Page 37 of Insta Bride

I should have known by the way, she asked, she’d expected me to say, no.

We were naked and the clock was about to tick over, and the cameras and microphones turn back on. We didn’t have time to fight and make up.

I should have stopped with the honesty about half a dozen questions ago. Elena didn’t need to know about my past, and I sure as hell didn’t want to throw it in her face.

But I also remembered Elena’s words. On that first day she’d been abundantly clear about hating liars, cheaters, and assholes.

“Yes.”

Elena didn’t give me a chance to explain about the crazy night when I’d walked into a bedroom to see two guys as surprise extras when I’d gone home with their girlfriend. Elena had asked a simple question, and I’d been the idiot to answer with one word instead of fluffing around with an explanation first.

“Get out.”

“But—”

“Get out now or be prepared to fight all night.”

“Babe, the make-up sex will be great.”

“Get out.”

“But it was—”

“I knew I’d have to watch you flirting with the other women, but the men as well? Just get out.”

With literally seconds to go, and not wanting to explain on camera how I hadn’t been with a guy without it sounding judgy, I grabbed a pair of shorts, a thin blanket and headed out into the night. Over the week, I’d had half a dozen of the guys come and crash on my floor when they’d been fighting with their missus.

I couldn’t do that to Elena. We needed time to talk and listen without becoming the target of everyone’s gossip.

I couldn’t.

I couldn’t.

I couldn’t do that to Elena, I couldn’t do that to me, and I couldn’t fucking do it to us. We still needed to straddle the line between reality TV and real. Tonight, we’d broken down boundaries that I’d thought were rock solid.

Sleeping on the beach was a small price to pay to hold onto a little privacy. I wanted to give her time to process, ask questions, and hear the truth. Yes, I knew the producers would be calling my ass to the diary tent to explain how I ended up on the beach on my own.

Hopefully, by then, I’d have the answer.

Elena

Kye was an ass.

It shouldn’t worry me.

It shouldn’t have me lying awake, wishing things were different.

I mean, he’d never hidden his whoring around. I knew he’d slept with hundreds of women. His answer to that question had been honest. Not boasting, but acknowledging a fact with the same reluctance as when I’d asked him about being with more than one woman at once.

I’d even assumed the answers before I’d asked the question.

But my last question should have gotten a no. I’d known time was running out before the cameras would be turned on, and I’d wanted to ask a Dorothy Dixer style question—you know the ones that a political party will ask one of their own.

I’d expected womanizer Kye, would never have been with a man.

His simple, yes, had floored me.

I’d reacted, badly. Honestly, but badly.

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