Matched (2 page)

Jupiter houses Rachel on top of the first bunk and Wyatt on the bottom. Bunk two has Court on top and Nadia below. A tall guy with sandy brown hair, maybe twenty-five years old, stands beside a dresser, unpacking. Upon hearing us enter, he stops mid-fold on a pair of jeans and pivots in our direction with a dazzling smile.

Oakley shakes his hand and introduces me to Court Callahan, whom Oakley explains is a badass bull rider who made rodeos worth watching again. Court takes my hand gently and, with his eyes on mine, presses a kiss to my knuckles. He oozes southern-gentleman charm that leaves me blushing.

“Easy, there. Plenty other girls for you,” Oakley says, chuckling as he slips a possessive arm around my waist.

“There sure are.” Court’s smile grows, and he returns to his dresser.

When we leave the room, Oakley whispers, “He’s a good guy, from what I’ve heard. His brother Wyatt’s supposedly a different story.”

I nod, already scanning the third quarters as we enter. Uranus sends a shard of panic ripping through me, my legs shaking slightly and throat constricting. Oakley’s arm winds around my shoulders, tugging me protectively against his side when he too has the realization.

Bunk one is Ivy over Oakley, with Dalton above Callie in the other. But more so than the frightening fact that Oakley and I are
not
in the same room, I’m concerned with which of the bikini models equipped with flagrant, wandering eyes and enhanced breasts are Callie and Ivy? And which two strange men am I stuck in a room with?

“It’s okay, Har. You’re only one room over, and it’s bunk beds, babe. Not exactly romantic,” he says softly, stifling a slight chuckle until he notices I’m not the least bit amused. “Hey, look at me.” He cups my cheek and steers my face to his. “You know I’d never let anything happen to you. Listen, I’ll try to get someone to switch with me if you promise to start breathing again, ’kay?” He kisses the crown of my head, drops his bag on his bunk, and guides us into the last planetary prison.

Venus is my new home. I’ll be lying awake all night on the top bunk, a “Miles” hopefully getting more sleep than me below. And across from us (estimating even a foot away would be pushing it) is Cruz up high, Jasmine down low.

“Hi, you must be Harlow.” A friendly-enough-looking girl walks in and offers me her hand, flushing crimson when Oakley snickers. “I’m Jasmine…Cox.”

She’s gorgeous and absolutely flawless, with all-bronze skin, vast and vibrant aqua eyes, and a brilliant and seemingly genuine smile. And her chest? Let’s just say they should’ve put her in Jupiter, the
largest
planet.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Harlow McWright, and this…”

I look to find Oakley gawking at every inch of her through glazed-over eyes, unable to contain a goofy grin. “Is my boyfriend, Oakley—”

“Abrams, right?” she finishes for me, extending her hand to him in the same manner as she did me—no catty lean-in, or “look.” My optimism makes a hint of a comeback. “I’ve seen a few games. You’re good. Sorry about the playoffs.

“So, Harlow,” she continues, regarding me again. She’s still smiling, but she drops her hand since Oakley never snaps to reality enough to shake it. “Looks like we’re roomies. I’m excited!”

“M-me too,” I stammer in reply, attempting as much coherency as I can while distracted by Oakley’s lingering odd behavior.

“You want me to show you the rest of the house?” she asks, and since Oakley’s a statue, I agree.

I take a step forward to leave Oakley to the wheels spinning in his head when his hand darts out and grabs my arm, pulling me back into his chest. He presses a kiss to the top of my head and murmurs, “I love you.”

My head dips back to catch his eyes, focused on me now, when I hear a soft sigh from Jasmine.

“I can come back later…” she says as I turn her way.

“Harlow’s yours for now,” Oakley says quietly, then finally meets her stare. “Sorry—I was being a dick with the staring. Just weird meeting you in person.”

I’m guessing Jasmine’s an actress since her breasts are too extreme for a model, and one Oakley has thought about—or more like fantasized about—on multiple occasions. I
want
to be annoyed, but let’s be real, if David Beckham strolled through that door right now, I’d be a drooling idiot.

So I rise to my tiptoes and give Oakley a chaste kiss and smile. “See you around.”

Jasmine and I have made it halfway down the hall when she answers my unspoken question. “I’m glad you’re not upset with your boyfriend. He’s a man, and unfortunately we all know they’ll catch a peek of someone like me at some point. I’m sorry. I don’t enjoy that type of reaction, and I hope you won’t hold it against me.”

