Page 39 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
Point taken.
“Okay, so maybe it’s on-brand for him. But what about the other man on the panel? What’s his excuse?” I roll my eyes.
Rein it in.
I shouldn’t be drawing any attention whatsoever to Gray. But thoughts of him have been flitting around my consciousness all day, and now I’ve gone and done it.
My cheeks burn and I drop my gaze, focusing intently on the tiny pile of fries on the paper plate in my lap.
“You mean Gray Beckham?”
I shrug, feigning nonchalance as best as I can. “I think that’s his name.”
“Judge number six?” The willowy brunette is the first to speak up. “Yep, that’s it. He owns the Miss Starlight pageant.”
“What?” I gape at her. “Heownsa beauty pageant?”
The food in my stomach curdles into a sickening ball of grease and cheese. I feel sick.
Torrie nods. “Yes, he started it a few years ago.”
A shudder crawls up my spine. How could I have misjudged someone so much? He started his ownpageant?I mean, how does that even happen? Was he just sitting around one day and decided he needed a bunch of beautiful women parading around purely for his enjoyment? Does he have some sort of Hugh Hefner complex? What makes a man start a business just so he can rank women in order of his preference?
This is worse thanThe Bachelor. Way worse. It’s even worse thanBachelor in Paradise, which Ginny made me watch once on her birthday. Trust me, it was like witnessing a reality show that had been filmed in a fraternity house during Rush Week. Gray Beckham and his depraved entrepreneurial spirit actually makes the entire Bachelor franchise seem quaint and wholesome by comparison.
Ew. Double ew.
Ew times infinity.
“That’s the most perverted thing I’ve ever heard,” I blurt.
I can’t believe I wasted even a second of my precious time feeling guilty about what I said to him earlier. And to think he tried to say he felt uncomfortable judging the swimsuit competition.
Who’s the liar now?
“Don’t any of you agree?” I glance around the room, searching for partners in my outrage, but no one says a word. Some of the women are frowning, and others seem to be trying not to look at me.
“Come on, y’all. It’s creepy. You have to admit,” I say.
Torrie clears her throat. “Um, Ginny? You’re familiar with the Miss Starlight pageant, right?”
I’m not.
“Sure.” I shrug.
Something in Torrie’s perfect cat eyes tells me I’ve just screwed up. Big time.
She clears her throat and speaks her next words with an exaggerated calm. “Then you know that it’s the charity supported by the Miss American Treasure organization, kind of like how the Miss America pageant supports the Make-A-Wish foundation.”
I blink. I’m still not sure where she’s going with this, but it can’t be good.
“It’s a pageant for little girls who are terminally ill,” she says flatly.
“Every girl gets a crown,” Miss Georgia, sitting on the other side of me, adds. “Every girl gets applauded and celebrated and told how special and beautiful she is.”
“Oh,” I manage to sputter. I try to swallow but my throat goes dry. “I didn’t realize...”
Every eye in the room is fixed on me.
