One To Watch(61)

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 ma?tre 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.”