Chapter 11: Chapter Ten

Ginger was managing the hell out of the campsite, and Elliot couldn’t take his eyes off her. The high of riding the zip line with her had softened the blow of her dismissal the other night, but it was impossible to tell what was real between them and what was the job. He would have killed to get her alone again to find out. While he sat alone on a log in the middle of the campsite, Ginger directed the women and crew from interview to interview.

His afternoon had been filled with intensive sessions with Lavonne while she posed questions to Elliot and each woman to see how well their answers matched up, like 'The Dating Game' around a campfire. All the conversation and self-examination had left him worn out and wishing for something simpler. Something physical to get him out of his own head.

On the other hand, he was relieved the rules of engagement on this show didn’t involve him having to get physical with multiple women over the course of filming. He would never have been able to figure out which end was up, much less pick a future partner. Removing sex from the equation had been smart on the network’s part. Since The Panel had so much power to send women home in the final rounds, sexual advances tended to hurt a contestant’s chances, not help. Having sex with Jenna on her season had torpedoed him with her Panel.

Though so far, despite the appropriate behavior of the women, clarity had been hard to come by when the object of his most intense desire was never more than a hundred yards away.

But Ginger couldn’t have been any clearer about where they stood: nowhere. She wanted him there, playing the fan favorite, doing the work, making this the best season ever. She wanted to reap all the rewards that came with a major success story. And the truth was, he needed the success story, too. The last thing he was up for was another heartbreak.

A clinking noise dragged his attention away from Ginger who was ushering Cassie into a tent. Behind him, his mother pulled a beer from the cooler and cracked the lid. Unbelievable.

Fuming, he stood, then froze in place. If he said something, production would come to a screeching halt. If he didn’t say anything, she could wind up blitzed on her backside again, and they’d all be forced to reckon with the consequences.

His fists clenched as he tried to gather the courage to confront her when a flick of his ear snapped his attention around.

“The hell?” He covered his ear and took a step back from Ginger who might as well have had steam coming out of her head. “Was I scratching my ass? What’s the problem?”

“What the hell are you doing standing over here all by yourself when you could be talking to people, helping gather firewood—making real actual connections—what the fuck, Elliot?”

A fly landed on her hairline and Elliot slapped it away, not gently. Her head reared back, and she batted at his hand. “Don’t touch me.”

He snapped. “That’s how it’s gonna be? Your signals are getting a little mixed, Ginger.”

That set her off. Eyes blazing with frustration, she seethed, “Let’s take a walk.”

He glared at her. “No, thank you. My producer keeps reminding me I have a job to do.”

“Your producer is about to have a screaming fit if you don’t come with her right now.”

“Yeah, I’d like to see that.”

In a sudden move, her hand wrapped around his waist and expertly flipped off his mic. “You said we needed to talk. We talked. So now you have to do your part and figure out how to work with me.”

“We did a little more than talk…”

Her eyes widened, and she glanced around the campsite like she was marking the positions of all the people within eyesight. “Come with me,” she whisper-hissed. Toward the cameras, Jamie and Elon, she called out, “We’ll be right back. Find Davis, I want him doing some interviews, and get some eyes on The Panel. Use Vanessa. And hey—” She snapped her fingers to get Matt’s attention.

The other producer looked up from his monitor to where Ginger was pointing—at Elliot’s mom with the beer. Matt rose immediately to handle it.

Distracted and amazed by Ginger’s complete control of every situation, Elliot nevertheless got turned on as she took him by the arm and force-walked him into the line of trees. Once they were away from everyone, and she’d powered down her headset, she squared off with him. “What is going on? Every time I make a suggestion you act like I’m telling you to give yourself a root canal. This is not what the network wants. So what? What needs to happen to make you work with me?”

He’d done every single thing he was told today, up to and including getting on a fucking zip line. So what she was so ticked about, he had no clue. If she’d wanted to get him alone, all she had to do was say so. “What exactly am I not doing that I’m supposed to be doing?”

“Helping—building a fire, cooking some hot dogs with someone, whatever. We’re not gonna script every interaction you have, you’re gonna have to do some of the work, otherwise how’s The Panel supposed to know who you’re gravitating toward?”

“You could have told me that back there, but you dragged me away—like you can’t keep your hands to yourself or something.”

Her incredibly sexy eyebrows rose in shock or offense, an expression that screamed how dare you? “You sat on a log for twenty straight minutes,” she said with a jerking gesture in the direction of the campsite.

