Ellie

The only silver lining to LeAnn being the first one to get sent home? She had the bottom bunk to my top bunk, and now I don’t have to worry about stepping on her when I sneak out of my room.

Wait, I take it back.

Because if I’d been the one to be sent home, as planned, I wouldn’t be sneaking out at all. I wouldn’t even still be in Maui—I’d be on a flight back to San Diego, where I belong.

I hop silently down from the top bunk, freezing when I hear rustling from Eden’s bed, but she merely mutters something in her sleep and rolls over.

Paisley snores, God bless her, so I know she’s asleep by the faint honking noise coming from the other top bunk. I usually sleep in shorts and a tank top, but tonight I went to bed in capris. I silently pick up the hoodie and flip-flops I set near the foot of the bed and tiptoe to the bedroom door, grateful that it doesn’t squeak when it’s opened.

The female contestants occupy the five bedrooms on the far side of the house, and once out in the hallway, I creep quietly past the other closed doors toward the hallway and the closet where I talked to Marjorie that first day.

The son of a bitch had better be there, because we’re about to have words.

The worst part was, I really trusted the bastard. I thought when I opened my envelope tonight, I’d have my ticket home. Instead, I got an invitation to stay, and it was LeAnn who said a noisily tearful goodbye.

I get why she had to go, but why at this ceremony? This was supposed to be my farewell.

I walk as quietly as I can in flip-flops, pausing at every turn to listen for voices. Most of the crew’s staying at a house nearby, but Adam, the show’s host, as well as some of the higher-ups, is here on-site, probably to be the first to know if there’s any drama.

For the first time, I wonder where Gage sleeps. I know they put him in the master suite, but I don’t know what part of the enormous house it’s in. Near the closet, maybe? Perhaps that’s how he stumbled across me that first day.

I take two wrong turns and open two wrong doors, one to a linen closet, another to a small powder room, before I get my bearings and find the right one.

I step inside and fumble around for the light switch, only to let out a little squeak when I see Gage leaning against the back wall, hands shoved into the pocket of gray sweatpants, tight-fitting black shirt showcasing every bit of muscle.

“What the hell?” I snap. “Why are you just chilling in the dark?”

He pushes away from the wall. “Didn’t want anyone to see the light through the crack under the door.”

I open my mouth to argue, only to realize it’s a pretty good point, so instead I irritably rap my fist against the switch to turn the light off once more.

It plunges us into darkness, which works in Gage’s favor, because now I can’t throw something at him, like I’ve been fantasizing about for hours.

I cross my arms and glare into the darkness. “What the hell, Gage? You promised.”

“I didn’t promise.”

“We shook hands! That’s a gentleman’s promise.”

“Hmm.” His voice sounds closer now. “Well, I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman. And you’re not a man at all. Perhaps that renders our handshake void.”

I hiss out a little breath, and I’m angry, I am, but I’m also…disappointed. In him. I don’t even know why. He’s got a reputation as a self-absorbed playboy, and he’s living up to it marvelously. I guess I just wanted him to be something more, and I thought I’d seen glimpses of it—in the way he actually seems to listen to women when they talk, the way he took care to make sure LeAnn didn’t do anything dumb, even the way he hadn’t turned me in for my cellphone use.

But it’s becoming increasingly clear that he’s exactly everything the media’s made him out to be. Gage Barrett does what he wants, when he wants. He doesn’t give a shit that the woman from San Diego doesn’t want to be here, or that LeAnn’s probably a hot mess right now.

“All right, then,” I say quietly as I back up. “I guess we’re done here.”

“Like hell,” he snaps, reaching out and hooking a finger into the V-neck of my hoodie. “Will you just stand still a second and let me explain?”

“You already did. You’re not a gentleman, and you lied,” I sum up succinctly.

I hear what sounds like the grinding of teeth, and it’s slightly mollifying to know that I’m not the only one who’s feeling frustrated.

We’re both breathing heavily, and slowly I become aware of the back of his knuckle against my chest. It’s up high, not like he’s fondling my boobs or anything, but it’s skin on skin, and we’re in a dark room, and he’s Gage Barrett, and—

I bat his hand away. “I’ve got to get back to my room before crazy Eden wakes up and catches me gone.”

“I couldn’t let LeAnn stay,” he says before I can move. “Even if she didn’t truly mean to hurt herself, any woman who would even chance it just to get the attention of some guy she barely knew—she was a risk.”

“To the show.”

He snarls in frustration and steps closer. “No, damn it, Ellie. No. To herself. The more I talked with her, the more it became clear she was unstable. I spoke with the producers about it, suggested that someone from CBC escort her home, ensure that she gets some counseling.”

I swallow. “Oh.”

I’m…ashamed. Not only that I assumed the worst about him, but also that I hadn’t put more thought into LeAnn’s mental stability. I mean, I knew she was sort of the resident crazy, but mostly I figured she was acting out for the sake of the show.

He’s right, though—someone who would even suggest getting hurt for the sake of attention isn’t stable enough to stay on the show.