Now I’m the dazed idiot, as confused about what she’s saying as I am about why her eyes are watering. My stupefied silence prompts her to go on. “Harlow, I’m one of the celebrities here. My real name’s Miranda Miller; Jasmine Cox is my porn name.”

Did she say porn?

“I’m newly retired, but it hasn’t been officially announced yet. That’s why I’m here. My agent said I owed it to the company, since they gave me my start and I’m leaving them before my twenty-fifth birthday—unheard of in the industry.” Her head drops, as does her voice. “I won’t say I regret it, because it’s paid my bills and put a roof over my head, but now…” She looks up slowly with a bitter smile. “I’ve seen too much—watched good girls grow hard and jaded—and I don’t want that to happen to me. I need to be reminded that romance exists…that people fall in love because of a connection deeper than just flesh and hormones.”

I say nothing, muted by her raw honesty and painful tone.

“The part that I do hate is that I’ll forever be known by my videos. I just wish people could forget and look at me like a regular person again.” She shakes her head. “But I guess I can’t blame anyone but myself.”

Watching her try to hide the shame in her bright eyes, I send out a call to the universe, hoping she finds a good man to love her for the right reasons.

“Anyway.” She laughs away the heaviness. “I’m just a normal girl, I swear, and I really am sorry about that back there with Oakley.”

My head tilts and I grab her elbow to gain her full attention, needing her to see that I understand and don’t judge. “It’s not your fault, so no need to apologize. If anything, I should be the one saying I’m sorry—it was
my
boyfriend ogling you. Now, how about that tour?”

I’m relieved by her sweetness, but silently seething.
Oakley watches porn—and enough to recognize the stars?
How did I not know this? He’s obviously seen one or more of her movies, which I'll have to block out of my mind at least until we leave the show. I don’t need any details of her performances, and she seems like someone who might prove to be an advocate in this house. And even aside from my irritation, it’s unsettling to be reminded that there’s something about Oakley I didn’t know.

I brush the whole thing off and continue to follow Jasmine, whom I hope got a more polite greeting from the other men in the house. Highly doubtful, though.

“This is the Lovin’ Lounge.” She stops and points. “One of only two rooms in the house with a lock. I’ll let you figure out what it’s for.” She giggles. “And down here,” she says as we walk a little farther, “is the Posh Suite, which is the other one that locks. No idea who or what it’s for. Downstairs are two confessional booths. That’s where you go in and talk directly to the camera. Per contract, we
have
to do it, and they’ll choose what footage to use.” She scrunches her face in annoyed distaste and I smile, thankful I’m not the only one who finds this entire thing downright silly. “And here you’ve got the vault which, again, I have no clue about.”

Me either, but on the outside wall are sixteen framed pictures—one of each cast member. What looks like a digital clock is above each picture, but none of the clocks’ displays are lit up. Under the photos of the guys are gold keys with their names inscribed on them; for the women, a small shelf holding tiny safes boasting our names.

Kind of cheesy, but I
am
on a reality TV show to find a soulmate, so I’d say it’s fitting.

“And here we have your basics, bathrooms, main living room, kitchen.” Jasmine continues down the stairs to the biggest room in the house, aptly ordained by—you guessed it—a big gold plate on the wall, dubbing it “The Great Room.”

My head’s spinning from all I now know, and perhaps more so from all I still don’t. But instinctively, I like Jasmine, and find some solace in that. “I take it you gave yourself the full tour instead of mingling with the group?” I ask.

She looks away, back to seeming blue. “Yeah. You’ve seen how guys can get, so you can probably just imagine how some
girls
act.” She says no more and doesn’t need to. Womankind isn’t the best example of camaraderie.

I nod in understanding and shuffle my feet. “So, who’s your plus one?” I ask, wishing my boyfriend had been man enough to treat her like a woman and not a piece of meat. I might be having a little chat with him after all.

“That would be Jensen, who’s over there flirting with the model I’ve had the displeasure of meeting and getting snubbed by in approximately zero point five seconds.” She points subtly in their direction.

“Ouch. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Jensen and I are just friends. I’m delusional to think there’s a chance…”

“He could be your soulmate,” I say for her.

