The men come out of their villas, still dressed in their bonfire beach attire, and line up in their uniform two rows. Not again.
A man in a tuxedo walks through the white arch-gate that separates the development from the beach. He’s middle-aged, with slicked back dark hair, and an unnatural tan.
He’s walking toward us, and my stomach churns. Who the hell is this guy?
“Shit,” Noah mutters.
“Mr. James, Miss Spencer,” he addresses us, his hand held out in front of him. “Ronald Helga.”
The name. I know the name. Bradley wrote his name down on that damn piece of paper the other day. Ronald Helga is Katarina, Kricket, and Krow’s father—the mastermind behind this.
“Oh, so does that mean we’re soon-to-be in-laws or something like that?” I ask.
When a man is in a tux, and I look ravished, it’s only appropriate to have no manners. Plus, this guy is a dick. Or so, I’ve been led to believe.
“Yes, I suppose we can call it that,” he says, smiling with his mouthful of snow-white veneers.
“Well, it is that,” I tell him, pressing my luck. My luck. My luck would be that he tells me to get the hell out of this development.
“Mr. Spencer,” Ronald continues speaking as if I said nothing. “Tell me, son—you read the agreement carefully before signing your name to this study, correct?”
Noah clears his throat, widens his stance and folds his hands down in front of his waist. “Yes, sir, I certainly did.” Noah sounds too confident for whatever this jackass is about to say. I knew I was going to cause him problems. I should have stayed away. He’ll resent me for this.
“Right, well, the agreement said, we have the right to know what you are doing at all times, by whatever means necessary.”
“Yeah, that part wasn’t very detailed. Shame on your attorney,” Noah responds.
“Pardon me,” Ronald says, placing his hand on his chest.
“You left a lot of loopholes open,” Noah continues.
“Wonderful, have your attorney contact mine, once you have packed your belongings and moved out of my villa.”
“No, you can’t tell him to leave. He lives there,” I argue.
“Miss Spencer. I own all the villas in Bachelor Place, and I can decide whom I want living in each one of them.”
“Why? For your stupid upcoming reality TV show, which totally plays off The Bachelor and The Bachelorette? Some might call that dumb.”
“Some might also think making fun of it in a written form is dumb, but to each their own.”
“Huh?” I question. I have no clue what he’s talking about. He must like to hear himself talk out loud with his rich fancy fake accent.
“Mr. Spencer, again, pack your things and see your way out of this development by sunrise.”
“You’re a joke,” I tell him as he turns away.
“The joke is on you, dear. The Joke. Is. On. You.”
Heat is rushing through me, and my chest is tight with anger and frustration. “I shouldn’t have let you do this,” I mutter to Noah.
“Do what? Me?” he says, laughing to ease the subject.
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” he jests .
“I don’t want you to leave,” I tell him, grabbing his bicep.
