Page 13 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)

THIRTEEN

I curl up on the giant sectional, feet tucked beneath me, a warm cup of coffee resting on my knees.

Even if the coffee’s terrible, it’s one routine I’m glad to hang on to—though it’s a little different sharing it with nearly a dozen other women.

One of whom is Ashley. Maybe I was onto something, after all.

We’re all gathered this morning to find out who’s going on the next group date. And more importantly, who’s getting the coveted one-on-one.

I think I might be the only one hoping it’s not me.

Not that I have to worry about that, Dominic wouldn’t pick someone he’s not interested in.

After last week, Dominic hasn’t exactly asked for my input on who he should date.

Which is fine. He seems surprisingly serious about the whole love thing.

I thought he signed up for the attention and buffet of women, but now…

I’m not so sure. He’s willing to keep me around just to help him find his happily ever after.

Emma walks into the room clutching the date card. Excited shrieks echo off the walls, along with a dozen wild guesses about who’s getting solo time with Dominic.

For dramatic effect, Emma clears her throat, quieting the room. The sound of the seal tearing and the rustle of the card seems almost deafening, with everyone holding their collective breath.

“Ladies,” she reads, “you’re invited to a day of wine, views, and if we’re lucky, deepened connections. Summer, Victoria, Mia…”

I tune out the rest after hearing my name. A winery? Sign me up. Though I do find it strange they’d plan a date like that for Dominic. He doesn’t even drink. I’m still not sure why, but that’s none of my business.

I’m just happy to get out of the house. It’s been a little over a week, but I’m already going stir-crazy. Like a hamster in a cage.

We’re not even allowed to take a walk around the neighborhood or stroll on the beach unless production gives us the green light.

“Emma, that means you got the one-on-one!” Victoria squeals as soon as Emma finishes reading the card, voicing what we’ve all put together.

“I can’t believe it.” A soft smile lifts Emma’s cheeks.

I’m happy for her. Honestly. She’s a literary agent from New York, so she and Dominic can bond over books.

Like him, she’s bubbly, always smiling, always upbeat.

The kind of person who probably wakes up humming and has never once cried in a Trader Joe’s parking lot because they were out of her favorite cold brew.

They’d make a great pair. Two sunbeams, strolling through life with equally nauseating sunny dispositions.

Plus, she’s blonde. And everyone knows hockey players love blondes. It’s practically a scientific fact.

She’s high on my list of potential matches. I might even tell Dominic so.

I didn’t exactly plan on playing matchmaker—and I’m not convinced I’m any good at it—but I’m not giving Dominic a single excuse to send me home.

He let it slide at the last rose ceremony, but who knows how long his patience will hold.

Which is why I’ve spent the past week making an effort with the other girls.

And why I continue to keep my ears open as I get ready for today’s outing.

Everyone’s on their A-game, fully aware of the cameras and saying all the right things. Or maybe they just don’t have anything bad to say. I still think that’s possible, even if Dominic’s convinced otherwise.

All I catch are fragments of praise?—

He’s so handsome.

So tall.

He told me blah blah, isn’t that the sweetest?

Nothing suspicious.

“Did you notice… anyone he kissed was sent home last week? And the first night, the girl who kissed him was sent home, too,” Victoria, who’s curling her hair, whispers to Emma who’s swiping on mascara.

Emma meets her eye in the mirror. “Oh gosh, you’re right. What do you think that means?”

Victoria shrugs, already onto asking about the blush Emma’s wearing.

Well, that’s an interesting tidbit. I wasn’t keeping track of who was locking lips, but it’d be a weird coincidence… and kind of off-brand for “Playboy Dominic Fox,” as the press loves to call him.

They file out of the bathroom, and I finish my makeup with a layer of nude gloss.

I’m downstairs last, and the man himself is already working the room, charming as ever. He’s mid-conversation with Summer when I step through the doorway. Naturally, he notices.

He breaks away and heads straight over.

