Matched

by Angela Graham

  It’s really dark in the closet with the door shut, and fidgeting’s obviously a bad idea, because I step on his foot. “Sorry.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Kissing’s out, so…you could tell me more about what kinds of weddings you hope to plan.”

  Is he serious? I can’t see his face to know for sure. If he’s making fun of me, I swear to God!

  But what if he’s not?

  “I’m really asking, Harlow.” It’s not a whisper, but it’s hushed and throaty.

  “Um…it’s not about what I want to plan, but more about making a bride’s dreams come true. Cheesy, I know.” Thankfully, he can’t see the blush I feel creeping up my face. Even though I’m shrouded in darkness, I’ve never felt more exposed.

  “Nah, I think it’s sweet,” he says, and I feel his hand on my arm, his thumb slowly caressing it. A friendly touch, that’s it, I tell myself. “From what I hear, a wedding should be special, and you want to make that happen. Nothing cheesy about that.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble, chewing on my bottom lip.

  “So you’re a romantic, huh?”

  “I guess,” I breathe, my pulse hurried.

  His hand travels up until it reaches my cheek, reverent and tender. “Yeah, you are.”

  “Time!” Screams find their way in and I clear my throat, fumbling for the doorknob.

  His breath hits my neck as the door opens. “I got it.”

  I squint against the light and dig out a shy “Thank you” from somewhere. What the hell was that? It was deeper and more intense than any kiss could’ve been.

  I need a shot ASAP.

  I rush back to my seat, but am quickly berated with reminders it’s my turn to spin before I can sit or find a glass. I take my turn begrudgingly and land on Peyton.

  With a smile, I stand and head back to the cramped space. Never once do I look to Cruz, but I feel his stare hard against my back.

  Peyton is the most sensible guy in the house—not a bit scary.

  Until he kisses you.

  “Peyton, what the hell?” I push him away and hear him bump into the closet wall.

  “Had to find out. Knew you wouldn’t,” he explains rapidly, tugging on the cord dangling from the light above us. Huh, there’s a light. Who knew? “Listen, we know you’re not Oakley’s soulmate. I want to win, and according to my calculations, my possible matches are down to three—one of which is you. So I was checking for a spark.”

  “And?” I snap.

  “You tell me.”

  “Nothing. Sorry.” It’s not like I gave him much of a chance; his lips were on mine for a total of zero point two seconds, max. But still, there was nothing there, and I don’t feel guilty for being honest.

  “Me either!” he says with too much excitement. Rude. “Sorry. I just meant I can narrow it down to two now. I’ve about got this whole thing wrapped up. Oh, and please don’t tell Oakley.”

  “Time!” I dart out the door the second I hear it, avoiding Oakley’s eyes.

  Peyton spins and lands on Cruz. Everyone laughs. Man, he picked the hot seat. “Keep fucking spinning,” he rumbles, taking a shot.

  Peyton spins a second time and lands on Wyatt. “I’m done. This game’s for kids,” he gripes, walking out.

  “Dumbass!” Wyatt yells, snaring the bottle. He sends it twirling, and we all watch it come to a stop on Jasmine. “Finally! Damn, thought I’d never get my hands on you, sweetness.”

  “Shit,” Jasmine mutters.

  “Go on, it’s all good.” Jensen pushes her up.

  “You don’t have to,” I murmur.

  Slowly, her smile emerges. “It’s just a game. Besides, maybe this is the best way to find out who we connect with.”

  “Maybe,” is all I say, watching her take Wyatt’s hand and lead the way to the closet.

  “Have fun!” Jensen cackles.

  Wyatt glances back, smug and misogynistic, with an extra bounce in his step. “Bet your ass we will.” He then adds in a shout, “Fuckin’ porn queen, hell yeah!”

  And thus begins the tortuous three minutes. That’s what I’m expecting, at least, until we hear noises seeping through the closed door. Callie and I exchange wary glances, undecided on what exactly we’re hearing.

  “Is she…giggling?” Oakley finally asks, nearly doubling over with laughter himself. “Shit, Court, what the hell’s your brother doing to make her laugh?”

  “Hell if I know,” Court answers detachedly, sitting back and relaxing.

