Page 5

Night One

Mallory

I grope awkwardly in the dark, slapping my hand against the inside wall of what I’m assuming is some sort of pantry off the side of the kitchen.

I’m in the Most Eligible Mister mansion, and I want to be literally anywhere else.

Send me to the center of a hurricane. The south pole in the dead of winter.

The DMV. Anywhere but here. My fingers finally connect with the light switch, and I flip it upward, illuminating walls lined with shelves.

There are boxes of prepackaged snacks and more wine bottles than any one home should have in its possession.

I’m surprised there’s any left. Some of the contestants have had quite a bit to drink tonight.

Or should I say this morning?

My phone is telling me it’s now six a.m. That means we’ve been at this grueling first night of filming for twelve hours. No one else knows that, because they’ve removed all the clocks from the house.

Thank goodness I have my phone. I grip it like it’s a lifeline, and really, it is.

At this point, it’s my only connection to the outside world.

Even twelve hours into this thing, and I’m desperate to be done.

The bouquet ceremony is set to begin within the next hour, according to Cece, the assistant producer assigned to me. It can’t come soon enough.

Taking a deep breath, I kick off my high heels and hit the video call button on my mom’s contact.

Her face fills the screen a moment later.

“Morning, sunshine,” she chirps .

“Hey, Mom.”

“Look at you!” she squeals. “Hold the phone back so I can see your dress.”

I do as I’m told, moving the phone up and down so my mom can see the navy-blue gown I managed to snag off the rack at the local department store yesterday. It’s pretty simple, but it fits me, and it’s formal enough that I blend in with the other women here who are dressed to impress. I’ll take it.

“You’re beautiful, Mal.” My mom’s words are thick with emotion.

I roll my eyes. “Mom, quit it.” I drop my voice. “This isn’t real, remember?”

“So you’ve said.” She waves me off through the camera. “I still can’t believe you agreed to this. We can figure out a therapy schedule we can afford.”

While I admire my mom’s optimism, I wasn’t about to let her stop being proactive.

CIDP is a chronic autoimmune disorder. If she backslides, she won’t come back from it.

That’s what I told her when I broke the news about doing the show and my upcoming time away in Cashmere Cove.

She and my dad protested. They said the money should be mine.

I told them I wouldn’t take no for an answer.

An hour later, my mom had consistent therapy sessions scheduled for the next six months.

This whole debacle will be worth it if she gets some relief from her pain and other debilitating symptoms.

“Good day or bad day?” I ask.

“You know it’s always a good day, especially when I get to talk to you.

” The phone shakes in her hand, and she readjusts it.

I frown and am about to ask if the tingling is worse, but she plows ahead.

“Tell me everything. How’s it going? How are the other women?

Nice? Catty? Normal? Is Chad Erikson as flawless in person as he looks on TV? ”

She’s referencing the iconic host of Most Eligible Mister .

“Haven’t seen much of him, actually. This has ruined me for reality TV. What’s aired versus what actually happens is worlds apart.”

“Don’t tell me, then. You know how much I love my trash TV.”

“I know. The women seem fine, though. Mostly normal. A couple of characters.” I think of the girl who showed up in a princess dress and then had a major meltdown about it, but I spare my mom the details.

I know she’ll want to watch it for herself, and I’m not about to flirt with spoiling anything, given the five-million-dollar fine I might face.

“And how’s Holland doing?” she asks.

I huff. “In his element, of course.”

My mom beams. “This has to be very exciting for him. Please tell him we’re rooting for him.”

I stare back at her in her pink fluffy robe with her red hair, turning more blonde with age, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that Holland—like reality TV—isn’t all he’s cracked up to be. She loves him…like everyone else does.

“I will.” I manage a smile. “I have to get going, but text me if anything comes up. I’ll be free of all this in”—I check a pretend watch—“less than an hour. After the elimination ceremony.”

“Hey now. Don’t be so sure. He’s going to pick you to stay on the show. I know it.”

I pin her with a get serious look. “You know I don’t like him, right?”

“That’s what you’ve said, but maybe you should give him a chance.

At least go with the flow. I know you like to control every last detail of how life shapes up.

