Page 30 of Heart to Heart
I stoodwith Sasha in the corner, both of us lifting our drinks to our lips and throwing casual smiles at the camera whenever it panned over in our direction. When watching at home, you don’t see the extra people on set helping to ensure that production runs smoothly. The director, the gaffer, assistants, and caterers. It was a veritable menagerie of people who, coupled with twenty-five eager women, made all ten thousand square feet of the mansion feel more like a two-bedroom condo.
Taylor had ditched us, opting to join the others in staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows to catch a fleeting glimpse of Tristan here and there. Felicity, a petite twenty-five-year-old makeup artist from Los Angeles, walked through the door a few minutes ago. She was the twenty-fourth woman, meaning Tristan was being introduced to the last one now and would soon be making his way into the mansion to kick off the rest of the night’s festivities.
Self-consciousness kicking in, I glanced down at my feet, grateful that my dress was long enough to conceal the fact that I was still wearing my slippers. My feet ached; blisters had already formed on my heels in the brief time I’d worn those deathcontraptions for heels, and I wasn’t about to put myself through even more torture when I’d already experienced a lifetime’s worth. All I could do was say a silent prayer to the god of reality television that Kiki would never find out that I was wearing slippers. That was one transgression for which I was positive she would never forgive me for.
“That man is better than my dreams, and my dreams were pretty damn generous.” Sasha and I turned to see that Felicity had made her way over to us, champagne flute in hand and a dreamy look in her eye.
“I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers, that’s for sure,” Sasha agreed, a friendly smile plastered on her face to conceal the suspicion in her eyes. There were a few girls in the house she’d deemed okay so far, and Felicity hadn’t proven herself as one of them yet.
I smiled reflexively when Felicity turned her large doe eyes to me, her crimson lips perfectly heart-shaped. I’d always wished I could pull off red lipstick without looking like I was preparing to audition for the role of McDonald’s mascot, but here we were.
“Avery, right?” she asked, unnecessarily, as she clearly knew who I was. My identity was probably the only reason why she even bothered to make her way over here.
“That’s me.” I lifted my glass to my lips, figuring I was probably going to need some more alcohol in me if I was going to be socializing with anyone other than Sasha here.
“I’m so sorry to hear what happened with Tristan.”
Well, at least I could be rest assured that gossip travels just as quickly on the set of a reality television show as it does out in the wild.
“Thank you.” I nodded, hoping there wouldn’t be a follow-up statement. Of course, I wasn’t going to get so lucky.
“I mean, look at the bright side. You got to get up close and personal with the full Tristan. What was that like? Should we allkeep competing or pack it in and go home to avoid inevitable disappointment?”
I’d expected a lot to happen this first night, some things more traumatic than others, but to be asked about what kind of heat Tristan was packing, because I alone would possess that kind of information, had certainly not been on my radar. And the fact that I knew the answer to that question, had felt it openly in the palm of my hand, growing firmer with each brush of my fingers, was something I would take to my grave with me no matter what happened in this competition.
“It all happened so fast, I really couldn’t say,” I lied. “All I felt was thigh. Although those were quite impressive. The man definitely doesn’t skip leg day.” Purposely avoiding eye contact with Sasha, who I was pretty positive could see right through me, I downed the rest of my champagne, thankful for the excited squeals that erupted from the women keeping watch at the front door.
“It’s Courtney,” one excited shriek pierced my eardrums.
“Jesus.” Sasha rubbed her ear. “If they don’t make a soundbite out of that, I’d be surprised.”
“Dogs in every living room across the country are going to be losing their goddamned minds.” I chuckled.
Felicity flashed a small conciliatory grin as she made her way to the excitement near the door. She hadn’t gotten what she’d come for from me in her fishing expedition this time, but something told me she would cast her line out again. I wondered whether producers weeded out the contestants with a flair for the dramatic, looking for red flags in their audition tapes, and then egged them on for the sake of ratings. If that were the case, it begged the question of why I had been chosen.
Sasha sighed. “We should probably make our way over there with the rest of them if we don’t want to be singled out and labeled as the difficult ones.”
I nodded in agreement. My strategy, if you could call it a strategy, had been to try to blend in for the first couple of episodes and let the audience decide who the problem children were. That strategy had been shot to hell with a cake to the crotch and the best I could hope for now was that, if I survived the first elimination, I could get past this with both Tristan and the audience, and—God help me—stay out of trouble. That may be enough to carry me through the first couple of weeks, but after that, I’d have to find some way to stand out, to be more likable and charismatic than the rest of these women. How I was going to pull that off, I had no idea. However, blending in, I could do.
The door opened, revealing a shy, rail-thin woman, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail, the end of which fell to her mid-back. I’d wager she was even more uncomfortable being here than I was, which was really saying something. She smiled meekly at the women sizing her up as she walked through the door, like predators surrounding prey. The strong could always weed out the weak, and the leader of their pack was Bianca, who looked particularly fierce tonight.
No sooner did the door close behind Courtney than the unmistakable voice of Kamila Lewis sounded through the halls, drawing our attention to their exquisite form walking toward us. They’d had a wardrobe change to a canary yellow, asymmetrical dress, baring one of their shoulders, its hue playing off their mahogany skin brilliantly. Kamila had always been the picture of elegance, consistently knocking it out of the park.
And here I was, standing in my discount gown in slippers with fuzzy pink ears.
“Well, ladies, what did you think? Has Tristan Tate lived up to your expectations?”
A few of the women faked fanning themselves with their hands, while others nodded or vocalized their answer in a seriesofhell yeahsand other indecipherable noises that could only be construed as an affirmative response. I smiled, nodding my head like an asshole, which seemed like the only safe answer.
Kamila smiled, clapping their hands in delight as though trying to act convincingly surprised without actually being convincing that they were surprised. Because what else were we going to say?
Nah, Kamila. He seems like a devastatingly handsome, perfectly gentlemanly bore. Now be a dear and fetch the sketchy-looking windowless van and whisk us back to the airport so that we may return to our mundane lives.
Yeah. No.
Yes, upon first impression, Tristan Tate was everything we were led to believe he was and more. Anyone who could take a cake to the groin without completely losing their shit was a keeper.
“That’s what we like to hear.” Kamila still held their hands together, clutched to their chest in excitement. “Lucky for you, the night is still young, and I may have a little surprise for you all waiting in the parlor if you want to go take a look.”
