Matched (14 page)

“‘Do you and Ivy have any off-screen chemistry, and could she be your match?’ It would be an enormous compliment if Ivy Malone were to end up being my match. She’s gorgeous, as you all know, as well as kind, considerate, and easy to get along with. As for the chemistry? I have no doubt our scenes together in Always Was will answer that question.

“That’s it for now. Thank you all for tuning in each week, and I’ll see you again soon.”

Chapter 9

I’m lying in my bunk, staring at the ceiling and twirling my bamboo engagement ring around my finger, when Oakley walks in. My roommates were considerate enough to stay out and the cameraman on his heels should’ve thought about doing the same, because I can see Oakley’s enormous frame tremble as he grits out a lethal warning to the man.

And seemingly out of nowhere, as is his MO, Adam appears, ordering the man to leave us alone.
Hm…maybe he’s not
all
evilness and drama ops.

“Anyone opens this door or turns on
one
camera in this room, and I will beat them within an inch of their life. You think I’m kidding?
Try me
,” Oakley spits.

But Adam doesn’t so much as blink. Instead, he turns his attention to me and asks, “You okay in here, Harlow?”

I nod quickly. Oakley would die before hurting me, no matter how angry he was, but it’s nice to see Adam might be hiding a semblance of a heart in there somewhere.

Oakley slams the door in his face and pivots to me, his mournful eyes finding my own cried-out ones. Our gazes remain locked as he stays put, taking several deep, calming breaths.

I need him to say the right thing, words to heal the doubt this show is spreading over my heart, more than I’ve ever needed anything in my life. I’ve watched him leave me once, come back, offer glimpses of how great we can be, propose…and now there’s a heavy ache in my chest I can’t avoid. All the doubts I’ve been ignoring are crashing down around me.

My adamancy about this show’s premise being bullshit feels way too real and personal all of a sudden. Oakley’s my
only
—my everything. I don’t know how to date, break up, or move on to anyone else. And I don’t want to learn.

“Scoot over, baby,” he whispers, yanking off his shirt and shorts. He climbs up into my bed in only his boxer briefs, pulling the covers up over us both.

“This bed’s gonna collapse. Might crush poor Miles in his sleep.” I sigh against his chest, where my head now rests, his arms around me.

“He’ll find somewhere else to sleep tonight. They all will. And if the bed breaks, it breaks. I couldn’t give less of a shit.”

We lie in silence as he strokes my hair, both wishing the other would say something first. Finally, I break before my heart does. I need answers.

“What now?”

“Now…” His voice is smooth and calm, but there’s something behind it—something alarming. “We pick off those motherfuckers as fast as possible and get the hell out of here. So what if we have to partner up with other people to win? This changes nothing between you and me, Harlow. I barely know how to send an e-mail—you think I’m gonna let a computer tell me I haven’t loved you for years and want to marry you tomorrow?”

“The right thing,” I murmur, an escaped thought. I knew he’d say it.

“Hm?” he asks, lifting my chin to look into my eyes.

“Nothing.” I shake my head and smile, the weight of a thousand years lifting. “I love you too, so much, and I can’t wait to marry you.” I kiss him and swallow his groan, accepting his command as he moves me to my back and lays a bearable, remedying amount of his weight on top of me.

“I don’t want you hurting because a computer fucked up. And if you think about it, this is actually a good thing, baby. It means we’re here longer.”

I cower. “How is that good?”

He traps me still under his weight and his lips trail up to my ear, whispering, “The more airtime, the better. And I get to watch you in those bikinis every day.”

“Right,” I reply in an attempt to play off my brewing irritation.

“I need you,” he rasps, inching up my shirt as he slides down my body, his tongue slinking along the flesh he uncovers. “Me and you, baby.”

I want him too, and need him just as much. But emotionally, one thing’s still bothering me—especially if it’s why he’s feeling frisky.