  The door flies open and all our heads turn simultaneously. We watch Jasmine stroll out, licking her lips and wearing a devious smirk. Wyatt trails behind, noticeably flustered, his eyes to the ground.

  “Do we want to know?” Emma asks bravely.

  Jasmine shrugs. “Just proved some boys don’t know how to handle a real woman.” She looks to Wyatt, who’s still staring at the floor. “FYI, I prefer a man.”

  It’s the oddest sound from across the room—almost a snort—and when I look over, I’m stunned to learn Adam actually has the capability to form a full, entire-face-inclusive smile. It looks good on him.

  “Whatever. You’re a fucking freak,” Wyatt spits before bailing, grabbing one of the liquor bottles on his way out.

  Jasmine flops down between Callie and me and leans over to spin the bottle. It lands on Court, whose eyes nearly pop out of their sockets when he realizes it.

  “Sorry but I’ll, uh…I’ll pass,” he stutters, eyes flitting to the direction Wyatt fled and back to her. “Nothin’ personal.” He pours a shot quickly.

  “Pussy,” Jensen mocks.

  “Why don’t you take a turn, Callie?” Jasmine hands her the bottle.

  “Sure.” She sits forward and spins, and it lands on Miles.

  He starts to stand when Emma puffs, “This is gonna take forever, and I’m getting bored. How about we switch it up to good-ol’-fashioned Spin the Bottle?”

  “Works for me,” Callie says, crawling across the circle to Miles. He meets her in the middle and presses his lips to hers. The kiss is short, and lacking even a hint of lust. Guess we can rule them out as soulmates.

  Miles is smiling as he spins, and it lands on Emma. You’d think she just won the damn lottery the way her arms punch up in the air, excitement and rebellion radiating off her. I chance a peek at Cruz, who’s shaking his head and sporting a secret smile of his own.

  Following Callie’s lead, Emma gets on her hands and knees and turns the move into a seductive prowl as she makes her way toward Miles. Once there, she wastes no time grabbing his face and laying on the most outrageous, over-the-top, all-tongue kiss I’ve ever witnessed.

  Seriously? It’s Miles, for God’s sake!

  Emma breaks the kiss with a dramatic pop, and the room erupts in laughter.

  “Damn, girl, that was hot!” Jensen shouts, handing her the bottle to spin. “Aim this thing my way.”

  “Not gonna happen,” Cruz states over the fading giggles.

  Emma ignores him, blissfully naïve to the threat behind it, and spins, landing right on Oakley. My stomach plummets, and needles prick at my flesh.

  “I pass,” Emma says instantly, and I look up to find her small smile focused on me.

  Thanks, I mouth, and take a shot along with everyone else. Yes, I know it’s just a game, but friends don’t kiss friends’ fiancés. No exceptions.

  Oakley grabs the bottle and I hold my breath as it spins around and around, ultimately stopping in front of Callie. Is this some sort of cruel test?

  “Pass,” Callie says, reaching over to squeeze my knee.

  “No,” I speak up. “This is silly. It’s just a kiss. Keep it clean, and I’ll close my eyes.”

  “No way,” Callie replies. “Not gonna happen. No offense, Oakley.”

  He shrugs it off and pours yet another shot for us both.

  After a few more rounds that end with Nadia kissing Miles and Peyton, Jensen shoving his tongue down Ra
chel’s throat and giving a quick peck to Miles—yes, that was a disturbing moment for all, but one I couldn’t help but watch—the bottle is now pointing at Court. It’s Rachel on the other end, looking giddy at her luck and already on her way over.

  I glance at Emma, whose eyes couldn’t be dragged away even if there was a murder happening at her side. She’s hypnotized, her emotions bared as she watches Rachel slide her hands through Court’s short, sandy hair to pull him closer. Their lips collide in a slow, disgustingly passionate kiss that lasts longer than appropriate and I’m positive involves tongue.

  Court’s the one to finally break it, and I hear Emma release a strained breath. He rests back on his haunches, completely cool, and spins the bottle. I can’t help but notice that his eyes never once so much as glance Emma’s way. He has to feel her watching, wondering; everyone else sure can. To my horror, I feel the pain in the gasp Emma lets out when the bottle ends up on Nadia.

  “Now ve’re talking, cowboy,” she purrs, crawling to Court—who stuns the room by announcing he’ll pass.

