leg. “Ellie?”

I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the thought, but it stays. The realization that I am falling for Gage Barrett is painful and yet totally unavoidable.

I…like him. Maybe more than like him.

Reality crashes down hard as I remember where I am, why I’m here, and who I’m with. Whatever happens in this closet, real life happens tomorrow when he tries to find a woman to marry. Or at least pretend to fall in love with.

And he hasn’t kissed Brooklyn or anyone else on the set besides Cora, Hannah, and Aurora, but how long will that last? They all actually want to be here—they actually want to walk down the aisle with him.

And I want…I want…

I grab my champagne and take a long swallow. He reaches for his glass as well, studying me. “I can send Brooklyn home.”

“What?” My head whips around. “No. I already told you she was one of the more normal ones.”

“You said she bothered you,” he says, touching a knuckle to my cheek.

“It—I shouldn’t have said that.”

He searches my face. “Did you mean it?”

“No, of course not,” I say. “I just…I’m not sure. I guess maybe the competition is getting to me, you know? It’s all the women talk about—how to get you alone, who’s going to kiss you next, who you like best, who you talk to the most. I guess I just…I guess I got caught up in it a little. For the sake of the show.”

Wow, what do you know—I’m not so bad at lying after all.

He gives a curt nod. “Okay. So Brooklyn stays.”

My heart squeezes. “Yes. And Paisley.”

“Sure, she’s cool. As long as she won’t tell anyone about us.”

“Nope. She even offered to run interference with Evil. Eden,” I correct quickly.

He frowns. “What do you mean, run interference?”

“Well, let’s see. She’s competitive as all get-out, a little bit mean, and my roommate. How exactly do you think she’d respond to knowing I’m breaking every single one of the rules by being here right now? Not to mention what you and I just did on that love seat.”

“You mean getting to third base?”

I laugh and put a hand over his face, pushing him away. “Stop. It was second base, and you’re not getting to third.”

“You sure about that?” His voice is husky.

Not when he looks at me like that, I’m not.