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“Annabelle,” I say, genuinely amazed, “that was incredible. Weren’t you scared?”
“Course I was,” she admits, wiping soot from her hands onto her pants. “But my mama always said, ‘Fear just means you’re about to do something brave.’”
Her simple honesty strikes a chord. As she walks back to her spot, I find myself watching her with new appreciation. There’s more to the crying redhead than I gave her credit for, and I’m glad to see that sheistough.
“Let’s keep the heat rising,” Skye announces with eyebrow waggling. “Here’s Luna!”
The music changes to something slow and sultry with a heavy beat. Luna emerges in a crimson dress that hugs every curve, slit up to—well, I’m enjoying it, I’ll just put it that way. Her movements are deliberate and hypnotic as she begins to dance, her body telling a story of seduction and power.
Unlike Gabby’s athletic display, Luna’s dance feels purposeful, each gesture laden with meaning. She commands the space, eyes locked on mine as she moves closer, then away, the push and pull of her choreography mimicking a more intimate dance.
I find myself transfixed, caught in her spell despite my best intentions. There’s something captivating about her confidence, the way she owns her sexuality without apology. When she finishes, ending in a dramatic pose mere feet from me, the room feels several degrees warmer.
“That was...” I search for an appropriate word, aware of cameras and the other women watching, “...expressive.”
Luna’s smile is knowing. “Dance is the rawest form of communication,” she says. “Body language doesn’t lie.”
The implication hangs between us as she returns to her place, several women shooting daggers at her with their eyes. I take a gulp of water from my chalice, trying to regain my equilibrium. Luna’s performance was unexpected—not just her skill, but my reaction to it. There’s definitely chemistry there, raw and primal.
“Up next,” Skye continues, “our Bollywood beauty, Kavita!”
Kavita takes the stage in a gorgeous, jewel-toned gown that sparkles under the lights. She stands before a microphone, composed and elegant.
“I’ll be singingAt Lastby Etta James,” she announces, and then begins.
Her voice is—fine. Not spectacular, not terrible. The kind of voice that would get polite applause at a corporate karaoke night but wouldn’t place in any singing competition.
I smile encouragingly throughout, nodding along. When she finishes, I applaud with genuine appreciation for her courage.
“Thank you for sharing that with us,” I say diplomatically.
She nods, clearly aware she hasn’t knocked it out of the park but maintaining her dignity as she returns to the group. I respect that—it takes guts to get up and perform, especially when singing isn’t your strongest talent.
“And finally,” Skye announces with a dramatic pause, “let’s welcome Brielle!”
My heart rate kicks up a notch. What has she prepared? I’m almost afraid to see what she’s planned because I know that no matter what she does, I can’t let my body language give me away, and I certainly can’t choose her for another one-on-one date. And actually, I don’t want to. I’m excited to get to know the other women.
The room falls silent. And then—
Brielle waddles onto the stage in a full-body inflatable penguin costume.
I can’t help but chuckle seeing Brielle inside that ridiculous outfit, complete with an oversized beak and tiny flippers instead of arms. The costume is so puffy she can barely walk, taking exaggerated side-to-side steps that immediately have the room erupting in laughter.
“For my talent,” she says, voice muffled by the costume, “I’ll be demonstrating the complex mating dance of the Emperor penguin, which requires precise balance and—”
She attempts what looks like a spin but tips sideways like a bowling pin. For a horrifying moment, I think she’s going to roll off the stage, but then she’s flat on her back, flippers waving helplessly in the air. I have to stop myself from jumping up and going to her rescue.
“Houston, we have a problem,” she calls out, her voice a blend of embarrassment and humor.
Skye rushes over, trying to help her up, but the costume is so unwieldy that she can’t get leverage. Brielle begins flapping her flipper arms wildly.
“I’m flying!” she declares dramatically. “Look, I’m flying! Take that, evolution!”
The room is in stitches now, with even some of the women who usually look at her with thinly veiled hostility giggling. Skye finally manages to get her upright with an exaggerated grunt of effort.
“As I was saying,” Brielle continues, taking an elaborate bow that nearly topples her again, “penguins are fascinating creatures. Has anyone seen the documentaryRomancing the Penguins?”
Of course I have, but all I do is give her a slight nod.