One To Watch (29 page)

“I mean, I’m obviously super attracted to him, but I just don’t know if it could be anything long-term.” She glanced toward the back of the plane, though of course she couldn’t see Luc, who was somewhere in coach with the other four men and most of their crew. She conjured his image in her mind’s eye instead, feeling the firm way he’d raked his fingers through her hair when he kissed her.

“Your chemistry is genuine, and that’s a good start,” Lauren was saying—Bea jerked her mind back to the present. “I’m gonna give you two a one-on-one this week. It’s been overdue since the premiere—you can get to know him better, and if nothing else, we’ll get some good making out on camera.”

Bea smiled and shook her head. “It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.”

“Attagirl. What about Sam? You two got along so well on your date.”

It was true; they had—but Bea had a difficult time believing she could build a serious relationship with a guy who was only twenty-four.

“I guess I didn’t push myself to see if I could really develop feelings for Sam on our date,” Bea considered, “because his age made it easy for me to dismiss him, and at that point I was still trying not to fall for any of the men.”

“But the attraction is there?”

“I mean, I have eyes.”

“I think you two could have real potential—and Marin thought so too, remember? I’m gonna cook up something special for your date with him this week. Can you do me—and him—the kindness of giving him a real chance?”

“Yes.” Bea nodded. “I can do that.”

“Great! So that just leaves Wyatt and Jefferson. Thoughts on them?”

“I like them both as people—especially Wyatt.”

“The question is who do I send on your third date of the week—you’re bringing two guys on that one.”

“Does that mean I’ll need to eliminate one of those men on the date?” Bea asked with trepidation.

“No. Since you’re only eliminating one man this week, we’ll save that for the big ceremony with all five of them.” Lauren drummed her fingers on the armrest between them. “You and Wyatt need more time for sure, but I can’t really justify giving him another date when you just had one last week. Particularly since I assume you’d like to spend more time with Asher?”

Bea nodded, a flush creeping into her cheeks. She definitely wanted that.

“What about Jefferson, then? Are you interested in him?”

“I mean, when he showed up on the first night, I thought,
Oh thank God, a man who looks like someone I could actually see myself ending up with.
”

Lauren looked up, eyes alert with interest. “You’re into him.”

Bea shrugged. “A little.”

“That’s settled, then—he’ll go on the third date along with Asher.” Lauren grinned at Bea, but her smile faded.

“What is it?” Bea asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Bea, I’ve been around for a lot of seasons of this show, and I’ve seen people get really hurt by the way things go down. I think you know how much I like you and respect you—at least, I hope you do.”

Bea gave a small nod.

“So before we go ahead with all this, I want to make sure you understand what you’re doing,” Lauren cautioned. “Before, I was the one manufacturing the show’s twists and turns. But the more you invest in these men—and them in you—the more the show will depend on your emotional highs and lows. Your elation. Your heartbreak. I know this process hasn’t been easy on you, but I’ve had this job for five years, and I know how much harder things can get. And I just—I want to make sure you’re ready for that.”

Bea wasn’t remotely convinced that she was, but what was the alternative? Lying to Asher, ignoring the others? Spending a whole life as the only single person at family gatherings and telling herself it didn’t make her miserable? Lying alone in bed night after night with the memory of Ray’s body beside her instead of the actuality of someone else’s?

This thing she had dreamed of so desperately for so long was here, within her grasp—she had to reach for it, even if she might stumble and fail.

“Yeah,” she told Lauren, affecting far more confidence than she felt. “I’m ready.”

Bea had been dying to visit Marrakesh for years, so she was thrilled to learn that she and her suitors would be spending several days there. The producers had procured a mammoth
riad
in the heart of the city, floor after floor of intricate tile work, sumptuous fabrics in vibrant colors, and finely carved brass lamps spilling radiant patterns of light across every available surface. The whole place was sensuous, and Bea immediately felt more at home than she ever had in the immaculate muteness of the
Main Squeeze
compound, where everything had been shades of white and beige.

