“That’s a concerning number of dating shows, Mason.”
“My therapist agrees. She has a whole folder. It’s labeled ’Why.’” He grinned — gentler than his megawatt version. “Just… don’t screw it up, okay? She deserves someone who sees her.”
“I’m not pretending.”
The words came out raw, completely at odds with the sardonic persona I’d been running since day one. Mason’s eyebrows rose — not surprise, but satisfaction. A trap, sprung.
“Yeah,” he said, gathering his smoothie. “That’s what I thought.”
The rest of the afternoon, the shift was palpable. Julian studied me during lunch with the cool assessment of a man recalculating his odds. Derek’s remarks had acquired a new edge — sharper, more pointed, aimed at the space between me and Sloane with precise, controlled pressure. “She seems… distracted today,” he’d said at lunch, smiling at me over his water glass. “I wonder why.” The threat wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
The announcement came at 3 PM. Tessa stood in the living room with a tablet and a smile that said she was about to enjoy herself, and I understood — with grim certainty — that whatevercame next would test limits I’d spent the past twenty-four hours discovering I had.
“Tomorrow’s challenge is called The Patience Test.” A warning shot. “You’ll stand in front of Sloane, one at a time. She will test your composure. Your self-control. Your ability to remain… still.”
“Do not move. Do not react. Do not touch.”
Julian’s face arranged itself into professional confidence. Derek’s smile sharpened. Mason said “Oh, we’re all gonna die” with cheerful resignation.
I looked at my hands. These hands had traced the bones of her ankle eighteen hours ago, had memorized the curve where tendon met skin, had shaken afterward in the dark of my room while I held them under cold water and tried to reset them to a version of themselves that hadn’t touched her. The cold water hadn’t worked. Nothing was going to work. These hands had her in them now — in the muscle memory, in the nerve pathways, in whatever part of the body stores the knowledge that you’ve touched someone and you’d do it again in a heartbeat and the heartbeat is the problem.
Mason leaned over. Casual. Offhand. “You good?”
“Fine.”
“Cool, cool.” He unwrapped his protein bar with the slow, focused attention of a man building to a point. “So — and I’m just asking out of friendly concern here — she’s going to destroy you tomorrow, isn’t she?”
I didn’t answer.
Mason nodded. Took a bite. “That’s what I thought.”
CHAPTER 7
The Patience Test
“When he loses control — but only for you”
SLOANE
I’d said “good boy” to eleven men over four seasons of testing this concept, and not one of them had made me want to say it again.
Tessa and I had workshopped it in the early days, two women in a conference room surrounded by whiteboards and empty La Croix cans, reverse-engineering the phrase that would crack a man open on camera. We’d tested “sweetheart” (too patronizing), “darling” (too British), “baby” (too intimate), and “sweetie” (too kindergarten teacher at nap time). “Good boy” was the winner. It bypassed all the posturing and went straight to the unguarded place — the flinch, the blush, the swallow. Most men laughed when I said it. A few went red from the collarbones up. One memorably burst into tears, which had made for excellent television and a deeply uncomfortable post-production meeting about whether we’d accidentally invented a psychological weapon. But not a single one in four seasons had made me feel anything back.
This was relevant information, because in approximately forty-five minutes I was going to say it to Rhys, and my body already knew something my brain was still arguing with. Every time I thought about him — constantly, aggressively, with a frequency that would concern a mental health professional — I didn’t picture his face or his voice or any of the things areasonable person would fixate on. I pictured his hands. Those calloused, architect’s hands pressing against my arch in the garden, finding the exact spot that hurt without being told, trembling so slightly that if I hadn’t been watching for it I would have missed it. Two weeks of whatever this was, one foot massage, and now I was ruined for normal human interactions. Fantastic. This was going great.
Tessa found me in the Queen’s Suite doing my own makeup, which she correctly identified as a crisis signal. I only did my own makeup when I needed the ritual of it — primer, foundation, concealer, the systematic layering of a face that said everything is fine when everything was demonstrably not fine. War paint. Armor you could buy at Sephora.
“You’re doing the cat eye,” Tessa observed from the doorway, tablet against her hip, one eyebrow at a diagnostic angle. “You only do the cat eye when you’re either going to war or having a breakdown. Which is it?”
“Can’t it be both?” I held the liquid liner steady and drew a wing sharp enough to cut glass. In the mirror, I looked — immaculate bone structure and zero emotional complications. My face had never told a bigger lie, and my face had told some truly spectacular lies on this show. “I’m fine. Completely fine. Aggressively, defiantly, almost violently fine.”
“Three fines. That’s a record.” Tessa crossed the room and perched on the vanity, seeing the exact millimeter where my eyeliner wobbled. She didn’t mention it. This was why she was my person — ten years of friendship had taught her exactly when to hold the mirror and when to smash it. “The Patience Test setup is ready. Julian’s going first, then Mason, then Derek, then Rhys. I put him last because—”
“Because you’re a sadist who wants maximum dramatic tension.”
“Because the scheduling made sense.” Her pause was surgical. “Also because I’m a sadist who wants maximum dramatic tension.” She studied my reflection with a practiced eye she’d been sharpening since college and was rarely wrong about when to bring wine versus tissues. “You don’t have to do anything special with him. Same approach as the others. Walk around them, test composure, say the words, move on.”
“Obviously.” I blended my contour with more force than the technique required. “Walk, test, words, move on. I’ve done this four seasons running. I could do it blindfolded.”