“Mia.” He grins easily, pulling me into a hug like we’re old friends and not reluctant co-conspirators.

Are we playing nice now?

“Better late than never,” he adds, pulling back, his tone light but laced with something.

Ah. There it is.

“Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes.” I flash him a smile, innocent enough that it might fool someone , but not him. His mouth curves slightly.

I’m actually kind of happy to see him. Not that I’d ever admit it out loud.

Aside from a few brief glimpses—at the cocktail party and when he came to grab the girls for yesterday’s date—I haven’t really seen him since paddleboarding.

It’s probably just the familiarity. Or the fact that he’s my only shot at breaking free from this mansion.

“You look nice.” He shifts, like the words betrayed him by slipping out.

“Thanks. I think so, too.” I smooth a hand down the front of my navy-and-white floral dress, more out of habit than anything else. His eyes follow the movement, but dart away before I can read what’s behind them.

He heads back to the other five women waiting near the entrance.

I drift toward Summer, and she loops her arm through mine.

It’s a little awkward at first, but I let myself lean into it.

I’m not used to having close friends. Not sticking around long enough to connect will do that.

But I’m starting to like the comfort of knowing at least one person has my back in this house.

And at least I can enjoy her company today.

“After you, ladies.” Dominic gestures toward the van.

“The next one is a barrel-aged Chardonnay. It’s our most popular bottle,” the sommelier explains, pouring a serving into each of our glasses lined up on the wooden bar. “It’s aged in French oak for twelve months, which gives it those creamy vanilla notes and a smooth finish.”

I go through the whole ritual, though I’m still not entirely sure of the logic. Swirl the wine, sniff, take a sip, let it linger on my tongue, then swallow.

“You’re supposed to let it linger on your tongue before you swallow,” Summer jokes.

I snort and take a larger sip than what qualifies as tasting. She follows suit, both of us finishing off our glasses.

Victoria is on my other side and has been glued to Dominic since we arrived, a few glasses ago. “Does it not bother you, being around others who drink?” she asks him.

I turn in time to catch Dominic shooting me a judgmental look over her head. “Not when people drink responsibly.”

I spin back to Summer and tune out their conversation. I’m not going to let him ruin my good time with his babysitting act.

We’re perched in the Santa Monica Mountains, but the winery feels more like Tuscany than California.

Stone buildings, soft Italian music, and just enough faux-European charm to make you forget you’re in Malibu.

The place looks like it’s straight out of a Pinterest board titled “Dreamy Vineyard Wedding.” Romantic, if you’re into that sort of thing.

Someone mentioned there’s an alpaca farm on the property, and I’m definitely planning to sneak off and find it before we leave.

“So, you and Dominic…” Summer lowers her voice just enough to avoid catching the others’ attention. I swear she’s asked some version of this question every day this week. I’ve already told her everything. Not sure what she’s still digging for. “You’ve really never been interested in one another?”

“Oh God, no. He’s my brother’s best friend.” I lift my glass and take a generous sip. “Pretty sure Ryan asked him to babysit me, which is the only reason he’s being nice. Normally we barely tolerate each other.”

“Hmm.” She swirls the wine in her glass. “Maybe your brother warned him off?”

I snort. “I doubt he had to. It’s not like Dominic’s ever looked at me that way. And I’m not exactly his type either.”

She raises a brow. “Well, you two bicker like a married couple.”

I choke on my wine a little. “Please. If that’s love, I’ll pass.”

“So, how did you end up here?”

“I didn’t tell anyone I applied. My family had no clue. Dominic didn’t either. He didn’t know I’d be here until I stepped out of the limo.”

Summer tilts her head, watching me. “I’m surprised he hasn’t sent you home yet…” There’s something in her tone, like she’s waiting for me to spill my guts.

She’s going to be disappointed.

For a second, I consider telling her about the deal. But the camera set up in the corner of the bar blinks red, a reminder that nothing here is private.

I shrug. “Guess I got lucky.”

