An Ex for Christmas(65)

He drags his eyes from my shirt up to my eyes, blinking a little in surprise as he does so, as the eye contact jars him.

“The person you were talking to. Was this the same friend that made you come here?”

My eyes narrow. “Why are you saying it like that? Like you don’t believe me.”

“You just don’t seem like the type of woman who can be made to do anything.”

“True. I’m the sort of woman who will do what it takes to make her business a success,” I say, trying to move around him. “I just . . . went too far with this one.”

He puts up an arm, blocks my way. “Hot and hollow, huh?”

His eyes are oddly intense, as though my answer somehow matters, and I wince, hating that he heard my careless assessment of him.

Still, I’m not out to make this guy like me, and I’d sort of meant it. Any guy who thinks he’s going to find his true love on TV in the span of a month? Hollow.

Or at least really dim.

I step back and look at him steadily. “Look. We both know that I never should have made it to this round. No doubt you were hoping that people would vote me off, but . . .”

I spread my arms to the sides, intending it to be a self-deprecating gesture to put him at ease. Instead, he rakes his gaze over me and the mood in the tiny closet is anything but easy.

“Interesting,” he says finally, breaking the silence.

“What is?” I look longingly toward the door. Toward escape.

“That you label me hollow, and yet you’re the one openly admitting to using the show—to using me—to sell T-shirts.”

“Oh, come on. Surely you’re not so naive that you don’t know what this show is—what we’re all doing here. The goal is ratings, not happily ever after.”

“That’s the network’s goal. Not mine.”

“Right. You’re here for . . . what was it again? To find your one true love?”

I don’t bother to keep the skepticism out of my voice, and he surprises me by grinning. “Why do you think I’m here?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” I say, waving my hand breezily as I start to ease by him.

He reaches out to stop me, his fingers resting lightly against my stomach, his fingers seeming to burn through the thin fabric of my shirt, and I’m embarrassed at the way my breath hitches.

Gage Barrett is touching me.

Marjorie and my mother would die.

Gage grins wider at my reaction, and the cocky response is exactly what I need to get myself together. I push his hand away. “Surely there’s a more willing contestant to go molest in a closet somewhere.”

“No doubt,” he says with a laugh. “Do you have a boyfriend, Ellie?”

“Contestants aren’t allowed to be involved in romantic relationships. It’s in breach of the contest rules.”

“That’s a stupid answer.”

“It was a stupid question,” I toss back. “And not your business.”

“Not my business,” he says under his breath, shaking his head.

“I’m leaving now,” I say, a little impatient, as I realize the other girls will likely be wondering where I am.

He opens his mouth, but before he can respond, voices come from the hallway, and acting on instinct, I place my fingers across his mouth to keep him from talking and giving us away.

Gage’s eyes flare a little at the contact, and my breath does that annoying chopping thing again. His eyes are green. Have I noticed that before? I always thought they were blue, or maybe hazel, but they’re more like . . .

“Your eyes look like guacamole,” I whisper, once the voices pass without anyone opening the closet door.

He chuckles, his breath warm on my fingers, and I snatch my hand back. “Are you going to say this stuff on camera?”

“Probably,” I admit. “Which is why it’s in both of our interests if you send me home first thing.”

“I don’t know about that. The producers have told me in as vague a way as possible that I should keep the contestants that make for good TV for as long as possible.”

I’m disgusted but not surprised. We contestants have basically been told that we’re welcome to make a spectacle of ourselves in the name of entertainment.

“Ah yes, above all we must entertain the people,” I say, reaching for the doorknob. “It’s a wonder they don’t just set up a tent in the front yard, dress us in something sparkly, and have us walk around in a slow circle to creepy circus music.”

“We talked about it,” he says, stepping closer, his breath warm on my neck. “Decided that dressing you all up in bikinis and having you splash around in the pool would even better.”

“Gross,” I mutter. I turn my head slightly to meet his eyes. “Send me home, Gage. Please. It’ll be better for both of us.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “You really want that?”

“I’m a businesswoman, not a groupie.”

He’s silent for a moment. “True. You did compare my eyes to avocados.”

“Exactly. You usually get, what, moss?”

His lips twitch, although the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Emeralds, mostly.”

I turn away with a snort, opening the door slowly, listening for voices, and then sticking my head out when I’m met only with silence.