“Hey, Mal. We’ve got the contract for you to look at,” Noah calls from behind me.
“Be right there,” Mallory says before she meets my eye and smirks back. “You’re literally having your relationships filmed for all the world to see, hotshot. Everyone will know who you’re kissing, how you’re kissing, what you’re talking about, and all of your feelings.” She pats my shoulder and steps past me before stopping and turning to face me again. “Good luck with that.”
She doesn’t wait for my response before disappearing into the room after Noah. I stare into space for a moment, coming down from the high I always feel when I verbally spar with Mallory, only to have my stomach bottom out when I realize, dang it, she’s right.
I’ve never had a problem having all eyes on me—at least not lately. Middle school was a different story, but I’ve put those insecurities behind me. Now, I’m the guy everyone flocks to. Golf has given me that social security, ever since I became a breakout star in high school. But with golf, everyone is focused on my game play.Most Eligible Misterwill mean being under the microscope in an entirely different, more all-consuming way.
I swallow back the surge of unease rising up my throat, refusing to let anxiety get a hold on me. This is exactly what I want. I can shine a light on the sport I love, prove to myself and everyone else that there’s more to me than some hotshot pro athlete with everything handed to him, make a decent amount of money,andfind a woman who loves me for me in the process.
I can only hope having my coach on hand to witness said process doesn’t make the whole thing blow up in my face.
4
Night One
Mallory
Igrope awkwardly in the dark, slapping my hand against the inside wall of what I’m assuming is some sort of pantry off the side of the kitchen. I’m in theMost Eligible Mistermansion, and I want to be literally anywhere else. Send me to the center of a hurricane. The south pole in the dead of winter. The DMV. Anywhere but here. My fingers finally connect with the light switch, and I flip it upward, illuminating walls lined with shelves. There are boxes of prepackaged snacks and more wine bottles than any one home should have in its possession. I’m surprised there’s any left. Some of the contestants have had quite a bit to drink tonight.
Or should I say this morning?
My phone is telling me it’s now six a.m. That means we’ve been at this grueling first night of filming for twelve hours. No one else knows that, because they’ve removed all the clocks from the house.
Thank goodness I have my phone. I grip it like it’s a lifeline, and really, it is. At this point, it’s my only connection to the outside world. Even twelve hours into this thing, and I’m desperate to be done. The bouquet ceremony is set to begin within the next hour, according to Cece, the assistant producer assigned to me. It can’t come soon enough.
Taking a deep breath, I kick off my high heels and hit the video call button on my mom’s contact.
Her face fills the screen a moment later.
“Morning, sunshine,” she chirps.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Look at you!” she squeals. “Hold the phone back so I can see your dress.”
I do as I’m told, moving the phone up and down so my mom can see the navy-blue gown I managed to snag off the rack at the local department store yesterday. It’s pretty simple, but it fits me, and it’s formal enough that I blend in with the other women here who are dressed to impress. I’ll take it.
“You’re beautiful, Mal.” My mom’s words are thick with emotion.
I roll my eyes. “Mom, quit it.” I drop my voice. “This isn’t real, remember?”
“So you’ve said.” She waves me off through the camera. “I still can’t believe you agreed to this. We can figure out a therapy schedule we can afford.”
While I admire my mom’s optimism, I wasn’t about to let her stop being proactive. CIDP is a chronic autoimmune disorder. If she backslides, she won’t come back from it. That’s what I told her when I broke the news about doing the show and my upcoming time away in Cashmere Cove. She and my dad protested. They said the money should be mine. I told them I wouldn’t take no for an answer. An hour later, my mom had consistent therapy sessions scheduled for the next six months. This whole debacle will be worth it if she gets some relief from her pain and other debilitating symptoms.
“Good day or bad day?” I ask.
“You know it’s always a good day, especially when I get to talk to you.” The phone shakes in her hand, and she readjusts it. I frown and am about to ask if the tingling is worse, but she plows ahead. “Tell me everything. How’s it going? How are the other women? Nice? Catty? Normal? Is Chad Erikson as flawless in person as he looks on TV?”
She’s referencing the iconic host ofMost Eligible Mister.
“Haven’t seen much of him, actually. This has ruined me for reality TV. What’s aired versus what actually happens is worlds apart.”
“Don’t tell me, then. You know how much I love my trash TV.”
“I know. The women seem fine, though. Mostly normal. A couple of characters.” I think of the girl who showed up in a princess dress and then had a major meltdown about it, but I spare my mom the details. I know she’ll want to watch it for herself, and I’m not about to flirt with spoiling anything, given the five-million-dollar fine I might face.
“And how’s Holland doing?” she asks.
