Page 51 of The Book of Luke

“He’s really tuckered out.”

I didn’t answer, my silence marrying Barnes’ lie.

“Well, a bunch of us are having a little hurricane party—”

“Is it a full-blown hurricane now?”

“It’s just… what people call it. Apparently.”

“Well, if Luke perks up, we’ll swing by.”

“When he’s awake, will you tell him to find me? He and I need to catch up.”

“Sure.” A long beat. “Anyway, good to see you, Arjun. It’s going to be a fun season.”

The door shut, and Barnes rounded the corner, ditching the pink shorts.

“You didn’t have to lie,” I said.

“I never feel guilty lying to liars. Especially after the shit he pulled on you in LA.” He ran a hand over my ribs, grazing their scars, and I shivered. “Ticklish?” He grinned.

“I just… get weird when these guys become the focus.”

“Right,” he said softly, peering at the marks on my face. “You could hide them, you know? With makeup, concealer?”

“I… don’t think that’s for me.”

“Every guy on TV wears makeup.”

“I never saw anyone do it last year.”

“Correction: every guy who understands how cameras work wears makeup.” He hopped off the bed, retrieving his dopp kit. “Lucky for you, our complexions aren’t far off.”

I instinctively flinched, but he took me by the chin. “It’ll wash off, you big baby. If you like it, wear it when you want. It’s your face. You should be in control of how people see it.”

Fifteen minutes later, I couldn’t believe who stared back at me in the bathroom mirror. The texture of the scars was there if you squinted, but it had been buffed down, painted away, like the accident never happened, like the NFL-bound college senior was resurrected before my eyes. “You look really good,” Barnes said, hugging me from behind.

“Yeah.” I nodded as my hands glided over his. “We both do.”

Two days later, I was returning from a jog when the production van arrived at the resort, our final cast members at last joining. Greta burst out, leaping on me like a long-lost relative, only to recoil once she realized how sweaty I was.

“Never get stranded in Houston, especially with Greta Hendricksen,” Imogen sighed when she emerged next. “You okay?”

I shrugged, some part of me already resisting. “Just ran eight miles.”

She discreetly pulled me aside as other contestants trooped by. “How’s Arjun so far?”

“We haven’t spoken,” I replied tightly. “Did you lose your phone? I texted you.”

“You mean a few days ago? I saw your text when we landed in Texas, but I figured you were already in lockdown. Didn’t they take everyone’s phones like always?”

“Not with the storm.”

“Huh, funny.” She still didn’t get it, but it wasn’t my job to tell her. “Do you mind if I wait in your room until we head to the villa?” she asked.

I exhaled, fighting to be noncommittal. “Sure, Barnes is packing, but he won’t care.”

“Barnes?” she laughed. “You were hard up for company.”