I didn’t get a good look at her in the dimly lit pantry, because I was on death’s doorstep both because of my panic attack and then because of my stuttering—and the fact that I was making a complete fool out of myself in front of my coach—but she looks gorgeous. Her red hair is pulled back in her signature sleek ponytail that somehow works here, in a formal setting, just as well as it works for her out on the golf course. She’s—
No!
This is a disaster. Mallory Walsh is a beautiful distraction. One I absolutely should be ignoring right now.
I cannot be in the business of checking out my golf coach. Here, there, or anywhere. I need to fall in love with one of these other women. I glance at the line of them. They’re all pretty too. But Mallory, man. She’s like the cerulean-blue crayon in the box filled with primary colors. She’s the one I want. She’s the standout. Objectively speaking. Having her hair pulled back shows off her sparkly earrings and her toned shoulders. It’s a good look for her, and I imagine if the camera appreciates it even half as much as I do, that’s why Vivian wants her to stay around.
For how good Mallory looks, she also looks supremely uncomfortable. She’s fidgety. Like she can’t stand still. She keeps shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“Cut.” There’s an audible groan from the entire group of women as one of the producers steps forward. I think his name is Callen. “Hey, Mallory.”
“Huh? What?” Mal’s head pops up.
“We need you to stand still, or we’re never going to get this shot right.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Mallory’s cheeks flush as she glances around at the women. “I’m so sorry.”
There are some grumbles, but one of the Michelles—there are two, because my head wasn’t about to explode already, soof coursethere are multiple women with the same name here—says, “You’re fine.”
“Alright.” Callen points to Chad. “Why don’t you cue Holland, and we’ll get this show on the road. Everyone remember, we’ll pause after each azalea bouquet is handed out. Reset. Then film the next invite. Got it?” Everyone nods. “Holland, you good?”
I give him a thumbs up. I still don’t trust my voice. I didn’t stutter once when I spoke to Hazel, but I haven’t verbalized anything since then, and a not-so-small part of me is terrified that I’m going to open my mouth to say Belle—yes, she’s getting a pity invite—and not be able to speak beyond the sound of the first letter of her name.
I haven’t had a stuttering episode since high school. I thought I’d outgrown it. Guess not. I’m better off if I don’t think about that right now. I want to project confidence and smoothness. That’s what everyone expects from me. That’s what these women signed up for.
Chad nods at me. He’s done delivering his spiel. “Holland, whenever you’re ready.”
I clear my throat. “Thanks, Chad.”
The relief I feel at getting those words out calms my frayed nerves and untwists half of the knots filling my belly. I can work with this.
“Ladies, this has been unlike any other night in my life. I’m sure it’s the kickoff to what’s going to be an extraordinary journey. I’m so grateful to each of you for coming along for the ride. I can only take ten of you home with me to Cashmere Cove, but I wish you all well.”
I take one of the small azalea bouquets off the table where ten are neatly lined up and hold it in my right hand. My confidence wavers as my insecurity rises up. Do any of these women really want to date me? Or are they here for the fame, the experience—I glance to Mallory—or the money?
I close my eyes and do a slow-breathing exercise, willing away the doubts. I blink my eyes open and glance down at my billfold that holds my notebook and a scorecard, which I’m clutching in my left hand. When I picked up the blank scorecard back in my room to write the names of the ten women I’m picking, I saw that Mallory had written a note in the margin of the page:You’ve got this. Do the next thing right.
It’s a golf phrase she employs often. A way to get me out of my own head and force me to focus on the stroke that’s right in front of me rather than thinking about the putt or the hole or the tournament that’s to come.
I re-read her directive now, and then I read the first name directly from my list, not bringing my gaze up until I’ve said the entire word.
“Belle.”
She leaps into the air and squeals before rushing forward. She throws her arms around my neck. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!”
“I’ll take that as a yes?” I pat her awkwardly on the back with my billfold.
“Yes!” She smacks a kiss onto my cheek before snatching her bouquet and skipping back into the lineup of women.
Most of them are indulgent and being good sports about Belle’s enthusiasm as the producer resets us. I catch a couple of eye rolls. I can’t blame them, but also, it’s not a good look.
Mallory has a closed-lipped smile on her face. When I meet her gaze, she doesn’t blink. I give her a subtle nod. She returns it in exactly the same way she would whether I had lost a golf tournament or emerged victorious.
It’s so classic Mallory that I relax as we go through the next eight names without issue. Along with Belle, I invite one of the Michelles, Jennah, Ava, Cambria, Zelda, Mindy Sue, Britt, and Liz.
We do our final camera reset, and when we’re rolling, Chad says, “Ladies, Holland, this is the last bouquet to be handed out this evening. Holland, whenever you’re ready.”
I dip my chin in acknowledgement and pick up the final bouquet of flowers off the table.
