Page 11 of You're The One
It takes a beat for my brain to catch up with my body. At first, I don’t recognize her—probably because I’ve never seen her this dressed up. Or maybe it’s because she’s the last person I ever expected to step out of that limo.
It’sher.
My teammate’s sister.
The little she-devil.
Mia.
FIVE
What is she doing here?
She’s in front of me way too fast, not giving me a chance to center my thoughts. Did she know when I announced it at the housewarming party? Her conversation with Bodhi suddenly takes on new meaning… and so does his “favorite” comment.
Did she come here to fuck with me? Did production set this up to do the same?
The questions come faster than I can come up with answers.
I realize my jaw is unhinged and snap it shut.
When I finally meet her gaze, she’s already looking up at me expectantly. Her lips are moving.
“What did you say?” I ask, voice rough.
Why isn’t anyone yelling “cut”?
This can’t be what they’re going for. While I’ve been giving suave bachelor so far, the last however-many minutes have been full-on floundering fish.
“Hi, I’m Mia.” She’s clearly repeating herself, her brows lifted like she’s trying to prompt me.
I consider asking what the hell she’s doing here, but I doubt that follows the script. Instead, I awkwardly stick out my hand. “Fox. Dominic Fox.”
Why did I full name her?
She grips my hand firmly, a slow smile tugging at her lips. “Matthews. Mia Matthews.”
She places a windbreaker into my other hand, and it’s only then that I realize her hand is still in mine. I drop it like it’s on fire and clutch the crinkly fabric with both hands.
She clears her throat and mumbles, “That’s for you. Because I’m from the Windy City. Are you ready to be blown away?”
She cringes as she finishes the line, which gives me a jolt of satisfaction. I bite my lip to contain the chuckle pushing to escape and toss the windbreaker over my shoulder.
“Didn’t they tell you? Chicago’s my home, too. Look at that, we already have something in common.”
So much in common.
“Looks like we do.”
We stand there awkwardly, me cataloging her features like I’ve never seen them before, and her shooting me that challenging glare she always does.
A throat clears off-camera, reminding me I’m supposed to wrap things up and send her inside.
“I’m looking forward to getting to know you better,” I try to mimic whatever line I’ve been using for the last two-dozen women.
Another throat clears. Oh, right, there’s supposed to be a hug or something.
I step forward and open my arms for the world’s most uncomfortable embrace. Her whole body tenses as we make contact. You’d think I was contaminating her with leprosy rather than offering her a friendly hug. Almost as soon as we make contact, she pulls back and immediately stumbles, her heel catching on the stone patio.
