Page 1 of Enemies Off Camera
ONE
The Final One-on-One Dinner Date
Nothing fills me with happiness more than knowing this is almost over. I can almost taste the end. The cameras are far enough away to make it seem like this little scene is real—but close enough to remind me it’s all a show. A very stupid reality show, in my opinion.
The show’s calledThe Final Play.It matches star athletes with the partner of their dreams. That’s all I knew when I signed on. My agent pitched it to me last minute—after one of the original contestants backed out. And now here I am, a contestant vying for the heart of the heartless. Not by choice. Long story—one that starts with bad press and ends with a contract I should’ve read twice.
“Look alive,” Betty, my producer, says through my earpiece.
Her request falls on deaf ears. I’m done. Burned out. Over it. I’ve been here six weeks. And every time Jax Wilde pins a golden rose on me—because he’ssupposedlyinterested—I know he’s just being facetious. A jerk, really.
But Betty’s right—it’s my job to think of something to say. After long, soul-draining conversations with the other nineteen contestants—now down to three, two after tonight—I’ve confirmed I’m the only real actress in the bunch. So it’s my job to act like I like him.
I paste on my fake smile and googly eyes—the ones I’m tired of seeing in the mirror.
Jax Wilde, star wide receiver for the San Diego Bull Sharks, is already glaring at me.
“So, when are you going to say it?” he asks. The corner of his mouth hikes up into an arrogant smirk.
“Say what?” I snap. He’s given me permission to drop the act.
“Thank me for choosing you to sit down for this spread.” He gestures grandly at the table, arms outstretched, as if he’s presenting a royal feast.
I hadn’t even noticed the display—smoked lobster tails, prawns boiled, baked, and fried in crispy batter, crab legs piled high with tangy sauces and mouthwatering sides. You’d think I’d care; I’ve been dreaming of the day I could take myself out somewhere truly fancy—five stars, Michelin chef, the whole deal. But right now, it all barely registers.
I fold my arms. “Did you buy it?”
He leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing to slits. Gorgeous brown eyes, according to the other girls. Me? I barely notice them. Then suddenly, as if possessed by a tornado, he lunges forward.
“Okay, you miserable—” He cuts himself off, but I know what he wants to say.
I lean in too. Our faces nearly meet over the pile of crab legs.
“You meanbitch,” I say for him. “Because I am a bitch—and so are you.”
“Alright, knock it off!” Betty yells in my ear.
And by the look on his face, I can tell Kim—his producer—just chewed him out too.
This always happens when we’re in a scene together.
“You know your lines. Now say them,” Betty says.
I stop glaring and erase every insult from my mind. Straighten my back. Deep breath.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he says before I can speak.
Bullshit. He doesn’t think I look beautiful. I’m not even his type—he’s made that painfully clear more than once. And, well, ditto.
This is a romance.
I am the heroine.
I am in love.
I am in awe.
This man is not an asshole.