“Wait.” I push against his head, forcing him to look up at me. “Did she—”

“No.” He laughs. “I was waiting for you to ask.” His finger skims my waist. “You held out a while. Impressive, baby.”

My brows scrunch together. “Then why—”

“That girl’s trying to get your goat, Harlow. She’s jealous,” he starts, looking me over adoringly, “that you’re you and she’s nothing even close. Didn’t happen. She showed me zilch; we barely spoke. Now…” He returns to lavishing my stomach, creeping higher with each lick. “
You
, I wanna see a lot of.”

I barely hold down a couple small bites of breakfast. My stomach is one big, tense knot, despite an evening of lovemaking. Try as I may, I can’t block out where we are—and regardless of what the computer says, once doubt is planted, it eats at you. It shifts mentalities, and the harder you ignore it, the louder its voice becomes. Part of me wants to beg him to leave the show, but I won’t do that to him. His fans adore him, and so do I.

And I won’t do that to
me
. I’m not a quitter, in a challenge or on my friends. We have to see this through to the end.

But still, my anxiety’s in overdrive—a minefield of potential tripwires waiting for me to make the wrong move. Skanky vultures are circling, waiting for their “ins” with my man, my mind…and my temper, if they don’t watch it.

And like every other morning, it’s game time. My discontent deepens, Oakley at my side and the sand under my feet providing no relief. Even the usually dazzling ocean in front of us has sadly lost its luster. My mind’s racing with questions.
How will this challenge play out? Can Oakley and I still team up and send others home, or is that against the rules? Will everyone else protest? Will anyone even care?

We’re about to find out.

“Good morning! How’s everyone doing?” Tom pitches an impish, uncaring smile. “Harlow, Oakley—you both okay?”

“Never better.” Oakley projects his never-failing confidence, raising our joined hands to his mouth to kiss mine.

“Hm, this should be interesting,” Tom drawls. Which
really
means, “Viewers will eat up watching your miserable struggle unfold.”

“Well, today’s mini challenge—‘I’m Quite Fondle You’—is going to tell us how everyone’s
really
feeling. The seven ladies will be up first in this one. The seven men? Donned only in underwear—yes, our commandos we given a brand-new pair—they’ll be lined up side by side and blindfolded. Using only their hands, and blindfolded as well, the ladies will try to figure out which body belongs to whom, whispering their guesses to our helpful crewmember beside them to record their answers.”

My face flushes, as does the rest of my body, while everyone around me seems intrigued and pumped.

“Then we’ll switch it up,” Tom continues. “The guys will get their turn on the girls, who’ll be wearing bikinis. The only rules are no direct touching between the legs of the opposite sex, and breasts can only be gauged with a fingertip outline. No handfuls, gentlemen.”

I know it’s Wyatt I hear pouting without even looking. Such a pig. A sexy one, but a lost cause.

“If you break a rule, not only are you disqualified, but you’ll cost the main bank a fine of $10,000 from charitable funds. So keep it clean.

“The winning male and female, each with the most correct identifications, will win $5,000 for their individual accounts, and the luxury item, which today is their own private parasailing excursion! But that’s not all; we’ve decided to up the ante. Today’s winners will also be picking the pairings for the next main challenge!”

He pauses while we all applaud automatically, process what he said, then taper off with meager, worried golf claps of realization. He shimmies his hands together in excitement, thriving on our unease.
Rat bastard
.

“Let’s get started, shall we? Ladies, they’ll be coming around to blindfold you; men, strip down to your underwear, please, and follow Rudy to get lined up and blindfolded. Good luck, everyone!”

“Any hands go where they shouldn’t, you
scream
,” Oakley snaps in my ear on his way by. “I’ll handle it from there.”

I don’t need that directive any more than Emma needs the lecture I see her getting from Cruz out of the corner of my eye. I’ll scream, all right—
after
I slap the shit out of someone, and no doubt Emma will do the same. I mean, I enjoy being coveted and protected as much as the next girl…until I’m mistaken for being helpless.