“Hi, Mia.” Dominic appears between us. “Summer,” he adds, tipping his head in her direction.

“Hey, Dom,” Summer says.

“Dominic,” I reply coolly. He’s not getting a nickname. We know how that went last time.

He looks between us, the crinkle of his water bottle drawing my eyes to where his fingers are picking at the plastic label. “Are you two enjoying yourselves? We haven’t had a chance to catch up.”

Summer winces, probably realizing her mistake in not hovering around him like the other four. She recovers quickly, flashing a bright smile. “Want to take a walk?”

He looks back to her. “Sure, I’d love to.”

Then he turns to me. “That’s your third glass.” He nods toward my wine. “You should pace yourself. Did you eat breakfast?”

Is he serious right now? I haven’t heard him ask anyone else about their alcohol intake or eating habits.

“Yes, sir,” I deadpan.

His brows flatten. “Don’t overdo it.”

I flash him a smile full of teeth, raise my glass and pivot, making my way to the bar.

Well, if I wasn’t committed to getting drunk before, I am now.

As I order a glass of Pinot Noir, Bodhi slides in beside me, resting one arm on the counter and angling his body toward mine. “How’re you doing, Mia? We haven’t really had a chance to catch up since Chicago.”

He waves the bartender over for a glass of water.

“Not bad. You?”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.” He lifts a brow.

I glance over my shoulder at the still-rolling camera, then back at him with a pointed look.

“Oh, don’t worry about them,” he says easily. “They can’t use any of this footage with me in it.”

“That’s right. One benefit of being your friend.” I bump my shoulder into his side before shifting to lean on the bar.

He chuckles. “As your friend , I should probably warn you then…”

My grip tightens slightly around my glass.

“There are mics everywhere ,” he says, casually. “Even the closets.”

Well, fuck.

We were so careful. Watched the cameras, avoided the mics. I try to recall what our initial closet conversation even consisted of but come up blank. Anyway, it’s not a crime to talk strategy. The women do it all the time on the show.

Okay, yes, I watched one season. Only to prepare. It was entertaining—not that I’d ever admit that to the You’re The One fan club of Dominic, my brother, and Hannah.

The bartender sets down my wine, and I buy myself a second to think by taking a sip.

I wipe my palm on my dress. Was there something about that in the contract? Probably. Not that I read a single word of it.

“So… is that against the rules?” I hedge.

Let him decide how to take it—talking in the closet, matchmaking, whatever we’re actually doing. He could be bluffing. Maybe they saw us slip in and assumed we were hooking up.

I’m not sure which version is worse.

“Nah.”

I guess he’s playing it close to the chest, too.

I shift closer and lower my voice. “What exactly are we talking about here?”

He closes the space between us until there’s barely an inch left. I catch a whiff of his cologne—sea salt and coconut. I bet he wears one of those all-natural wax scents.

His lips tilt into a smug grin. He leans in, brushing my ear as he speaks. “You playing matchmaker.”

I pull back, both from the closeness and the confirmation. We’ve been caught.

“And that’s not against the rules,” I clarify.

“Nope.”

I pause. “Production knows, too?”

“Oh, yeah. They’re into it. Think it’s a great story arc.” He makes a sweeping motion with one hand, like he’s revealing a movie title on a marquee. “The matchmaker becomes the match.”

He shrugs.

“I hope they’re not holding their breath because that’s not going to happen.”

“No?” His voice is soft, hopeful.

I shake my head. Hard.

“Good.” He smiles. “I hope we can continue building our friendship , Mia.”

It sounds like he’s using friendship in a way that doesn’t quite align with my definition, but I say, “Yeah, sure.” Then, because I’m paranoid, I triple-check, “I’m not getting sent home, right?”

He chuckles, not quite as deep as Dominic’s low rumble, but still nice.

Why am I comparing laughs?

I take another sip of wine, reminding myself of my two goals today: get drunk and, as always, irritate Dominic.