Six
Becca
Ifind myself jogging across the main room for about five seconds before I realize that jogging across a crowded room in a ball gown is a great way to get the attention of both fellow contestants and cameramen. Also, I don’t have any idea where Preston is.
I slow down into what I hope is a casual, stately walk, though judging by the cameras following me, no one’s buying it.
Maybe the other girls snitching on me wouldn’t be a bad thing. Because if he can tell right away that it was a joke—and a damn good one, I mentally tellThea—then that’s a positive sign. If he can’t and sends me home, well . . .
Then I go home the first night. Without having proven to myself that I can truly be open to falling in love. Still left towonderif I’m better off sticking withTinder hookups until I gracefully age into getting my thrills from the fellow residents in a nursing home.
I grimace; that’s a sobering thought. Probably I should talk to Preston.
I try not to think about the fact that if I go home tonight—really, whenever I go home—I’ll never see Nate again. Or how that feels like the most sobering thought of all.
Even in a mansion this size, there are only so many rooms for us to gather in, and a quick peek around reveals that he’s probably outside. I head out, past a huge pool lit in soothing blues. It’s currently empty of people, though I’m guessing we’ll all be encouraged to get in tomorrow for the multitude of bikini shots the show seems to enjoy. Lights are strung up across the yard and lanterns line the pathway. It’s much quieter out here, which means that in addition to hearing my own heels click on the stone, I can also hear the cameraman following me.
That is going to take some getting used to.
I also hear a girl’s voice just around the corner. A guy’s voice follows shortly, and the girl giggles.
Bingo.
Generally I’m not one to bust up some couple’s private time—just chatting or otherwise—but Jo’s right. Not about thegetting on that,per se, but I do need to talk to him. I can’t date someone if I never get to know him.
Maybe, crazy and improbable though this is, Preston is actually perfect for me. Maybe he’s everything Rob wasn’t. Maybe he’ll be kind and warm and funny and call me brave and make my body ache and want to jump him in a carriage and . . .
I clear my throat and hurry around the corner. And yep, there’s Preston on a cushioned outdoor couch, cuddled up with a Black girl dripping in red sequins. I talked to her earlier—Yasmine, I think her name is. She’s an Instagram influencer, and I could practically see her framing selfie shots in her mind the entire time we spoke.There’s another cameraman filming them.
Preston looks up when I walk into sight and sits up straighter, but Yasmine either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore the oncoming threat to her conversation. She has her hand on his upper thigh—emphasis on the “upper.”
“ . . . I just don’t think people understand how difficult it is to really build that level of following,” she’s saying. “Not to mention the sheer amount of emotional energy it takes to create unique hashtags.”
“Definitely,” he says, sounding a little overwhelmed. Or maybe underwhelmed, it’s hard to tell. “Hashtags are . . . tough.”
“Um,” I say. “Sorry to interrupt, but can I get a chance to talk with you?”
Yasmine’s head swivels to me. I expect a bitchy glare, but instead she just shrugs. “Okay. I’ll talk to you later, Preston.” She squeezes his leg, then saunters off around the bend.
“Hey . . .” he says, then winces. “Sorry, remind me of your name again? Feel free to sign it, too.”
I appreciate that he remembers something about me, and with thirty women here, I don’t blame him for the name thing. “Becca,” I say with a smile.
“Right.” He smiles back, though there’s a tired quality to it, which I also can’t blame him for. I’m exhausted myself, and I haven’t had to be as constantly social as he has. “You were going to teach me some sign, if I remember correctly.” He gestures for me to sit down, and I find myself wondering if Nate would have stood first—that seems like the more old-fashioned, gentlemanly thing to do.
What would his mom have taught him to do in the situation of greeting a continuously rotating door of women he’s dating all at once?The thought of hearing his response to that makes me have to bite back a laugh. And once again, I need to focus.
“Do you have any requests?” I ask, sitting down next to Preston.
He considers for a moment. “How about ‘Becca, that dress is gorgeous and you make it even more so.’”
Now a laugh does escape me. “Smooth.”
He chuckles too. “Cheesy, you mean?”
“Maybe.” But my cheeks flush as I remember how it felt to hear Nate say I looked amazing. Did he really think that? Probably compared to glitter-covered Becca, at least. “Thank you, though. I do always enjoy a compliment, cheesy or otherwise.”
I teach him the signs and he gamely repeats them. I’m sure the show will eat this up.