  Lovin’ Court right now. I’m tempted to kiss him myself!

  “You’re a dick, and this is lame.” Nadia stands, fuming and offended. “I’m going for a svim. Ivy?”

  And like an obedient lapdog—except not adorable, lovable, or loyal—Ivy is up and following her outside.

  Jensen doesn’t miss a beat and leaps for the bottle, which wouldn’t be the worst thing until…oh, shit. Jensen’s turn lands on Emma.

  “We’re out, too.” Cruz is up and dragging Emma by the hand before Jensen even has time to think about formulating any nasty thoughts.

  “I’m only staying in if Adam plays! This sucks,” a drunken Rachel barely slurs before a cameraless crewman has her gently by the forearm and is leading her out of the room.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask.

  “Who cares? The bitches are gone.” Callie chuckles, then twists to Jasmine. “What I want to know is, what the hell was that with Wyatt?”

  Jasmine grins, and for the first time ever I see a boost of confidence emanate from her. “Turns out he’s more bark than bite.”

  He bit her? He wouldn’t do that, would he?

  I blame the shots for the fact that I’m still debating when Rachel stomps back through, headed to her room but not before making sure to let us all know, “No speaking directly to the fucking precious producer! Deuces!”

  Why not? Jasmine and I do.

  The game’s dwindling fast and it wasn’t too fun in the first place, so I stand up and yawn with my stretch. “I’m about ready for bed,” I hint down at Oakley.

  “Really?” he says, clearly disappointed and bordering on drunk. “All right. I’ll be up in a minute.”

  “Yeah, sounds good,” Jensen mimics me, then stalks toward Jasmine. “Let’s get up those stairs and have some real fun. I wanna see whatever the hell you did with Wyatt.”

  Way ahead of the silent SOS Jasmine’s shooting me, I toss Adam one of my own, praying he catches and plays along.

  “Jasmine, you can’t go yet. You promised you’d do the with me tonight. I have to—Adam said.”

  A great receiver, Adam’s quick to catch and reply. “That’s right. Thank you, Harlow.”

  “See?” I offer her my hand. “You promised.”

  “She’s right, I did.” Jasmine gives Jensen a faux pout. “Sorry!” she calls over her shoulder as we scamper toward one of the confessional booths.

  Confessional: Harlow McWright and Jasmine Cox

  “Hello! Me again—Harlow! And this is my girl, Jasmine. Hot, right? Say hello to the camera, Jasmine.”

  “Hello camera. How many shots did you have?”

  “Same as you. Unless you were guzzling in between rounds like Oakley.”

  “No, I wasn’t. You just seem…happier than me. Not a bad thing, though.”

  “Jasmine, my body-makeup-to-alcohol distribution isn’t as good as yours. It’d take, like, two gallons just to fill your boobs!”

  “You said that on camera.”

  “Your boobs are on camera. They can see them, trust me. They were thinking it too.”

  “I love you. Can we leave yet?”

  “I don’t know. Think Jensen’s gone?”

  “I’d bet a boob on it.”

  Chapter 12

  I’m drunk, moody and, for some unfathomable reason, horny the minute my head hits the pillow. Not that I’d take Oakley up on a cure for the horniness even if he was offering, which he’s not. He’s yet to even come up to say goodnight, let alone try to alleviate the weirdness between us.

  Discouraged, confused, and still drunk, I manage to pop in my earbuds and synchronize my calming breaths with the rhythms of Enya. It’s a soothing and melodic safety net, just in case any of the others decide to pull an all-nighter.

  Next thing I know, I’m being shaken gently. Jasmine’s pretty face is greeting me over the bedrail as I surrender and pry my heavy eyelids open.

  “Rise and shine, sleepyhead! Don’t want to miss breakfast before the main challenge!” She drops down and heads to the door, stopping to look back. “Oh, this is sure to cheer you up.” She’s snorting as she continues. “We can’t wear a bra today—loose T-shirt only.”

  I can hardly contain my excitement.

  “How are you standing upright?” I moan, regretting speech, which worsens the pounding in my head.

  “Easy. Adam has the perfect hangover cure.”

  “Beer and ibuprofen aren’t gonna cut it this morning. I feel like death.” I make the colossal mistake of turning my head in the direction of Cruz’s empty bunk, and take a moment to mentally prepare for the day—which, at some point, should probably include a discussion with Oakley about the future. It has to happen eventually.

