Page 69 of Most Eligible
“Did you sneak one of Dr. Dora’s gifts in your carry-on?” Olie makes a suggestive face.
I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I miss my cat.”
Olie howls with laughter. “Could you be any more geriatric? I thought I was the oldest one here!” She shakes her head, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “I’m sure your kitty cat misses you too.”
Thinking about Presley makes my chest feel tight. I hope Serena remembers to play his favorite Enya album. He always nods off right at the first chorus of “Sail Away.”
But Presley is pushed far from my mind when Olie and I enter the living room.
The producers have gone all out. The most expensive décor has been removed from the walls, though the large moose head above the fireplace is still there. White sheets have been draped over the fancier pieces of furniture.
Jules is in my face with a makeup brush when the front doors of the house open and Rhett wanders in. I get one more brush of powder foundation on the nose before Jules moves on to Philippa, pulling a darker shade of foundation from her fanny pack.
Rhett shrugs out of a leather jacket and hands it off to a PA. He adjusts his flannel shirt and catches my eye but quickly looks away. We’ve been holed up in this house for the last few days, and I haven’t seen him once. I can’t help but think he’s been avoiding me.
I run my fingers over the new tattoo on my wrist. Until this morning, it was covered by a clear bandage. But now, when I touch the tiny inked rose, it’s completely blended with my skin. Fleetingly, I wonder what it would feel like to have Rhett’s fingers on it, discovering it for the first time.
Lainey calls us to attention, and my fingers drop from my wrist.
“We’re going to start with some shots of you girls getting dressed,” Lainey says. “Over here in the next room.”
I look down at my jeans and tank top. Are these clothes not good enough to cover in paint?
“Why are we changing?” Monica asks.
“You’ll see,” Lainey says.
We follow her into the next room, several crew members trailing us with handheld cameras. Like the rest of the house, the room is filled with wood paneling, but all the furniture has beencleared away. In its place are six changing stations and racks of clothes.
I head to the rack labeled “Georgia” and flip through my options. I’m less than impressed with the wardrobe team, but I have a feeling that Lainey is the driving force behind the array of bikinis and cutoffs.
Next to me, Monica groans. “I think they forgot to put out the actual clothes,” she says. “I guess I could use this to cover up—oh wait.” She takes what looks like a bandana off its hanger and inspects it. “This is a shirt. Got it.”
“Isn’t it kind of dangerous to do paintball with exposed skin?” Chloe asks, holding up a bejeweled bikini.
“Oh relax.” Lainey flaps her hand dismissively. “We have to do low-impact paintball, for legal reasons,” she grumbles.
“I’d go with this one,” Monica says, reaching over to my clothing rack. She pulls out a red bandana top and blue thong bottom, then glances at the producers before sneaking me a denim miniskirt from her own rack.
“Thanks,” I say. She waves me off as she considers her own outfit. I grab the pair of red cowgirl boots in front of my changing station and step behind the privacy curtain.
It’s all a little too tight. The bandana top squeezes my chest, and the miniskirt makes it difficult to bend my legs. Even the nipple tape I put on pinches a little too hard. How the hell am I supposed to win paintball wearing this?
Self-consciously, I step out, trying to fan my hair around my shoulders so it covers as much skin as possible.
I feel ridiculous, but at least I’m not the only one.
Olie has chosen combat boots and a glittery monokini reminiscent of that iconic Sandra Haywood outfit (minus the zip-off cargo pants), while Monica has fashioned a skirt out of two bandana tops. Philippa keeps pulling at her neon-pink bike shorts as ifexpecting more fabric to materialize out of nowhere. Meanwhile, I look like a porny version of the American flag.
The rules of the game are simple. Crew members will be patrolling with cameras at all times, since the house isn’t equipped with as much surveillance as the Malibu mansion. The entire property and house are fair game, except the roped-off producers’ wing and the contestants’ bedrooms.
Olie catches my eye and winks, and I quickly look away. I’m not sure how she’s planning on sneaking into Addison and Monica’s room; with those noisy boots on and producers crawling everywhere, I’ll be shocked if she isn’t caught.
“Once you’re hit, you’re out,” Rhett explains. “And the last woman standing wins. But”—he sweeps his gaze over the six of us—“there’s a catch.”
I almost groan. Of course there is.
“The first woman to be hit goes home.”
