Shut up, she told them.
He stopped in front of her and held out one coffee like a peace offering from a CIA agent trying to extract state secrets the nice way first.
“Nate,” he said. “Coffee?”
Holly blinked. “Did your PR team think caffeine would mask your inability to speak in full sentences?”
He smirked. Just the corner of his mouth. Just enough for the hint of a dimple to peek through his annoyingly hot stubble.
“Yours tell you sarcasm helps give a well-rounded first impression?”
She took the coffee anyway. Because she wasn’t stupid. And it was iced. With almond milk. Which wasinfuriatinglycorrect.Before she could grill him for his latte intel, the producer called for attention.
“Welcome folks! This is your orientation and first promo shoot! When you’re ready, grab your new bestie and join us over at the photography station.”
Nate raised an eyebrow. “Already?”
“Welcome to the joys ofreality TV,” she muttered under her breath, glad they were the closest couple to the promo screen. They could get in, take the photo, and get out. Painless. Efficient. Perfect. The camera crew arranged them in front of a huge LED screen and then set up the electronic backdrop.
The sunset-gradient backdrop screamed ‘summer fling with a side of emotional whiplash’. Their names were already on the screen behind them in big, romantic lettering:Nate & Holly—Season 12’s Hottest Pairing?
“Hot is subjective,” Holly said to no one.
Nate stepped in close to pose, sliding an arm around her waist like it was a dare.His hand was warm, and his body was even warmer. She caught the faint scent of something fresh. Pine? Cedar? It was generically hot-guy-masculine, and she shouldn’t have been affected by it, yet here we were. She stiffened, her spine snapping into place like steel.
“Donottouch my ass.”
He grinned, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “No promises.”
“Big hands, small boundaries,” she muttered, refraining from rolling her eyes.
“Louder,” he said, so only she could hear the teasing lilt in his tone. “Maybe the mics didn’t catch it.”
She stepped on his foot. Slowly and deliberately… with her heel.
He grunted, a sharp, choked sound from the back of his throat that wasentirelythe wrong noise to make in a professional setting and which may or may not come back to haunt her at inappropriate moments.
They both froze. So did the production assistant holding the boom.
Somewhere to her left, Nick didn’t even look up from his phone as he called out, “Try not to fuck on camera, yeah? That’s for the finale.”
“We’re saving missionary for week five,” she volleyed back.
The crew laughed, but Holly caught the way her hockey-bro flexed his jaw. The photographers took the first snap, and Holly smiled in it with all her teeth, determined to show Nate Eriksson he wasn’t the only shark in this tank.
Nate
“She talks to me like I’m a walking red flag. Joke’s on her. I’m the fuckin’ trophy, sweetheart.”
Despite the pain in his left foot, Nate walked away from the photography setup with a grin even Delaney’s expectations couldn’t fucking kill. Because the short bio and explosive photo of her he’d seen in that email production could never have prepared him for exactly what he’d just walked into.
That woman.Fuck.
Holly ‘Do Not Touch My Ass’ Martinez. She was shorter than him by more than a head, and still made him feel like she was lookingdown. Eyes like razors. Mouth built to end careers or suck the soul out of a man, depending on her mood. She’d stepped on his foot on purpose, like it was her divine right to punish him for being a dick.
And the worst part was that heliked it.
He flexed his toes discreetly as he walked, the ache already dulling into a throb that lived somewhere betweenowandoh no. He needed to get his shit together, fast. This wasn’t just a reality show, this was his last fucking shot. And she was already under his skin like glitter herpes.
