He was already standing, like he’d been waiting for me, and strode around from the men’s side of the table to my empty chair, directly across from his on the women’s side of the table, third chair in.
His eyes met mine from behind the mask, and the black domino framing them made the blue of his eyes seem darker and more turbulent than usual… but not quite as dark as they were after our kiss earlier.
The magnetic pull I felt toward him hit me so hard I almost stumbled.
That same low, hot twist that had hit me on the road when he stepped out of the truck burned through my core now. The heat spread and pooled lower as I thought about earlier, in mybedroom when he caged me against the wall and kissed me. The moment was burned into me forever. I’d felt his mouth on mine and thought,‘This is it, this is the last time I get to be selfish and choose anything just for me’.
He didn’t say my name. He didn’t have to, and should probably stick to calling me by my number anyway, but his fingers brushed the back of my chair as he pulled it out for me. His gaze flicked to the gold pendant around my neck with my number on it. Every female contestant had one that matched mine, each with our number emblazoned on it for all to see.
“Number eighteen,” he said quietly.
The way he said it made my knees go weak, like it was a title instead of a placeholder.
“Thank you, Ja — I mean number seven,” I managed, sinking into the seat.
He slid the chair in for me, his hand a warm, brief weight on the back of my neck.
Remember the rules! No fraternizing with the help, my mind screamed at me in warning, but something inside me rebelled at the thought of rejecting Jacob’s comforting touch.
I folded my napkin into my lap before I could do something stupid like reach for him and take his hand, the rules be damned.
The other women, numbers ten through seventeen, watched me openly and with undisguised scrutiny. All of them were breathtakingly beautiful in slightly different ways. Glossy hair, expensive perfume, the kind of dresses that didn’t come from clearance racks.
Some of them smiled at me like they couldn’t wait to cut my legs out from under me. Some flicked quick looks at Jacob, then at me, then away.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to look anywhere but at him.
If I was going to survive this, I needed to understand the battlefield, the rules, the competition, and the men… especially the men.
My gaze drifted down the women’s side of the table, counting pendants, matching faces to the numbers I’d only seen written on the welcome packet that had been on the desk in my room. One by one, I let myself look at the opposite side — at the men paired with them — each of them masked, each broad-shouldered and blue-eyed and black-haired, each of them a possibility.
Any one of them could be Ben Stonewood. That was the point.
Number ten sat furthest down from me, tall and sculpted and terrifyingly put together. The sleek line of her icy-blonde bob didn’t dare frizz under the humidity. Her partner, the man marked number three, lounged across from her with effortless confidence, fingers curled loosely around his water glass like he was born knowing how to behave at tables like this.
Number eleven was impossible to ignore, all red hair and curves and bombshell energy. She gave a sultry little smile every time the man across from her, number six, so much as breathed. He barely reacted, his jaw clenched like maybe he thought all of this was somehow beneath him. His mask hid half his face, but nothing could hide the fact that he was ridiculously handsome. They all were.
Number twelve sat with perfect posture, the gold pendant with her number resting against a silk blouse that probably cost more than my rent. Her matching partner, number one, looked as if he’d been carved from marble: structured, polished, a man who knew how to command a room without speaking. She seemed like the type who’d guess the truth of who the real Ben was by sheer force of will alone.
Number thirteen? I clocked her pageant princess energy from a mile away. Big smile, bright eyes, blonde curls. She seemed like the kind of woman who grew up winning everything she entered. Her partner, number nine, was the ‘boy-next-door grows up to be sinfully hot’ type, all dimples and charm peeking beneath his mask. They looked disgustingly compatible.
Number fourteen looked like she could break someone’s jaw with one kick, no exaggeration. She wore her gold number like a warning sign. And she wasn’t looking at her partner, number four, so much as studying him like she intended to size up every weakness he had. If he was Ben Stonewood, she looked ready to drag him to the altar by force.
Number fifteen made me feel like I should’ve spent more time practicing standing up straight. She was all soft elegance, with her dark hair twisted into a ballet knot, a long neck, delicate wrists, and a dress that floated around her when she moved. Number five didn’t take his eyes off her for a second, and I couldn’t tell if he was nervous or captivated.
Number sixteen looked like the kind of woman you’d see in a charity gala brochure, with glowing skin, perfect chestnut curls, and pearls that were definitely real hanging around her neck. Her partner, number eight, radiated confidence, leaning back like he knew exactly how good he looked in his tux. Every woman in the room kept half an eye on him.
And then there was number seventeen, all black hair and red lipstick. She seemed the kind of quiet that suggested she wasn’t really quiet at all, but was just waiting for the right moment to strike. Her gaze flicked to the man across from her, number two, then back to me like she was mentally sorting us into categories she’d already invented.
Every pair looked… right, balanced, and intentional.
Every pair except mine.
My partner — number seven, Jacob — wasn’t sitting across from me yet. He was still behind me, close enough that the warmth of his hand on the back of my neck felt like it lingered even after he’d stepped away, close enough that I felt him move before I saw him stride around the table and sink back into his seat across from mine.
I dragged my eyes back to the men’s side of the table, letting myself look at the strangers again.
Any one of them could be the real Ben Stonewood. Except Jacob… right?