Bea only had a couple of hours after they arrived to try to nap and conquer her jet lag. Lying in an elaborately hewn wooden bed spread thick with woven blankets, the prospect of an evening with Sam looming before her, Bea was starting to feel, for the first time since shooting began, an actual sense of the fairy-tale magic
Main Squeeze
sold so hard to its viewers.

Bea woke in the late afternoon, and Lauren had the
riad
staff bring strong Turkish coffee. Then it was on to wardrobe to pick something out for her dinner date with Sam—Alison suggested high-waisted trousers and a crop top.

“Isn’t that a little risqué for a country where a lot of women veil?”

“I think … you’ll be glad to have this option,” Alison said carefully.

“Option for what?” Bea pressed, but Alison wouldn’t say.

Bea wanted to wear something that made her feel sexy and comfortable, so she chose a draped Cushnie jersey dress that gently hugged her curves and playfully bright Sophia Webster heels. When she met Sam in front of the
riad,
his reaction told her she’d chosen correctly.

“How is it possible you look this good after spending the night on a plane?” His hands wandered down her back for a moment as he hugged her hello, leaving a trail of electricity.

The whole ride to the restaurant, Bea had a feeling that was anxious, unwieldy, almost giddy—this was the first date she’d actually been excited for since Ray. But when they arrived, her excitement turned to dread as it dawned on Bea why Alison had been so opinionated in her wardrobe suggestion.

“
Belly dancers,
” Bea muttered under her breath. “Fuck me.”

“What’s going on?” Sam asked, puzzled by the sudden turn in Bea’s mood.

The restaurant was an opulent place, everything draped in damask and velvet, patrons lounging in lushly appointed circular booths built into the walls. And dancers were absolutely everywhere: Swathed in skin-skimming silks and skimpy bra tops that jangled with ornamental bells, curvaceous women gyrated around the dimly lit space, pausing graciously at every table.

“You’re not a fan?” Sam asked with a grin.

“They’re going to make me dance,” Bea said, her face dark. “That’s why Alison wanted me to wear a crop top—so that I’d have an option besides those tiny string things the dancers are wearing.”

“Wait, what?” Sam paused, incredulous. “If you don’t want to dance, they can’t make you, can they?”

Bea rolled her eyes. “You weren’t there the day they got me to parade around a yacht in a bikini, pretty much entirely against my will.”

“I wasn’t there, but I wish I had been.”

“Why, you have a fetish for uncomfortable women?”

“No, but I wouldn’t have minded seeing you in that bikini.”

Bea caught his eye as they followed the maître d’ to a table in the center of the restaurant, skirting to avoid two women in the throes of wild undulations.

“You hate this, huh?” Sam rubbed the tense muscles at the base of Bea’s neck as he settled into the chair beside her.

“I just feel like I’m in some kind of Turing test where I have to convince the world, over and over, that I really do feel good about my body.”

“Do you?” There was no malice in Sam’s question, no accusatory tone—without knee-jerk cause to get defensive, Bea considered the question on its merits.

“I’ve worked hard to, but part of that requires me to have some control over my own circumstances. Like, I would never go to the gym in shorts and a sports bra, even if that’s what I’d wear to work out at home.”

“And you’re saying taking off half your clothes to do a dance you don’t know for an audience of millions is … worse?”

Sam raised his eyebrows dramatically at Bea, and she laughed appreciatively. “Yeah, just a little.”

Before they could continue their conversation, Johnny came over to welcome them and introduce the concept of the date.

“Bea and Sam, welcome to Marrakesh!” He was entirely too enthusiastic—just looking at his gleaming eyes made Bea exhausted. “This country is known for its vibrant culture and incredible food—you’ll be sampling both tonight. But first, are you ready for some entertainment?”

At this, Johnny stepped aside and half a dozen belly dancers appeared; traditional music flowed through the speakers and the women executed a flawlessly choreographed dance. As Bea watched these curvaceous women jiggle and pop various parts of their bodies, the dread inside her mounted that she was about to be asked to do the same.

“Okay, Bea,” Johnny goaded, “you’re not going to let those girls have all the fun, are you? What do you say? Are you up for a little dancing?”

Bea steeled herself for further embarrassment, but before she could say anything, Sam spoke out.

