Page 43 of Hot SEAL, Under Pressure

“Why? We know who came in last. I was there. I saw it. We all did.”

“You saw it, but the viewers won’t. They’ll edit the episode so you can’t tell who came in last at the end. So the viewers will have to wait until the beginning of the next episode to find out who lost. Who was it anyway? The last one in.” She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten to ask until now.

“Airhead Barbie,” he answered moving around to start to unlace her boots.

She let him as she reviewed the cast and couldn’t place who he meant. “Who?”

Where was he getting these names from? And should she be writing them down for the producers to use?

“The one who asks all the dumb questions all the time.”

“Oh, her. Okay, good.”

“Why good?” he asked. “Besides the fact the Q&A will be cut in at least half without her.”

“Because I’d hate to lose Flirty Barbie or Backstabbing Barbie this early in the show. They’re good for ratings.”

He chuckled. “I know exactly which two you’re talking about.”

She hated to admit it and felt like a traitor to her sex, but she couldn’t deny that the Barbie naming system was working for them.

“Ready?” he asked, holding her loosened boot in one hand and her calf in the other.

“Go ahead. But if there’s blood, I don’t want to see.”

He tugged off the boot and with it came a searing pain.

She felt him roll off her sock. “Oh yeah. That’s a nice blister. It popped too.”

“Great.”

“A little soak in the salt water and you’ll feel better.” He pulled the second boot and sock off.

She hissed at the pain then attempted to wiggle her numb toes. “Can’t wait.”

“Hey, at least you don’t have to put those boots right back on like I had to,” he said.

“But I’m not in BUD/S training like you were, so...”

She should be sitting at her desk in the nice air-conditioned office. Not freezing in the surf or sweating during a four-mile run.

“And I’m only here because of you, so…” He bobbed his head to the side.

She sighed. He was right. It was her own fault that she was there too. She needed to keep her ideas to herself.

“Will there be alcohol at this elimination ceremony?” he asked as he stood.

“God. I hope so.” She struggled to stand and failed. He extended a hand to help her up. “They’ll announce the names of the team leaving and very dramatically tell them to pack their tents and leave the island. We’ll all hug them and pretend to be sad. Then we’re done for the night.”

“Done. Pfft. Not quite. We still have to make a fire and cook dinner.”

As he said that, a four-wheeler drove up with Clay and Tasha inside.

Stefan glared. “Are they staying in the barracks building here?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Or they’re bringing them over when we need them.” At his deep scowl, she poked him with her elbow. “Cheer up. Envy isn’t a good look on you.”

His frown deepened. “Next show I wanna be the host.”

---