Her sullen eyes meet mine. “Been in love with him for years,” she confesses, her smile bittersweet. “But it seems I’m just his convenient buddy. He never even acknowledges it when I hint at something more. And since he’s produced most of my films and watched me take DP on set at least a dozen times, I’m sure he’s looking for someone shiny and new.”

“DP?” I ask, my brows crinkling.

“Oh, um…” She’s looking everywhere but at me now, her face glowing a fiery red. “Sorry, doesn’t matter.”

I have a feeling I could ask Oakley what it means.

“Double penetration,” a guy throws out as he walks past us. He stops and turns, a wicked grin pinned on me as his eyes rake down my body. Then his hungry leer swings to Jasmine. “I’m Wyatt, and you, sweet thing, were magnificent in
Sisterhood of the Traveling Tramps
. Outstandin’ performance, and one I won’t forget anytime soon.” He looks back at me and nods. “Feel free to stop by my room if either of you get a little lonely. What’s a soulmate without a physical connection?”

“We’re good, but thanks,” Jasmine grates, fidgeting in her stilettos. And because I’ve never been one to judge, I change the subject as soon as Wyatt walks away. “So, what now?”

An easy smile spreads across her face. “Now we go get ready for the mixer.”

Confessional: Oakley Abrams

“Hey, I’m Oakley, but I guess you already know that. Um...yeah, I’m not sure how to do this or what to say, but ‘Go Ravens!’ is always good, right? Seriously though, this is my first confessional and our first day here, so not a lot to tell ya. Seychelles and the house are both awesome. I can’t wait to soak it all up with my girl Harlow.

“I know she’s uncomfortable with all this—being filmed and stuff—and maybe I’m a selfish prick, but if this is how I’m gonna spend my break off the field, it had to be with her. We’ve been apart way too long, and I missed the hell out of her.

“Hold up…okay, so they just handed me this piece of paper with questions on it. ‘Do you think Harlow’s mad at you right now, and will she forgive you?’ Um…about what? Ah, I’m reading the play now. Yeah, Harlow’s probably pissed about my reaction to meeting Jasmine Cox, but come on! A world-famous porn star walks into the room, and a heterosexual man doesn’t react? It was a bit over the top…took me too long to recover, but I did apologize. So it’ll be all good. My Harlow’s pretty forgiving.

“‘Do you think Harlow is your soulmate?’ Of course I do—have since high school. And being here, she’ll be sure too, no matter how long we’ve been apart. A simple reminder is all we need.

“All right, light’s blinking that I’ve met my quota and I’ve got a mixer to attend, so I’m out!”

Chapter 2

The Meet Your Mate Mixer is, not surprisingly, a clever name for a let’s-see-who’ll-get-sloshed-and-hook-up-first-to-boost-ratings free-for-all. It’s made up of sixteen very attractive, single-for-the-most-part young people with a beach sunset in the background, bump-n’-grind music pumping, and a table filled with free alcohol as far as the eye can see.

Oakley’s off to the side with a few of the other guys, and judging by his animated facial expressions and Heisman moves that he’s telling them all about himself, one great play at a time.

So far, Jasmine and I have stuck together. We’re sitting on one of the white velvet couches—totally appropriate, and often found on a beach—each nursing our first drink.

“Should we dance, or try to mingle?” she asks, sounding as unsure as my answer will be.

“I guess we could.” I scan the room for the least-intimidating-looking targets with whom to socialize. “How about them?” I point to a group of three girls—one I know to be Callie Cole, an Olympic gymnast.

“Good choice.” Jasmine smiles with a nod, and up we go.

While I make my way across the tent, I steal an indirect glance at Oakley, who’s no more aware of my whereabouts than he is of nuclear physics. The Russian supermodel whose name I’m not sure of has joined his group, though, seemingly fascinated with his football stories.

Jasmine nudges my shoulder, smiling when she sees where my focus has traveled. “He’s just a proud man showing off. Don’t overthink it, Harlow.”

I force a small smile of agreement and decide once and for all that she and I will be great friends.

“Hi, ladies,” Jasmine announces for us as we arrive upon the trio. “Mind if we meet and greet with you?”

“Of course not! I’m Callie, and this is—”

“I’m Anya McCall,” a cute little brunette chirps, her eyes the color of sapphires and shining brightly with an excitement I can’t begin to describe. I say “little” because “frail” seems insulting, but I think a strong gust of wind might literally knock her over.