Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
* * *
These words bounce around in my head.
It’s not like you can win this thing.
He’s right, of course. I’m not even a contestant. Still, there’s a faint echo of pity party, too. I can’t win.
I’m stuck in that tight mental squeeze where I have too many things on my mind and not enough time to devote to them. I could spend an entire week thinking about how it felt to have Fizzy on my arm at her brother’s wedding, let alone everything that happened later that night. But add Fizzy’s confession, Blaine’s visit to my office, and everything that Ash told me about the votes… my mind is a blur.
All of that gets pushed aside, however, because there’s a job to do. And somehow, Fizzy and I both manage to treat it like one. After the weekend votes have been tallied, we’re down to four Heroes: Isaac, Nick, Dax, and Evan. I’m not sure if it’s a reprieve or torture that the crew is rolling smoothly and I’m not necessary at Fizzy’s cozy dinners with the Heroes, following them on their long walks on the beach, their dates bowling and apple picking and taking surfing lessons, but I take advantage of the space anyway, because we probably both need it. The only time I see her all week is for an awkward and forced confessional. Otherwise, I hole up in the editing room and piece together a narrative for each possible couple, blasting music through headphones in every moment of downtime I have so I can’t hear the echo of her telling me she’s in love with me. I create the most compelling episode yet, earning the top ratings for the network that week. But it is a truly hollow victory.
* * *
After a much-needed weekend with Stevie, I’m back on set the following week. I’d hoped it would be easier to see Fizzy, but it isn’t. Monday brings the elimination of Dax and Nick, and the appearance of a Fizzy who spent her own weekend doing God knows what with God knows who. I don’t imagine she’s running around sleeping with blokes left and right—primarily because I know that her feelings for me are sincere, and also because she’s contractually forbidden—but the rational part of my brain doesn’t speak up when I see her walk into the restaurant for filming on Monday afternoon. I’m hotly possessive at the sight of her in tiny denim shorts and a thin white tank top. I want to put my hands on her body and my mouth on her skin and press her into a wall, coaxing a confession of love out of her again.
But I keep the mask firmly in place. These final two dates are the ones viewers will use to choose a winner, and tonight, Isaac is having dinner on camera with Fizzy and her parents. I was beside her with them only a week ago, pride heating my blood. Now I’m behind a camera, watching Liz dust powder on Mrs. Chen’s forehead, watching Mr. Chen joke with Rory about his good angles, knowing Fizzy’s parents are going to meet the handsome, accomplished, and deserving man who will likely win. If I know Fizzy—and I feel like I truly do—she will accept my rejection at face value and do everything she can to move on. She will embark on the trip with Isaac and do her very best to enjoy both of them to the fullest. When they’re together in Fiji, will she forget what it felt like to be in my arms? Will she sleep with him simply because he’s there? Or will their connection deepen, grow stronger than what she and I had?
I hate both scenarios, but honestly can’t imagine what stronger than what we had looks like. I see Fizzy with these men and must continually repress the possessive instinct to claim her in small and large ways. And that instinct is back now, shaped differently but undeniable, as I watch the two people I realize I want to be my in-laws prepare to meet another man.
“You good?” Rory asks, walking back to the cameras.
The no is already forming on my lips when I pull myself back into awareness, blinking hard. “Yes. I’m great.”
I stand from the table just as Fizzy steps from the makeshift dressing room in the back and into the dining area. Her hair is in two buns, tendrils escaping and framing her face. Eyes slashed with dark liner, a shredded T-shirt and ripped jeans capped with shit-stomping boots. Tonight, Fizzy has come prepared for battle. For a split second, a feverish pulse, I have never wanted anything the way I want her. And the feeling doesn’t dissolve, not even when I step outside for a long, deep breath of fresh air.
forty-one FIZZY
Because the universe is a bored cat, and I am but a powerless mouse, Connor is without his usual crisp suit and is in a tight black T-shirt and jeans today. Even though I put on all this armor to help prop up my tender insides, it’s all I can do to not cross the room and paw all over him. I barely saw him last week and missed him so much I spent the entire weekend in my pajamas watching the first three episodes of The True Love Experiment over and over just to see him in the confessionals. Now his floppy hair, biceps, and pectorals outlined by soft cotton jersey are right in front of me. He’s exuding that trademark calm patience as he discusses something with Rory and… God, look at him. I love him, and it really, really hurts.