Mine: A Stepbrother Romance: (With bonus novel Bossy!) (3 page)

The plane lurches, and my fingers grip the edge of my seat. I count to ten and back again with my breathing just like my grandfather taught me. Breathe in, one. Breathe out, two. One thing nostalgia definitely hasn’t improved is the rattling and rumbling of a rickety sea plane. All ten of us are crammed in here like sardines, along with the pilot and a few camera operators in the back. A couple of the girls gasp and cling to each other, probably hoping it’ll get them more screen time. Me? I just hope I don’t puke.

I focus my gaze out the window, watching the water draw closer and closer. Finally, we touch down with a small series of thumps and rattles, gliding forward as we bob on the surface until the plane slows down.

There’s a lot of squealing as we land, and it makes me feel a little better that it doesn’t all sound fake. Something metal clanks in the back of the plane, hopefully nothing essential. My panic recedes as the scared little monkey part of my brain realizes we’re out of the sky and not breaking the laws of nature anymore.

You’d think I’d be used to flying. Our plane was a lot smaller, but I was in it more than I’d liked. Trips by plane are pretty much essential when you’re this isolated. Fuel and maintenance aren’t cheap though, and most of the time it wasn’t hard to convince Mom to let me to stay home.

Mom on the other hand, she’d love this. Flying was one of the few things I remember her genuinely enjoying about living out here. She used to try and take me up with her when I was little, but by the time I knew enough to miss her attention, she’d stopped asking.

After she married Hunter’s dad, there was always room in the budget, and she took advantage of it. I don’t know what she was running from when she went out, but I looked forward to those days as much as she did. She loved to get away, and I loved that she never drank when she was going to fly.

The plane slows to a putter, the propellers pulling us forward towards our destination as the surf slows us to a crawl. Up front, the pilot’s humming something. The soft, smooth melody sounds at odds with what little I’ve heard of his voice. One last rev of the engines, and we glide to a stop next to a small floating dock.

The pilot stands up. He’s three days short of a shave, three years short of his last haircut, and probably three hours short of a much needed nicotine fix by the way he’s fingering the box shape in his shirt pocket. He’s tall though, and his frame confidently fills the front of the small plane in a way I don’t expect.

Megan, the girl sitting next to me, leans over and whispers, “I hope the creepy pilot and the beat up plane is all for the show. We’re supposed to be living on a resort, but so far this feels more like the setup to Bachelorette: Survivor.”

We giggle, and the pilot scowls, huge bushy eyebrows narrowing over the rims of his dark, aviator glasses.

I know how these shows go. By week two we’ll be at each other’s throats, but right now we’re just ten women trapped together in a very strange situation. Megan seems nice. She’s young and so delicate she looks like the wind could blow her away. I can see why she might be a little worried about roughing it.

Hers isn’t the only nervous face I see. None of us really know what’s going to happen. My motivation might not be exactly the same as theirs, but I’m going to have to play by the same rules if I want to stay in the game, and I’m just as anxious about what they have planned for us.

The pilot pops open the door, and a couple of the assistants hop out to secure the plane and get ready to film our first steps onto shore.

We all stand up at once, with the Barbie brigade—as I’ve started thinking of them—pushing their way to the front. Elena’s in the lead. She’s tall, blonde, and doing her best to convince the other women she’s in charge. It’s hard to tell how much it’s working, or if nobody cares enough yet to put her in her place.

The pilot furrows his brows at them and bellows, “Hold your horses, ladies!”

We all fall into line, more or less. Most file out like normal human beings, but some of the girls really ham it up, wobbling down the metal stairs like astronauts stepping out onto the moon for the first time.
A small step for woman, a giant ass wiggle for the camera
.

I roll my eyes as the girl ahead of me stumbles onto the floating dock, grabbing a nearby camera guy and clinging to his arm like he’s a hero.

“What the fuck?” the pilot exclaims.

Hand on the door frame, I look up at him in surprise. He’s staring at me like I’m a ghost. Hidden behind his dark glasses, his eyes are unreadable, but his mouth is open in surprise and his intensity makes me nervous. He gathers himself, shaking his head with a strange half-smile.

“What? Is there something on my face?” That’s all I need. I’m sure the more ridiculous I look, the more likely it’ll be to end up on camera.