“That was good of you,” I manage, crossing my arms.

My eyes have adjusted to the dark, and I can see the flash of white as he gives a quick smile. “How hard was that for you to say?”

“Very,” I admit.

“You still pissed at me?” he asks teasingly.

“About you sending LeAnn home before me? No. You’re right that that probably needed to be addressed. But I would like to know what the hell you were thinking pulling me into the pool earlier.”

He grins wider. “I already told you. I was thinking that the T-shirt would look really good wet. I was right.”

“You’re also a pervert,” I mutter.

“How old is your T-shirt company?” he surprises me by asking.

“Really? Small talk?”

“You were right,” he says. “This is awkward.”

I think he means the conversation, but instead he reaches out and flicks on the light and grins. “Much better.”

I blink at the sudden brightness. “I thought you were worried someone will see.”

“I like to live on the edge,” he murmurs, scanning the crowded closet until he spots what he’s looking for.

A moment later he’s overturned two buckets. He sits on one, and then pats the other for me to do the same.

I reluctantly do so, because as weird as sitting in a cleaning closet with Gage Barrett is, I’m not the least bit tired, and staring at the ceiling above my bunk bed holds no appeal.

“So. Your business.” The buckets are short, so he wraps his long arms around his knees.

I do the same, and rest my chin on mine. “We started it a couple of years ago.”

“We? You and the person you were speaking with on the phone?”

“Marjorie. We’ve been best friends since high school.”

“Where’s home?”

“San Diego.”

“Ah. Not so far from my home.”

“You’re from San Diego originally?” I ask.

He smiles. “Didn’t do your Gage Barrett homework, huh?”

I shrug.

“I’m from the East Coast originally,” he says. “I moved to L.A. when I was nineteen.”

“To act?”

“Yup.”

“Was it hard to leave your family? I sometimes think about leaving San Diego, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to leave my mom.”

His eyes flash with pain at the question, and he looks away for a moment before shrugging. “Sure, I guess. So, you and Marjorie…why T-shirts?”

I’m surprised to realize that I want to know more about whatever caused the shadow to cross his face, but I go along with the question. “Same reason most businesses start, I guess. We just thought there was a market. There’s something so classic about a T-shirt and jeans, but it’s shockingly hard to find one that’s not too short, not too clingy, not too boxy, not too see-through…”

“I don’t mind the see-through.”

“So you’ve said. Anyway, Marjorie and I thought, how hard can that be?”

“How hard was it?”

“Harder than we thought,” I admit. “We knew from the start what we wanted, but finding the best manufacturer was hard. And now that we have it right, we’ve got the next battle.”

“Exposure.”

I nod. “We’re in plenty of boutique stores in San Diego, and we’ve even had a couple of B-list celebrity endorsements. It’s enough to pay the rent on my tiny apartment and afford groceries, but not much more.”

“You want to build an empire,” he says, studying me.

I pick at an unraveling thread on my pants. “I’d settle for a savings account, but an empire would be nice.”

“You know, your friend’s idea isn’t a terrible one. You wear the shirt every chance you get, and it stands out compared to the other girls all dressed up. Viewers are bound to notice, wonder what it’s about, Google you…”

“I know,” I admit. “I’m thinking about talking to one of the other girls when I leave, seeing if they have any interest in a few free shirts. I’m not much of a model, but if I could get someone like Brooklyn to wear it on camera, it’d be the ultimate marketing scheme. She’s gorgeous—people would kill to dress like her.”

Gage nods thoughtfully, and I feel a little stab of annoyance that he doesn’t contradict my statement about Brooklyn being a better model for my shirts than I am.

The silence stretches on, and though it’s not unpleasant, I’m increasingly aware of how much trouble I’ll be in if we’re caught. Our contract says we’re not to try to spend time with Gage when the cameras aren’t around. And though it occurs to me again that violating the terms of the contract might be the fastest way to get a ticket home, I don’t really want to go home because I got kicked out.

“I understand about LeAnn,” I say, standing and tugging at the zipper of my hoodie. “But you’ll send me home next round, right?”

He stands as well, studying me. “That’s what you want?”

I nod. “I’m not cut out for the camera or this fake falling-in-love thing. I want something real, with a real guy.”

He blinks, and I could have sworn I hurt his feelings. “I’m real, Ellie.”

“You’re Hollywood,” I correct.

“You’re right. Which equates to no brain, no substance, and I just bleed air, right?”

I feel a sting of regret. “That’s not—”

“Forget it,” he says, pushing past without looking at me. “I’ll send you home next round. Guaranteed this time.”

“Gage, wait—”

He slips out the door without a backward glance, the sound of his tennis shoes growing fainter and fainter until they disappear altogether.

I take a deep breath and reach up to flick off the light. I wait for the sense of relief. The next invitation ceremony is tomorrow, and I’ll be going home.

I have what I wanted.

But the longer I stand here, the more I have an annoying prickle of a feeling that this isn’t what I want at all.