Page 10 of You're The One
And that’s the truth.
I’m having a hard time connecting with the version of myself who agreed to do this. I’ve done my best to hype myself up, but I’d be lying if I said there weren’t still some lingering seeds of doubt.
“Don’t worry, you’ll find your girl. I already have my favorite.” Bodhi winks as he shuffles papers on a clipboard.
I raise a brow, but before I can question him, Margie chimes in, “Don’t you always?”
Okay, now I’m really lost. “Huh?”
“Don’t worry, my dude, I’d never step on your toes. But you can’t like them all, right?” He lifts his fist, expecting me to bump it.
Is he saying he picks up women on the show? What is he, a vulture?
Suddenly, I like him even less, and I didn’t think that was possible.
Thank fuck Mia isn’t here. Still, I’m irritated on her behalf. The guy made plans with her days ago—plans Logan was surprisingly unconcerned about, by the way—and now he’s talking about finding a girl on the show? Not that they could realistically date with him here in California and her in Chicago. Though people do the long-distance thing all the time, don’t they?Jesus, why the fuck am I even thinking about this still?
I shake my head and mutter, “I suppose not.”
“Okay, let’s get you out there. You look great.”
As I heft myself out of the tiny salon chair, he grabs the paper tucked into my collar, ensuring my shirt stays makeup-free.
The California breeze lacks the thick weight that clings to Chicago summers. We pass more crew members than I can count. I have no clue what half of them even do.
“So, I’m going to bring you to your mark—” Bodhi begins.
“My what?”
“The tape, where you’ll stand so they can get the shot.”
Is it just me, or does filming a television show sound suspiciously similar to planning an assassination? I’m hoping it’s not a bad omen. Maybe it’s just proof I’ve read one too many mafia romances. I’ll have to text Hannah and let her know we’ve got to ease up on the dark romance books in our two-person book club.
I nod along as Bodhi continues with his instructions. From what I gather, my job is simple: stand on a piece of tape and greet the women as they enter the mansion.
Easy enough.
The first round goes by without incident. There are plenty of polite “you look nice,” cheesy pickup lines—for once, not coming from me—and beautiful women whose names I already can’t remember.
Round two gets a bit more… memorable. One woman steps out wearing a full hockey uniform, helmet included, claiming she’s ready to “score” my heart. Victoria, who I can already tell will be trouble, leans in and whispers that she’s “heard hockey players know exactly how to handle their sticks,” punctuating it with a sly grin that leaves little to the imagination. There’s definitely no shortage of hockey puns.
I can only hope this isn’t a sign that the experience will end the same way my attempts at online dating did, with women only interested in my status, and me going home alone.
Others take a humorous but less hockey-focused approach. Summer, a country singer from Nashville, serenades me, guitar and all. Another, dressed as aToy Storycharacter, vows a love that’ll take us “to infinity and beyond.”
Then there’s Emma, a literary agent, who steps forward with a nervous laugh and a stack of books clutched to her chest. She’s pretty, with blonde hair a bit past her shoulders and emerald-green eyes. Right away, she puts me at ease, and I get the feeling we’ll end up friends, no matter how things turn out romantically.
I’ve met twenty-three women, and there’s one left as the car pulls into the circular drive and comes to a stop.
Just as I start to feel like I’m on solid footing, a woman steps out of the limo. She turns away before I can catch a glimpse of her face, leaning over the seat for something and leaving me with only the curve of her exposed back.
Long, dark chocolate hair spills down her shoulders, brushing just above the open back of a fitted black gown. The dress clings to her petite frame, dipping low enough to tease those irresistible dimples right above her ass.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous.I think my heart actually skips a beat.Calm down.
And then she turns.
Whatever she’s holding, I don’t register it. My gaze locks on a pair of familiar light blue eyes, sparkling with amusement. My chest tightens, heart pounding.