Fed up, Elliot put his hand on the back of Ginger’s neck and marched her several yards farther into the woods, until the chatter at the tents faded. She moved without argument or struggle, like she was used to having his hands all over her. That familiar throb below the belt threatened to derail him, but they needed to get a few things straight.

Stopping again, he stepped in front of her. “I’m no one’s puppet, Ginger. Not the network’s. Not yours. If you don’t like how I’m doing this, then you need to find yourself another star. I’m not gonna be your bitch so you get another promotion. Dream the fuck on.”

Her jaw dropped, and to his complete amazement, her eyes blurred and glistened. Like she was about to cry—holy shit.

She wasn’t a robot.

He took a breath to speak, but she cut him off with a sharp shake of her head and daggers in her eyes. “Don’t you dare threaten to tank this show. You signed a contract. You’re ours. You don’t get to pick and choose what parts you will do and won’t do. You will do all of it. When your Panel selects the lucky final two, you will pick one and live happily ever after. Until that moment comes, you will make an effort.”

“How am I supposed to do that if you keep grabbing me? I was trying—”

“Oh yeah—trying to do what?”

“Get some firewood!”

“Oh bullshit, you were gazing off into space like you wished you were anywhere but here, and the cameras are on! Do what you came here to do—otherwise why did you sign the contract?”

“I signed it because you—” He stopped himself short, coughing and looking beyond her into the shady woods.

“I what?”

He shook his head, unwilling to look at her in case she saw the glimmer of truth in his eyes.

Her voice dropped to an intense whisper. “You didn’t come back here for me, did you?”

No, he hadn’t. He’d come here because she hadn’t returned a single email and he was sick of his meaningless life. The Jenna-Ginger doubleheader rejections had left an empty hole, and he’d needed to fill it with something—anything. He’d wanted to make a difference for someone. He wanted to be part of something for once. But all Ginger wanted was a career win. “Like I said—dream on, Ginger.” He nearly choked on the lie.

Signing that contract had been a huge mistake.

A lock of hair fell across her eye. “Good. Because despite what happened in the limo, I’m not one of your options.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, the words ringing hollow. “Like you said, you’re not my type.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Oh? And what exactly is your type?”

He had no idea how to answer. All he could do was stare at her.

She grimaced. Her sudden gulp didn’t go unnoticed, but she kept her shoulders straight and confrontational.

In the tense silence that followed, tiny bugs swirled in motes of the late-afternoon light. Over an instant, the leaves became a vivid green, and the tree trunks burned dark red. Ginger’s skin glowed porcelain and smooth. Her dark brown eyes warmed and softened with the changing landscape. All her sound and fury dissipated. She looked…sad. For a single moment, her guard was down, and she was finally giving him a glimpse of her own inner struggle. “Ginger…”

“Don’t.”

“You want me to back off?”

“I want you to do your job.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She dropped her gaze to the forest floor. “You’re impossible.”

What did that mean? What was that look on her face? He cupped her cheek, urging her to meet his eyes again. The weight of her head pressed into his palm and her eyes closed. “Fuck,” she groaned.

He couldn’t have said it better himself.

Pushing his luck, he stepped closer. Starting at her hip, he ran his other hand up her side. She shivered, lips parting with a long sigh before murmuring, “You need to be having this moment with someone else in six weeks. Pick a girl. Any girl.”

What other girl? It was hard to remember if there even was such a thing. He’d been lying to himself and to her. Ginger was the only reason he’d come back.

His lips met hers gently, waiting for her mouth to open, waiting for her to want this as much as he did.

With a breath, her tongue brushed his, and he pressed into her soft, full lips. She tasted like fresh air. For a moment she kissed him like the forest was burning all around them—everything was on fire, but then a furious shake of her head tore her mouth away. She squirmed out of his grip, glancing over her shoulder toward the campsite as she straightened her clothes even though they were fine.

“We’ve been gone too long.”

“Stay,” he whispered, the word as desperate as the kiss.

But she was already walking back through the woods.

Bracing a hand against the tree, he rested his head in the bend of his elbow, breathing hard and trembling with unspent adrenaline. His erection strained against his jeans while he talked himself off the ledge. Two things he knew for sure about Ginger Moon that day. One: she still wanted him as much as she had at the Hilton.

Two: she’d never let herself have him.

Either he had to find a copy of his contract and start looking for a way out of this mess, or he needed to get a fucking grip. Because if she came within five feet of him again, he couldn’t promise he wouldn’t break every rule he agreed to not to close the distance.