Page 7

Cheers, Everyone

Holland

I ’m standing in front of twenty beautiful women, and color me stupid, but I’m actively trying not to think about any of them. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll freak out again, and I cannot let that happen.

Chad Erickson, the longtime host of Most Eligible Mister , is giving his spiel about how the bouquet ceremony will go down.

Hazel, my producer, already gave me the rundown, so I’m doing my best to focus on exactly what Mallory told me.

I’m breathing in the pattern she walked me through in the pantry.

I’ve got the list of the ten women I’m planning to take with me to Cashmere Cove written down in my scorecard billfold.

I told Hazel that after we get the final scenes filmed for tonight, I’m holing up in my room to rest and recuperate.

I played it off like I needed my sleep to keep my golf game up, and she didn’t argue.

The women in front of me are standing at attention, backs stiff and straight, hands clasped at their waists.

They’re wearing dresses that are every color of the rainbow.

Two of them showed up in the same, poofy yellow ball gown, and there was a minor meltdown heard ’round the mansion when they realized it.

One of them shrieked loud enough for me to hear it where I was having a one-on-one chat with a nice woman from Texas named Mindy Sue.

“But my name is Belle! This was supposed to be how he remembers me! Now my plan is ruined!”

I’ve watched enough of this show with my mom to know that producers most likely had a hand in bringing that bit of drama about.

I felt for Belle, because she seemed genuinely distraught, so much so that she spent the time we were supposed to be chatting about our hometowns and getting to know each other telling me all about how much time she spent at the seamstress, making sure her dress was the perfect replica of the one the fictional Belle wore in Beauty and the Beast .

“I even brought you a beast headdress so we could dance in the courtyard and everything!” she had wailed.

Another woman interrupted before I could respond, and while I was torn about leaving Belle in such a state, I was relieved when she stood and stormed off, not making me look like the bad guy for ditching her.

Otherwise, everything has gone off without issue.

The women all seem nice. A couple have stood out to me as extra pleasant to be around, so they’ll for sure be getting my invite to Cashmere Cove.

Hazel gave me a list of the ones the production team would like to see on future episodes, but she was quick to remind me that Vivian refuses to be a puppet master, so all decisions are my own.

But if I’m on the fence, the list is there for my reference.

My gaze settles on Mallory. She’s the only person in the swarm of women I can bring myself to look at right now.

She was at the top of Vivian’s list. She’s wearing a long, blue dress.

It’s got simple, skinny straps, and the fabric ripples slightly at the top before tracing the curve of her waist and hips and then cascading straight to the ground.

I didn’t get a good look at her in the dimly lit pantry, because I was on death’s doorstep both because of my panic attack and then because of my stuttering—and the fact that I was making a complete fool out of myself in front of my coach—but she looks gorgeous.

Her red hair is pulled back in her signature sleek ponytail that somehow works here, in a formal setting, just as well as it works for her out on the golf course. She’s—

No!

This is a disaster. Mallory Walsh is a beautiful distraction. One I absolutely should be ignoring right now .

I cannot be in the business of checking out my golf coach.

Here, there, or anywhere. I need to fall in love with one of these other women.

I glance at the line of them. They’re all pretty too.

But Mallory, man. She’s like the cerulean-blue crayon in the box filled with primary colors.

She’s the one I want. She’s the standout.

Objectively speaking. Having her hair pulled back shows off her sparkly earrings and her toned shoulders.

It’s a good look for her, and I imagine if the camera appreciates it even half as much as I do, that’s why Vivian wants her to stay around.

For how good Mallory looks, she also looks supremely uncomfortable. She’s fidgety. Like she can’t stand still. She keeps shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“Cut.” There’s an audible groan from the entire group of women as one of the producers steps forward. I think his name is Callen. “Hey, Mallory.”

“Huh? What?” Mal’s head pops up.

“We need you to stand still, or we’re never going to get this shot right.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Mallory’s cheeks flush as she glances around at the women. “I’m so sorry.”

There are some grumbles, but one of the Michelles—there are two, because my head wasn’t about to explode already, so of course there are multiple women with the same name here—says, “You’re fine.”

“Alright.” Callen points to Chad. “Why don’t you cue Holland, and we’ll get this show on the road. Everyone remember, we’ll pause after each azalea bouquet is handed out. Reset. Then film the next invite. Got it?” Everyone nods. “Holland, you good?”

I give him a thumbs up. I still don’t trust my voice.

I didn’t stutter once when I spoke to Hazel, but I haven’t verbalized anything since then, and a not-so-small part of me is terrified that I’m going to open my mouth to say Belle—yes, she’s getting a pity invite—and not be able to speak beyond the sound of the first letter of her name .

I haven’t had a stuttering episode since high school. I thought I’d outgrown it. Guess not. I’m better off if I don’t think about that right now. I want to project confidence and smoothness. That’s what everyone expects from me. That’s what these women signed up for.