He straightens, wiping any expression off his face. “No, little lady. Nothing at all.” His voice is even deeper and more gravelly than before, if that’s possible.

I step out onto the wobbly dock—more of a raft really—and get my first look around. The warmth of the sun seeps into my pores, and the breeze caresses my skin. The azure sea surrounds us on all sides, framing chalk white beaches. Pale blue sky as far as the eye can see stretches over lush green jungle.

I’m home.

But not quite. I was a little too busy clutching at my seat on the way down to notice, but there’s no way this is Frederick Island. I should know. I’ve explored every square inch of it. Nobody’s said anything yet, and since I’m not supposed to be me, I can’t exactly ask. So where the hell are we?

I leap down to the beach, timing it with the water coming out, so I don’t have to get my sandals wet. Megan comes down after me, and I reach out a hand to help her as she loses her footing on the slick dock and lands unsteadily. Her long brown hair swings into her face, and she stumbles against me with a nervous laugh.

“Thanks.” She grins. “I bet they’d love to film me falling in.”

I smile back. “Yeah, I’m hoping to go at least a day before I end up on the blooper reel. You okay?”

She nods and straightens out, kicking a little sand out of her sensible flats.

The Barbie brigade clumps like a gaggle of geese. They all have that “put together” look that I’ve never been able to duplicate, even when I’ve tried. Most are struggling to keep their skinny heels out of the sand.

Bianca, an exotic beauty with long black hair, olive skin and wide, almond-shaped eyes pulls away from the fledgling clique. She flips a lock of perfect hair over her shoulder and kicks off her shoes. Pretty, but practical. I might need to watch out for her.

Amanda, cute, curvy and chatty, wanders over to me and Megan. She sat in front of us the whole trip, talking up a storm in spite of her seat mate’s complete lack of interest. She seems nice, if a bit oblivious.

“I am
so
glad to be off that plane! Good lord! I swear I’ve been traveling for days.” Her honey blonde curls frame a heart shaped face.

The rest I don’t remember the names of yet. They’ve come in all shapes, colors and sizes, but they’re all pretty, and all here to win. Knowing that I’m the “normal” one who cheated her way in makes me a little self-conscious. I’m not an ugly duckling, but there’s no way I’d have been picked without stacking the deck in my favor. I’ll have my work cut out for me to stay in the running.

Until I find what I’m looking for, I can’t afford to lose. They can all have Hunter as far as I’m concerned. I couldn’t care less if he picks me, but I need him to keep me around until I find what I need.

I plaster a smile on my face and get friendly with my two new temporary best friends.

It’s time to play the game.

I
t’s Liz.

The hair’s wrong, and the eyes are wrong, but... it’s her.

What the hell is she doing here?

I’m supposed to go down to the beach and act like a buffoon to get reaction shots from the girls, but instead, I’m glued to the cockpit, staring out the window at a ghost from my past.

Did she seriously not recognize me? I almost blew my cover when she was leaving the plane. She looked straight at me. Even with the crap on my face and the fake beard, I was sure she’d see right through it. If she did, she didn’t let on, and I know from experience she’s not that good a poker player.

Liz fucking Bissette.

One thing’s for sure. The woman down there on the beach is
not
the girl who flew out of my life a decade ago. It’s not just the wild curls she’s traded for a straight red cut. It’s the knowing tilt to the corner of her smile, and the rounded hip her hand is resting on as she laughs with the other contestants.

The forbidden teenage crush I had on my stepsister fueled plenty of adolescent fantasies, fantasies I’ve—mostly—managed to leave behind. But fuck, there’s something about your first love that never quite goes away.

I’m not stupid. There’s no way she randomly ended up back here pretending to be someone else. I want to remember her as the fifteen year old who chased after me through the trees, and made at least a few years of my life a wonderful sort of hell, but I’m not that naive.

I laugh quietly to myself. Well, it
is
a reality show. Of course they’re going to do things to fuck with me. They’ll squeeze every little drop of drama out of this that they can. But Liz? That’s some serious dredging of the past, but fine. I’ll play along. Bet this is why they wanted to give me a chance to check out the girls without them noticing. 