” She holds up a hand as I open my mouth to protest. “But a little shake up might be good for you. Force you to live a bit. Besides, Holland has always been so kind to us. Try to see the good.”

This is so typical of my mom. I don’t know how she does it.

She’s able to find good in just about everything.

Rain on her wedding day? Better lighting for photos.

Coffee shop out of her favorite pastry? What a good day to try something new.

Debilitating diagnosis that takes away her ability to do almost everything she loves? No biggie.

I want to be like her, but I’m a realist. And yeah, a control freak.

“I can see the good in his golf game,” I tell her. “That’s all I’m concerned with.”

“Oh, you stubborn girl,” my mom laughs lightly, used to me after thirty years of parenting me. “For what it’s worth, I think Holland is a smart guy. He’d be a fool not to pick you.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re my mom. You have to say that.”

“Give him a chance.” She winces as she shifts in her chair.

I lean closer to the camera, all thoughts of Holland fleeing. “You okay? I thought you said it was a good day.”

“It is a good day. Don’t worry about me. Go have some fun.”

I bite my lip and nod, even though no one in their right mind would call the night I’ve had—filled with small talk and forced laughter and standing and mingling for hours on end—fun. Not even my eternally optimistic mother. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, too, Mal. Knock ’em dead.” She winks, and I disconnect the call.

I close my eyes and rest my head against the wall of this wine pantry.

I’m exhausted on a bone deep level.

It’ll be over soon. It’ll be over soon.

I may have chanted myself into a doze, but I bolt upright when the door to the pantry slams open, and Holland stumbles inside.

I’m not sure I would recognize him, given his current state, if he wasn’t the only man in this forsaken mansion wearing a full-on tuxedo and shiny black shoes.

Other than his giveaway formal wear, gone is the happy-go-lucky Holland I’ve come to know and expect.

His eyes are wide and frantic, darting around the pantry.

His breathing is ragged, and his face is flushed a red that rivals the bottles of wine he’s about to knock off the shelves in front of him with his herky-jerky limbs.

“Whoa. Holland!” I reach out my hand and grab hold of his arm. There’s heat radiating from him, through the thick wool-blend of his suit coat. He must be burning up.

His wild gaze lands on me, and his eyes go even wider. He turns away, and I pause for a moment, watching his broad back expand and contract in his suit coat as he attempts to regain his breath. His shoulders are heaving up and down at an alarming rate. Something is very much not right.

I’ve never seen Holland rattled. Frustrated with his play? Yes. Annoyed with my training regimen? Absolutely.

But this is next level.

I move to step around Holland so I can get a better look at him, but as I do so, he bends forward and puts his hands on his knees. His forehead lands directly in my cleavage, above the cut of the silky navy fabric of my dress.

He makes a strangled sound and steps backward, knocking into the shelves of wine bottles.

A couple of them wiggle precariously, like bowling pins grazed and on the verge of tipping over.

I lunge around Holland, who is staring at the wine bottles with the same look of horror on his face he’s worn since entering this pantry of doom.

I manage to get the wine secured, and I spin to face Holland.

I reach out and grab his upper arms, trying very hard not to think about the exact spot on my chest that now bears the smeared droplets of Holland’s forehead sweat.

If I wasn’t so concerned about this out-of-character behavior, I would be reaming him out for invading my personal space.

Time and a place for that, though.

“Hey, hey.” I use my most direct coach’s voice. Holland’s gaze is darting everywhere but to me. “Holland. Bradley! Look at me.“ Something in my even tone gets his attention .

His gaze snaps to mine. His chest is still heaving, and he reaches up and puts his hands on top of his head.

I drop my hands from his arms. “What is going on?”

“I-I-I…” Holland clamps his jaw shut, and I didn’t think it was possible, but his cheeks turn an even darker shade of red. He shakes his head and blows out a long breath. “I”—he begins slowly—“c-c-c-can’t.” His face crumples, and he drops his chin to his chest.

I’m momentarily stunned. Holland has never stammered like that. Does he have a speech impediment?

I shake my head. That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that Holland is about to pass out if I don’t do something, because there is no way he’s getting enough oxygen.

“Holland. Listen to me. I think you’re having a panic attack.”