Page 17

Working For You

Holland

I t’s only Wednesday, but this already feels like the week that’ll never end.

After practice with Mallory on Monday morning, I had my date with Ava.

Then yesterday, we had a bouquet ceremony, where—surprise—no one was eliminated.

We’ve got to keep enough people around to have a show, or at least that’s what Vivian hissed to me following the whole debacle with Michelle, Cambria, and Liz.

I’m already down to fewer contestants than MEM would prefer at this point in the “journey,” and I don’t think Vivian was thrilled that I made a unilateral decision about sending all three of those women home.

The drama of them sticking around would have made for great TV, but whatever.

It’s my life, and I don’t have time for people who don’t care about anything beyond looking good on my arm.

The rest of the women here seem to be normal and actually interested in me.

At least there’s that. But I’m exhausted.

The trailer that production has driven into the back parking lot at the Cashmere Cove mini-golf course has got to be three thousand degrees.

It shouldn’t be. It’s a cool April day. The air temperature outside could even be described as chilly.

But I’m inside, having my face powdered by a woman named Rizzo, and I feel like I’m in a one-person sauna with ten other humans. There’s only five of us in here. But the point stands.

Rizzo keeps giving me the stink eye when I shift in my chair, like I’m a painting she can’t quite get right.

Callen is going through what I should expect for the day of filming ahead.

Vivian is leaning against the bank of cabinets on the far wall, scrolling through her phone.

Her assistant, Caroline, is at her shoulder, gnawing on a piece of chewing gum like her life depends on it.

The trailer’s tiny window is on the wall behind Vivian and Caroline. I peer through it, tuning everything else out and focusing on the sliver of daylight that signals the fresh air I can look forward to when I’m done with this trailer madness.

I’ve got a group date ahead of me, but it shouldn’t be too bad. I’ll be in my element on a golf course, albeit a mini one. It should be a pretty relaxed outing—or at least I’m hoping so.

“We’ll only need to have you eliminate one woman this cycle,” Callen says, drawing my attention.

“One? Okay.” I nod. “I can do that.”

Callen starts in on the line-up of one-on-one conversation timeslots and who’ll be urged to corner me first, and how I should play it. I make humming noises to show him I’m half listening, but my attention is taken by movement through the window.

Six of the women have arrived. Everyone is here except for Belle, who we have slated to get the only one-on-one date of the cycle later this week. That means I have seven women left total.

My gaze pings to Mallory. She’s last to leave the SUV production rented to shuttle the women from Daisy’s Inn across town to the mini-golf course.

Another one of the ladies, Mindy Sue, waits for her to exit and then points to the sky. Mallory follows her finger and looks up. The two of them get left behind, staring at the clouds, while the rest of the women hustle toward the facilities to do who knows what.

I can tell Mindy Sue and Mallory are deep in conversation.

Mindy Sue keeps gesturing upward, and Mallory holds up her arms in a shrug, and then she’s talking with her hands.

Suddenly, Mallory breaks into some type of dance sequence.

Mindy Sue doubles over laughing, and I catch sight of the wide smile slashing across Mallory’s face when she pivots in the direction of the trailer .

The sight of Mallory having fun causes a tightening in my chest. I feel guilty for watching her as she lets loose.

It feels like I’m sneaking around, as ridiculous as it sounds.

It’s such a different picture of my coach than I’m used to seeing—than she’s ever let me see.

The Mallory I’m acquainted with is buttoned up in a way that would seem to choke the lifeblood out of anything that’s not the game of golf.

But this view of her? Relaxed. Carefree. Laughing. I can’t bring myself to look away. If I was half in love with her before, I fear I’m one hundred percent gone for her now.

Mallory does the dance again, and through the walls of the trailer, I hear Mindy Sue’s peals of laughter. Mallory joins in, and the low, faint sound of it makes me sit up straighter. I’m dying for more where that came from.

Rizzo curses under her breath. “Sit still.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, longing with every fiber in my being to be outside so I could listen in on whatever Mindy Sue and Mallory are up to. So I could try to bottle up the unfettered joy that is so atypical of my coach I think I might be imagining this entire scene.

Vivian is eyeing me with curiosity, and she’s obviously caught wind of Mallory’s and Mindy Sue’s antics outside, because she keeps looking over her shoulder and shooting glances back at me. She leans her head toward Caroline, and I hear her say something that sounds like “opposite teams.”

Caroline nods and scoots out of the trailer. She appears in the window, beckoning Mindy Sue and Mallory forward. They get a hold of themselves, link their arms together, and trail Caroline, disappearing from my view.

“All done.” Rizzo steps back, and I hop off the chair.