Chad nods at me. He’s done delivering his spiel. “Holland, whenever you’re ready.”

I clear my throat. “Thanks, Chad.”

The relief I feel at getting those words out calms my frayed nerves and untwists half of the knots filling my belly. I can work with this.

“Ladies, this has been unlike any other night in my life. I’m sure it’s the kickoff to what’s going to be an extraordinary journey. I’m so grateful to each of you for coming along for the ride. I can only take ten of you home with me to Cashmere Cove, but I wish you all well.”

I take one of the small azalea bouquets off the table where ten are neatly lined up and hold it in my right hand. My confidence wavers as my insecurity rises up. Do any of these women really want to date me? Or are they here for the fame, the experience—I glance to Mallory—or the money?

I close my eyes and do a slow-breathing exercise, willing away the doubts.

I blink my eyes open and glance down at my billfold that holds my notebook and a scorecard, which I’m clutching in my left hand.

When I picked up the blank scorecard back in my room to write the names of the ten women I’m picking, I saw that Mallory had written a note in the margin of the page: You’ve got this. Do the next thing right.

It’s a golf phrase she employs often. A way to get me out of my own head and force me to focus on the stroke that’s right in front of me rather than thinking about the putt or the hole or the tournament that’s to come .

I re-read her directive now, and then I read the first name directly from my list, not bringing my gaze up until I’ve said the entire word.

“Belle.”

She leaps into the air and squeals before rushing forward. She throws her arms around my neck. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!”

“I’ll take that as a yes?” I pat her awkwardly on the back with my billfold.

“Yes!” She smacks a kiss onto my cheek before snatching her bouquet and skipping back into the lineup of women.

Most of them are indulgent and being good sports about Belle’s enthusiasm as the producer resets us. I catch a couple of eye rolls. I can’t blame them, but also, it’s not a good look.

Mallory has a closed-lipped smile on her face. When I meet her gaze, she doesn’t blink. I give her a subtle nod. She returns it in exactly the same way she would whether I had lost a golf tournament or emerged victorious.

It’s so classic Mallory that I relax as we go through the next eight names without issue. Along with Belle, I invite one of the Michelles, Jennah, Ava, Cambria, Zelda, Mindy Sue, Britt, and Liz.

We do our final camera reset, and when we’re rolling, Chad says, “Ladies, Holland, this is the last bouquet to be handed out this evening. Holland, whenever you’re ready.”

I dip my chin in acknowledgement and pick up the final bouquet of flowers off the table.

I don’t think too hard. I don’t allow for a dramatic pause that Hazel told me is customary. I look directly at my coach and say her name without hesitation.

“Mallory.”

Her lips part on a gasp, and she stands still for a moment before she strides forward.

“Mallory, will you accept this azalea bouquet as my invite to Cashmere Cove? ”

Her eyebrows are arched, and her gaze searches mine. I can tell what she’s thinking. What the heck are you doing? I’m already coming with you to coach you. Why do you need to keep me around as a contestant?

I don’t have a good response for her, other than I feel fragile for the first time since I was in seventh grade and someone made fun of my stutter and completely ruined my self-confidence.

I want Mallory by my side to coach me through this.

I need her on the inside of this thing as a talisman of normalcy and a reminder that I can and will be successful.

A small part of me feels bad for putting her through it, for using her for my own ends.

Because unlike the closet crush I have on her, I’m certain she has no romantic feelings for me.

But she is being paid well, and it won’t be so bad.

“I—“

She cuts herself off, and for a split second, I think she might turn me down. I hold my breath, hoping the money is enough to sway her to stay. She’ll make more each day she sticks around.

“I guess?”

She says it like a question, and I let loose a short laugh. Somehow, with her, my worries fall away, and I can default to my usual brand of banter. I don’t even think twice about speaking.

“I’ll do my best to convince you that you’ve made the right choice in Cashmere Cove.” I wink, and her eyes flare. I hand over the bouquet, and she presses her lips together again before nodding and turning back to take her position in line.

There’s a flurry of activity as we round out the night—er, morning—with tearful goodbyes (the women, not me) and canned footage of the remaining contestants and myself clinking champagne classes.

“Mallory.” Vivian snaps her fingers in between takes, and Mallory straightens her spine.

I’ve never seen her look so exhausted.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you make the toast?”

Mallory scrunches up her nose like she can’t imagine doing anything worse, but at Vivian’s arched eyebrow, she clears her throat.

“Right. Uh, can I go whenever?”

“Wait a second, andddd rolling.” Vivian motions for Mallory to go ahead.

“Here’s to Holland and champagne and Cashmere Cove. Cheers, everyone.”

The ladies squeal, and we tap our champagne flutes together.

“And cut. Perfect, Mallory. Thank you.” Vivian shoots her a thumbs up.

“Anything to get us out of here,” Mallory mutters.

Mindy Sue chuckles. “Cheers to that. ”