  Or does it?

  I sit up way too quickly, warding off the urge to vomit, and fling my blanket to the side. Just as quickly as things started picking up, they’re falling apart. Though can something never fully built even crumble?

  The intercom blares and, swear to God, pierces my brain. “You have thirty minutes to be dressed and on mark for today’s challenge.”

  I climb from my bed as ungracefully as possible, wishing I could freeze time to give me some to think. But if I want to freshen up and grab a power drink, I need to move.

  Snatching gym shorts and a black tee—if I can’t wear a bra, I’m going with the darkest, most non-transparent color possible—I slide on my flip-flops and haul ass to the shower.

  Jasmine’s in the kitchen, holding out a tall glass of my favorite berry smoothie when I trudge downstairs, my hair still damp. Oakley’s there too, extending a cup of coffee to me. It’s odd, considering I don’t drink coffee. He may have just added salt to my festering wound, but I still wince at his frown when I choose the drink from Jasmine.

  My Oakley—he’s trying. I give him a kiss and whisper, “Very sweet, but I thought you knew I’m not a coffee person.”

  I wrangle a smile out of him, but it’s a tense, mindful one. “Seems I’m not as in tune as I should be, huh?” he asks. My head tilts, mouth opening and closing; I’m unsure how to reply. He finds my hand, entwines our fingers, and hustles us out the door. “Come on. We gotta go.”

  “Jasmine, you coming?” I call over my shoulder.

  “Y’all go ahead—you’re moving too fast for me. No bra. Hello? Don’t need a black eye.”

  Gotta love Jasmine. And Oakley, doing his absolute best not to laugh…or look back to investigate the problem.

  Everyone else is already gathered and waiting when Jasmine finally arrives at my side. Beside Tom at the front are Wyatt and Callie—the latter’s cheeks pink with either wind chap or sunburn, and Jasmine’s with insecurity. There’s no T-shirt in existence black enough to downplay that girl’s bralessness.

  Tom gets the thumbs up from camera one and begins. “The third trait you all most commonly ranked high in priority was a ‘real connection.’” He air quotes the last two words. “Today�
��s main event addresses that—aptly named ‘Drawn to You.’ You’ll be paired up guy/girl per Wyatt and Callie’s alternate choosing, and will decide as partners who will be the artist and who the canvas. The canvases will be flat on their stomachs and, you guessed it, blindfolded!

  “Each team will have a DMF crewmember holding up flashcards to your artist. On those cards will be the word or phrase you’ll be drawing on your partner.”

  Sounds easy enough, and I notice I’m not the only one looking relieved.

  “You have one pass to burn, if something’s too hard,” Tom continues, his smile growing. “The first team to get three correct answers wins—and not only a dream date with whomever they each choose, but the coveted power prize—deciding on the next pair to enter the Soul Search, and possibly dwindling the house down even further.”

  Obviously we’re missing something, and Tom’s chomping at the bit to throw in the catch. “Did I mention the clues will be drawn onto your partner…with your tongue?” He cackles, enjoying his job far too much amongst the gasps, claps, grumbles, and objections.

  I catch Callie’s eye, tipping my head toward Oakley subtly, and she communicates her understanding silently. But she’s not the only one who notices.

  “Tom, my first pick is Cruz and Harlow,” Wyatt bursts out, grinning maniacally.

  Why would he do that? I’ve never done a damn thing to him—neither has Oakley, that I recall—and we certainly don’t stand between him and whomever it is he wants. It’s just a straight-up I’m-a-dick-because-I-can-be move.

  Taken aback, Tom stammers, “Your choice next, Callie.”

  “Gonna kill him,” Oakley grumbles. His lethal stare is fixed on Wyatt who, in his dickishness, isn’t the least bit concerned.

  “Wyatt and Rachel,” Callie sneers at Wyatt. She then shrugs at me, somewhat disappointed in her meager payback.

  Wyatt proceeds to pair up Court and Nadia, his twisted grin implying he somehow thinks he’s done his brother a favor. Then Callie pairs Jasmine with Oakley—I totally understand her thought process—and so on. Jensen ends up with Ivy and Callie puts Emma with Miles, which leaves herself with Peyton.