Page 159 of Faking Cinderella
I glance around and spot a dark-haired guy with thick chest hair taking nude selfies in a wildflower garden.
Déjà vu hits me, like I’ve seen this guy in this wildflower garden before.
I haven’t—I’m positive I haven’t—but there’s something familiar about him.
Still, I duck my head and continue down the path to the lodge, trying to place him.
Any subscriptions I ever had to GrippaPeen channels were mild curiosity that petered out—yes, yes, pun intended—aftera few months, and he definitely wasn’t one of the creators I followed.
When I scroll socials on my phone, I generally get cute dogs and home improvement videos with the occasional cooking content added in, so he wouldn’t be familiar from there.
Maybe he also does a cooking channel?
The most successful creators, as I understand it after overhearing things this morning, do somethingotherthan simply dance around naked.
Apparently Theo knitted while expressing words of encouragement.
There’s a creator here this week who mows grass naked.
I know this because Rhys texted that information to me with a facepalm emoji, along with the tidbit that the dude brought his lawnmower, and I didn’t need him to say anything else to hear him grumbling that we’ll probably need emergency services more than once whenever that guy starts recording.
Especially since there’s more rocky dirt than grass here.
It’s been dry for too long.
I’m honestly in awe that the wildflower gardens are still as healthy as they are. Desert flowers are amazing.
Rhys isn’t in the staff room for lunch—apparently all of the security guys and grounds crew got roped into moving tables in the dining room to set up for some special event this afternoon, and all of the creators are taking their lunches outside or to their rooms.
He arrives to eat his lunch as Cynthia walks into the staff room, pins me with a look, and says, “You’re on bubble patrol again, and if they ever let these people back, I’m quitting.”
I look at Rhys.
He gives me the subtle headshake ofI didn’t do it this time.
We all head down the hallway to the laundry room.
Five naked men are flinging bubbles at each other as they pour out of three separate washing machines, while five other people take video from all angles around the room.
Rhys sucks the deepest breath in through his nose that a person can possibly suck in through their nose.
I slip out of sight, pursing my lips together.
“That would be hilarious if it didn’t have to be cleaned up,” Zelda whispers to me.
Rhys shoots us both a look, then steps into the laundry room.
“Oh, it’s the thick bear,” someone says.
“Dude, seriously, take your shirt off and we’ll make you twenty grand by dinnertime.”
“If cleaning this up isn’t part of your videos, you’re being ejected,” Rhys says.
Ejected.
Umpire.
Baseball.
