Page 36 of You're The One
“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 foolsomeone, 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.
