I roll my eyes at him, more grateful to see his color returning to normal than I am annoyed with his outrageous self-confidence.
“Okay. So let’s play into that. Why don’t you write down the women’s names?”
“I can’t go up there with a list.” He scoffs. “Have you seen the show? No one does that.”
“I know that. But what if you use your billfold, like if you were going into the clubhouse after a round to verify everything and turn in your scorecard. You can write the names in there andreference your list, even making some reference to how you’re taking this as seriously as you take your golf game.”
“That might work,” he says after a second. “Except, I don’t have my billfold.”
“I do.” I took it with me after we got the scorecard returned from the tournament heads last Sunday so I could add information about the course in Cashmere Cove to the notes section. “I’ll get it from my room and leave it in yours while you talk to your producer.”
He exhales. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I pause. “Because you don’t have to do this, Bradley. Even if everyone is expecting you to do it. If it’s too much or you want out, you have every right to protect your peace.”
He stares at me, and I don’t break eye contact. I want him to see I’m not messing around, and I’m not teasing him for anything that could be perceived as weakness.
“I appreciate that. But I want to do this. I know you think I’m crazy, but I want to find a wife. A partner.”
“You’re not crazy.” My voice wobbles a little bit. Maybe my mom’s perspective where Holland is concerned is actually wearing on me. I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, and even if I do think shows likeMost Eligible Misterare mostly a crock of crap, I can’t fault him for wanting a partner. Don’t we all? “That’s a good thing to want to find.”
He nods decisively and turns to leave the pantry, but then he stops and spins to face me. “Thank you, Mallory. For…for…”
It’s not a stutter. Not this time. No. He’s searching for the right words. He looks so earnest and so at a loss, and I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but when his brown eyes dive fully into mine, something unfamiliar swims through my stomach. Something that feels like compassion, like I want to ease the vise grip that’s squeezing Holland’s insides and making him feel small.
“Saving the wine?” I motion to the shelves. “Anytime.” I wink, and he lets out a breath.
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Thanks. I’ll see you out there.”
“See you out there.”
He shoves open the door, and he’s gone, and I’m standing in the pantry. With the wine. And with a funny feeling in my chest, like this thing Holland and I went through together—and emerged victorious from, whatever it was, exactly—stirred up the cells in my blood stream.
I’m momentarily frozen in place by the madness of it all. But then I shake out my arms and square my shoulders.
Now, when he eliminates me from the posse of women who are vying for his love, everything will go back to normal, and that’ll be the real victory of my day.
5
Cheers, Everyone
Holland
I’m standing in front of twenty beautiful women, and color me stupid, but I’m actively trying not to think about any of them. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll freak out again, and I cannot let that happen.
Chad Erickson, the longtime host ofMost Eligible Mister, is giving his spiel about how the bouquet ceremony will go down. Hazel, my producer, already gave me the rundown, so I’m doing my best to focus on exactly what Mallory told me. I’m breathing in the pattern she walked me through in the pantry. I’ve got the list of the ten women I’m planning to take with me to Cashmere Cove written down in my scorecard billfold. I told Hazel that after we get the final scenes filmed for tonight, I’m holing up in my room to rest and recuperate. I played it off like I needed my sleep to keep my golf game up, and she didn’t argue.
The women in front of me are standing at attention, backs stiff and straight, hands clasped at their waists. They’re wearing dresses that are every color of the rainbow. Two of them showed up in the same, poofy yellow ball gown, and there was a minor meltdown heard ’round the mansion when they realized it. One of them shrieked loud enough for me to hear it where I was having a one-on-one chat with a nice woman from Texas named Mindy Sue. “But my name is Belle! This was supposed to be how he remembers me! Now my plan is ruined!”
I’ve watched enough of this show with my mom to know that producers most likely had a hand in bringing that bit of drama about. I felt for Belle, because she seemed genuinely distraught, so much so that she spent the time we were supposed tobe chatting about our hometowns and getting to know each other telling me all about how much time she spent at the seamstress, making sure her dress was the perfect replica of the one the fictional Belle wore inBeauty and the Beast.
“I even brought you a beast headdress so we could dance in the courtyard and everything!” she had wailed.
Another woman interrupted before I could respond, and while I was torn about leaving Belle in such a state, I was relieved when she stood and stormed off, not making me look like the bad guy for ditching her.
Otherwise, everything has gone off without issue. The women all seem nice. A couple have stood out to me as extra pleasant to be around, so they’ll for sure be getting my invite to Cashmere Cove. Hazel gave me a list of the ones the production team would like to see on future episodes, but she was quick to remind me that Vivian refuses to be a puppet master, so all decisions are my own. But if I’m on the fence, the list is there for my reference.
My gaze settles on Mallory. She’s the only person in the swarm of women I can bring myself to look at right now. She was at the top of Vivian’s list. She’s wearing a long, blue dress. It’s got simple, skinny straps, and the fabric ripples slightly at the top before tracing the curve of her waist and hips and then cascading straight to the ground.
