Page 38 of You're The One
His brows flatten. “Don’t overdo it.”
I flash him a smile full of teeth, raise my glass and pivot, making my way to the bar.
Well, if I wasn’t committed to getting drunk before, I am now.
As I order a glass of Pinot Noir, Bodhi slides in beside me, resting one arm on the counter and angling his body toward mine. “How’re you doing, Mia? We haven’t really had a chance to catch up since Chicago.”
He waves the bartender over for a glass of water.
“Not bad. You?”
“You don’t have to pretend with me.” He lifts a brow.
I glance over my shoulder at the still-rolling camera, then back at him with a pointed look.
“Oh, don’t worry about them,” he says easily. “They can’t use any of this footage with me in it.”
“That’s right. One benefit of being your friend.” I bump my shoulder into his side before shifting to lean on the bar.
He chuckles. “As yourfriend, I should probably warn you then…”
My grip tightens slightly around my glass.
“There are micseverywhere,” he says, casually. “Even the closets.”
Well, fuck.
We were so careful. Watched the cameras, avoided the mics. I try to recall what our initial closet conversation even consisted of but come up blank. Anyway, it’s not a crime to talk strategy. The women do it all the time on the show.
Okay, yes, I watched one season. Only to prepare. It was entertaining—not that I’d ever admit that to theYou’re The Onefan club of Dominic, my brother, and Hannah.
The bartender sets down my wine, and I buy myself a second to think by taking a sip.
I wipe my palm on my dress. Was there something about that in the contract? Probably. Not that I read a single word of it.
“So… is that against the rules?” I hedge.
Let him decide how to take it—talking in the closet, matchmaking, whatever we’re actually doing. He could be bluffing. Maybe they saw us slip in and assumed we were hooking up.
I’m not sure which version is worse.
“Nah.”
I guess he’s playing it close to the chest, too.
I shift closer and lower my voice. “What exactly are we talking about here?”
He closes the space between us until there’s barely an inch left. I catch a whiff of his cologne—sea salt and coconut. I bet he wears one of those all-natural wax scents.
His lips tilt into a smug grin. He leans in, brushing my ear as he speaks. “You playing matchmaker.”
I pull back, both from the closeness and the confirmation. We’ve been caught.
“And that’snotagainst the rules,” I clarify.
“Nope.”
I pause. “Production knows, too?”