“Thanks for making me look good.” It’s the same thing I’ve been telling her since opening night of filming. I’ve yet to get more than a sniff in acknowledgement of my gratitude. I turn to Callen. “Are we all set? ”

“Yep. Follow me.”

“One second.” Vivian reaches for my arm and pulls me to a stop. “I’ll bring him out to you, Cal.”

Callen nods, and the door to the trailer creaks as it closes behind him.

I’m alone with Vivian, and while she’s not looking at me unkindly, something about being here, under her scrutiny, makes me feel like I’m carrying five hundred bricks on each of my shoulders.

All I want to do is get out of this hotbox, but I try to look at ease as I wait for Vivian to say what she’s going to say. She doesn’t speak until Rizzo clears out of the trailer behind Callen.

“I want to check in with you,” she begins. “Make sure you’re starting to develop some feelings. That things are progressing as they’re supposed to.”

“I…uh…” Blergh . I hate this. The weight on my shoulders doubles.

I don’t know what has gotten into me. I haven’t had a panic attack since middle school, and now I’m on the verge of my second one in as many weeks.

My pulse starts pounding in my ears, and my thoughts are flying a mile a minute as I try to come up with an adequate response for Vivian and figure out my own feelings about everything.

I had a decent date with Ava two nights ago.

She’s a high school English literature teacher with a massive social media following.

She told me how she’s made a name for herself by doing short videos summarizing Shakespeare plays using the language of this generation.

She’s even been interviewed by CBA news, the same network that airs Most Eligible Mister .

We talked about fame and how it’s a double-edged sword, how we’re grateful for it, and how it changes your life in ways you may not have anticipated or prepared for. All in all, it was a nice date.

Did I feel something more for Ava beyond appreciation that she’s here for me and respect that she teaches hormonal teenagers sonnets for a living?

Not entirely. I’m trying to ignore the worry that keeps curdling in my stomach when I think too hard about it all.

Because I should be feeling something for a woman like Ava, right?

She’s smart, and accomplished, and interesting, and we have things in common.

The same thing happened as I’ve chatted with the other women.

Take Britt. She’s gorgeous and smart too.

She’s a licensed marriage and family counselor with a specialty in helping troubled kids.

She’s a good listener…very attentive. But every time I talk to her, I feel like she’s trying to diagnose me.

With what? Who knows. But it’s hard for me to relax around her.

It’s a me problem, not a her problem, I know, but I can’t help it.

With both Ava and Britt, and all the other women, I can’t force feelings—even if it feels like Vivian wants me to.

She’s staring at me now, waiting for my response, and my nervous system continues to go all haywire.

My head feels light, and my arms feel like tree trunks.

I grab for the golf billfold I brought into the trailer to study in my downtime.

I focus on the feel of the leather exterior, and I flip it open, staring down at the worn, familiar paper and the outline of the Grand Masters course in an effort to ground myself.

That’s when I see it.

There’s a small notation written on the edge of the scorecard. It’s in Mallory’s dark, scribble-y handwriting. I zero in on the words like they’re a life raft, and I’m a man who just jumped off the top deck of the Titanic.

Acknowledge the overwhelm. But remember, it doesn’t own you. You are more.

I re-read the words a couple times over. I feel my pulse slowing and the rest of my body calming down as well. Mallory’s one-liners are the stuff of legend, and they always speak exactly to the point. She must’ve written this after our practice session on Monday.

Before our kiss.

I ping my gaze up to meet Vivian’s. She doesn’t know I’ve kissed any of the women.

Maybe I should feel guilty about that, because my contract spells out that all romantic moments must be documented.

But I’m oddly pleased that whatever happened between Mallory and me was just that—between the two of us.

Hate kiss or not, I’m protective of my feelings where my coach is concerned.

Vivian is watching me carefully. She holds up her hands as if sensing my fragile state of mind. “You don’t have to go into specifics. But I’d like to know that this is working for you. That there are some women here you could see yourself falling for.”

I rub the pad of my thumb over the words in my billfold and an image of Mallory, scowling at me, pops into my head. It transforms in my mind’s eye to her tossing her head back and laughing, red hair fanned out around her like a blazing fire. I swear I can smell a subtle whiff of peaches in the air.

Mallory told me I’m her paycheck and her player.

That’s all. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to be more.

Maybe it’s foolish, maybe I’m reading the whole situation wrong, but I think there’s a chance her feelings for me might be shifting.

I want to explore that fault line, see what’s at the epicenter of her.

What makes her tick? What makes her blood boil?

What makes her sad and nervous, elated and hopeful? I want to know it all.

I’m helpless to stop the small smile that creeps across my face as I respond to Vivian. “Yeah,” I say carefully. “Yeah, I think so.”