“Actually, I had a different idea. I’m a little tired of Bea getting to have all the fun on these dates—would it be possible for me to do the dancing instead?” He turned to Bea. “If that’s okay with you, Bea.”

Bea wanted to say something to let Sam know how profoundly she appreciated this gesture, but that felt much too heavy at a moment when his smile was so expectant and so wide.

“I’ve never had a man dance for me before,” she said coyly.

“Well, I think it’s high time we rectified that,” Sam cooed, leaning over to kiss Bea’s cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”

Without waiting for permission from Johnny, the producers, or anyone else, Sam got up and walked off with the dancers—who, Bea noted with a mild note of chagrin, seemed more than happy to have him.

While Sam rehearsed, Bea enjoyed a gorgeous spread of vegetarian appetizers—roast carrots spiced with cumin, shredded cabbage riddled with crunchy za’atar, and perfectly sour pickled beets. Half an hour later, the lights dimmed, the music grew louder, and Sam emerged from who-knows-where, sporting silky jodhpurs and a tight black T-shirt that, regrettably, was not cropped enough to bare his belly. Bea angled her chair away from the table so Sam could dance directly in front of her.

Sam struck a pose with three other dancers, and the music piped in through the speakers. At first, Bea took the minor melody for a traditional Moroccan song, but something about it was familiar. Sam beamed as the hook kicked in—Bea recognized that the song was Jennifer Lopez’s “If You Had My Love,” and she laughed and clapped with delight as Sam languidly rolled his torso in time with the other women. If he was having trouble with the choreography, he masked it with pure confidence, popping his hips and shoulders like he’d been doing this for a matter of years instead of minutes.

“
If you had my love and I gave you all my trust, would you comfort me?
” He sang along playfully, then leaned low to whisper in her ear. “Dance with me, Bea.”

As she rose to move with him, none of it felt like a joke—it was fun, but not funny, serious, but not self-serious. Bea loved to dance, and as Sam moved behind her, his hands traveling down her arms and waist and hips, Bea swayed against him, allowing herself to imagine where he might put his hands (and what he might do with them) if no one else was watching. Asher’s face popped briefly into her mind—was she being disloyal to him? Was it insane that she was already experiencing such an intense attraction to another man so soon after having declared her feelings for him?

This is what you’re supposed
to be doing here,
she reminded herself.
Try to enjoy it.

When the music ended, everyone in the restaurant burst into applause. Sam took a bow, then held out his hands to encourage the crowd to cheer for Bea, which they did enthusiastically. Her face was flushed—with heat, with energy, with the things she was just thinking about Sam—and as they sat down to enjoy their dinner of spicy merguez sausage and mountains of fluffy couscous, Bea found she was absolutely ravenous.

“I didn’t know you could dance like that.” Sam gave Bea a mischievous look.

“Yeah, well I didn’t know you were so fluent in the lyrics of one Ms. Lopez,” Bea countered with a grin of her own. “Were you even born when that song came out?”

“Excuse you, I have two older sisters. The lyrics of everything they listened to in high school are forever ingrained on my soul.”

“Wow, so you’re the baby! Did they spoil you rotten?”

“Not exactly.” Sam broke eye contact with Bea to refill his glass of flinty white wine. “My family isn’t as easy as yours.”

“What do you mean?”

“My dad is a corporate executive, and my mom is a surgeon—they had pretty high expectations for all of us. My sisters measured up, but …”

“You haven’t figured things out yet.”

“That’s not how they’d put it.”

“How would they put it?”

He shifted in his seat. “That I’m unmotivated, that I’d rather live off their money than make my own way in the world, that I don’t take myself seriously.”

“Is that how you see yourself?”

“Everything seemed so easy for my sisters. Ivy League for both of them, now Jessica’s a doctor like my mom and Zoe is an engineer. They knew what they wanted, and then they did it. I think I could do the second part no problem—I just haven’t figured out the first.”

“What about teaching? Did you like that?”

“I loved it. But for the rest of my life? I want to do more things, see more things. I can’t imagine myself in a classroom for the next forty years.”

Bea pushed a carrot back and forth through a pile of couscous. “Do you think this show was maybe a way for you to put off that decision? Just … I don’t know. Fill time?”