I huff. “In his element, of course.”
My mom beams. “This has to be very exciting for him. Please tell him we’re rooting for him.”
I stare back at her in her pink fluffy robe with her red hair, turning more blonde with age, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that Holland—like reality TV—isn’t all he’s cracked up to be. She loves him…like everyone else does.
“I will.” I manage a smile. “I have to get going, but text me if anything comes up. I’ll be free of all this in”—I check a pretend watch—“less than an hour. After the elimination ceremony.”
“Hey now. Don’t be so sure. He’s going to pick you to stay on the show. I know it.”
I pin her with aget seriouslook. “You know I don’t like him, right?”
“That’s what you’ve said, but maybe you should give him a chance. At least go with the flow. I know you like to control every last detail of how life shapes up.” She holds up a hand as I open my mouth to protest. “But a little shake up might be good for you. Force you to live a bit. Besides, Holland has always been so kind to us. Try to see the good.”
This is so typical of my mom. I don’t know how she does it. She’s able to find good in just about everything. Rain on her wedding day? Better lighting for photos. Coffee shop out of her favoritepastry? What a good day to try something new. Debilitating diagnosis that takes away her ability to do almost everything she loves? No biggie.
I want to be like her, but I’m a realist. And yeah, a control freak.
“I can see the good in his golf game,” I tell her. “That’s all I’m concerned with.”
“Oh, you stubborn girl,” my mom laughs lightly, used to me after thirty years of parenting me. “For what it’s worth, I think Holland is a smart guy. He’d be a fool not to pick you.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re my mom. You have to say that.”
“Give him a chance.” She winces as she shifts in her chair.
I lean closer to the camera, all thoughts of Holland fleeing. “You okay? I thought you said it was a good day.”
“Itisa good day. Don’t worry about me. Go have some fun.”
I bite my lip and nod, even though no one in their right mind would call the night I’ve had—filled with small talk and forced laughter and standing and mingling for hours on end—fun. Not even my eternally optimistic mother. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too, Mal. Knock ’em dead.” She winks, and I disconnect the call.
I close my eyes and rest my head against the wall of this wine pantry.
I’m exhausted on a bone deep level.
It’ll be over soon. It’ll be over soon.
I may have chanted myself into a doze, but I bolt upright when the door to the pantry slams open, and Holland stumbles inside.
I’m not sure I would recognize him, given his current state, if he wasn’t the only man in this forsaken mansion wearing a full-on tuxedo and shiny black shoes.
Other than his giveaway formal wear, gone is the happy-go-lucky Holland I’ve come to know and expect. His eyes are wide and frantic, darting around the pantry. His breathing is ragged, and his face is flushed a red that rivals the bottles ofwine he’s about to knock off the shelves in front of him with his herky-jerky limbs.
“Whoa. Holland!” I reach out my hand and grab hold of his arm. There’s heat radiating from him, through the thick wool-blend of his suit coat. He must be burning up.
His wild gaze lands on me, and his eyes go even wider. He turns away, and I pause for a moment, watching his broad back expand and contract in his suit coat as he attempts to regain his breath. His shoulders are heaving up and down at an alarming rate. Something is very much not right.
I’ve never seen Holland rattled. Frustrated with his play? Yes. Annoyed with my training regimen? Absolutely.
But this is next level.
I move to step around Holland so I can get a better look at him, but as I do so, he bends forward and puts his hands on his knees. His forehead lands directly in my cleavage, above the cut of the silky navy fabric of my dress.
He makes a strangled sound and steps backward, knocking into the shelves of wine bottles. A couple of them wiggle precariously, like bowling pins grazed and on the verge of tipping over. I lunge around Holland, who is staring at the wine bottles with the same look of horror on his face he’s worn since entering this pantry of doom.
I manage to get the wine secured, and I spin to face Holland.