Outside, all the hopefuls are mingling awkwardly. They obviously know each other, but equally obviously, not well. A blonde with huge flotation devices for tits struggles to stand while her heels keep sinking. Her dedication is admirable, but she wouldn’t last two minutes out here.

Beauty like that takes work and craves an audience. Once the cameras are gone, girls like her would be miserable. Give them a month, and I’ll bet half the fame-whores down there will be begging for a house in LA.

Liz on the other hand, she was born for this place, with or without the fancy trimmings. Her skin is paler than I remember, but I
know
her. Even if she’s older, more confident, and filling out that sundress in a way she’d never done at fifteen.

“What, are you taking the world’s longest dump up there, or what? Get the fuck down here already,” my walkie-talkie spits out.

Jackass. Blaze is as smooth as a shark when it matters, and a pain in my ass the rest of the time.

It would serve him right if I just closed the door and flew back, leaving them all here. Maybe I’d take Liz. Oh, and an assistant so I could take my hands off the controls long enough to officially welcome her to the mile high club.

Except—best case scenario—I know how she feels about flying, and I’d probably end up with my nuts in my throat and spitting teeth. I grin. It would almost be worth it.

The walkie-talkie buzzes again, but I shut it off and head for the door. A camera guy is waiting down on the floating dock, but the crew can’t make too big a deal out of me because I’m not the star. Not yet. For now I’m supposed to be some Joe Schmo pilot that’s helping out, while I get the opportunity to see what they’re like when I’m not around to distract them.

Alright, let’s get this over with.

Giving my wig and beard a tug to check they are firmly in place, I exit the plane, making a point of acting slow and off-balance. The pilot I’m playing isn’t supposed to be fit and athletic. I huff and puff a little extra to make it convincing, but nobody—except the one camera—appreciates my acting genius.

I didn’t believe them, but the makeup team was right. Just look a little unattractive, and the girls don’t even notice you. I could be doing cartwheels back here, and they wouldn’t give a fuck. The most I get is an uninterested sideways glance when I thump down onto the sand.

I catch up as they’re trying to decide what to do, and finally get a little attention.

“Um, excuse me? I think you need to double check your map. There’s nothing here.” The big-boobed blonde... Elena, I think it was, minces over on her toes with a few girls trailing behind her. She looks straight at me like I’m an idiot, the others nodding behind her like birds.

Right, they notice me just fine when they think I’ve done something wrong. Go figure.

She steps just a hair closer, recovering quickly when one of her legs wobbles on the uneven ground. Finding a firmer spot for her heel, she brings her condescending gaze back at me. “There’s supposed to be an estate. Camera crews. Champagne.”

I try not to roll my eyes. She has to know everything that’s happening is planned out, but her little outburst will get her on camera, which is probably her plan.

Blaze fucking Molloy, entertainer, reality show host, and a complete dickwad, emerges from the woods with his own camera crew just as I think I might actually have to respond.

“Ladies! Welcome to the Caribbean! I trust you all had a good flight?” In khaki shorts and a bright Hawaiian shirt that’s unbuttoned to show off his toned, bronze chest, Blaze throws his hands out while his salon styled, shoulder length hair waves in the wind. I’m sure it’s no coincidence that he came out from the direction he did. A camera guy jogs in an arc in front of him with a large steady-cam, getting what I’m sure is a very dramatic shot.

Blaze’s face goes from jovial to devious in no time, even if his toothy smile never fades. His days as “the whitening toothpaste guy” might be over, but I bet he has a lifetime supply.

“I hope you’re ready for the contest of your lives, because in this game there can be only one winner, and nine of you won’t be it.” He looks them over dramatically. “It’s all up to you. I’m Blaze Molloy, and for your four weeks”—he pauses and shakes his head sadly—”
or less,
in the Caribbean, I’ll be your host while you fight to win the hand of our eligible bachelor. The ridiculously handsome”—he sweeps out one hand—”wealthy”—he sweeps out the other—”Hunter Campbell!”

Standing where I am, watching the girls’ reactions, it’s hard not to laugh. Some of them are hanging on his every word, applauding and cheering while drinking in his Kool-Aid. The whole thing is ridiculous, but for them, it’s serious. Even if I know they don’t even know me, let alone care about me.