“How are you?” Jasmine asks, slipping to my side as Callie flanks my other. “Sorry I didn’t catch up with you this morning.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, not ready to look at either of them.

“It’s just a bullshit computer,” Callie placates, rubbing my shoulder. “Don’t let it get to you, Harlow. You and Oakley know what’s real. That’s what matters.”

But
do
we? Oakley rarely talks about what
I
want in life, or
my
career, and until now I’ve been fine with that. It felt so good having him back. There’s a lot of comfort in what’s familiar, but it doesn’t mean it still fits.

With a shaky sigh, I lift my head to look at them. “That’s the thing, though. Oakley and I fell in love so young that by the time we were old enough to really explore the world together as adults, he left to play ball.”

“But he came back,” Jasmine chimes in with so much hope its tangible.

“Yeah…but maybe not to the same girl, as the same boy. Five years is a long time apart. And now…what if…if—”

“No!” Callie slices in, gripping both my shoulders. “Look at me! Stop that fucking brain of yours from spinning out on this shit! You got a good
man
who loves you and wants to be with
only
you. Most of the guys in this house have already fooled around with at least one of the girls here, and Oakley only makes time for you. Enjoy that. Who the hell knows when it might end? But that’s the chance you take in relationships. So the only question you have to answer is whether he’s worth the risk. That never goes away, by the way, no matter who the man is. You get a new car, you still carry insurance.”

“Sorry, ladies—blindfolds.” A crewman appears, but someone must speak in his earpiece because he stops cold and nods his head, uttering a soft, “Sorry” before scurrying off.

I glance to Jasmine; her stare is pinned on Adam. He’s off on the sand bank, watching us, looking pissed as his eyes cut to the interrupting crewman. The poor guy, looking pitiful, makes his way over to Adam. I actually feel bad for him when the tongue-lashing begins. I’m assuming he’s in trouble for ruining what would be considered a juicy scene. If so, Adam sucks.

“Ignore these people and cameras and ask yourself—” Callie tries to finish, but there’s no need.

“Yeah, he’s worth it,” I answer, smiling because it’s the one thing I know to be true.

Always looking out for me, Callie gives me a hug. Jasmine does the same, whispering, “Adam looks good when he’s pissed.”

I pull back, laughing, but keep my voice low. “Thank God!” I exhale, earning me two pairs of bugged-out eyes. I laugh more loudly and explain. “Sorry, it’s just…I was beginning to think you really weren’t able to
notice
any guy other than Jensen!”

Her head drops. Damn it, why did I mention that jerk? We’d hashed it out with our pact.
No need to revisit, Harlow!

“I love him,” she chokes out. “I know I shouldn’t, and maybe it’s not even love, but Jensen’s always looked out for me in the business. I depended on him for so long…it’s hard to just shut those feelings off.”

“You deserve better, sweetie,” Callie tells her gentler than last time, and I nod in agreement. “And you got us now. We’ll look out for you—promise.”

Jasmine gives us a smile, but it barely reaches her eyes. “He’s not all bad. Just—”

“Please don’t make excuses for him. I’m begging you,” Callie says, her patience slipping.

A change of mood is desperately needed, so I turn to Adam—filming rules be damned—and shout, “Jasmine needs some water!”

Adam’s brows knit together. He’s probably wondering why I’m asking him, but his attention focuses quickly on Jasmine and he’s out of his chair. And although he orders an intern to bring a bottle over, it’s clear in his tender expression he definitely has more of a heart than Jensen. I can only hope Jasmine picks up on that fact, too. She needs to spend more time around men away from sets.

“Adam may be hot, but definitely too bossy and completely unavailable, considering he’s
behind
the camera,” Callie says. “You need to trade up from Jensen to Peyton. Or maybe Cruz? Give some of these guys a shot.”

“Yeah, I guess,” is all Jasmine murmurs as the water arrives, with the re-entrusted crewman holding bandanas.