Chapter 8: Chapter Seven

Elliot glanced at the paper clutched in his hand informing him that the third episode would be a week-long filming affair complicated by the fact that Elliot turned thirty on Sunday. For the producers, it was the perfect excuse for a party. A big birthday party with all his family, the ten women he was dating, and every one of his friends they managed to dig up in the continental United States.

The restaurant parking lot was packed when his limo pulled up. As he waited for the signal to exit the car, Elliot tucked his schedule into the inner pocket of his suit. Outside the window, Michelle entered the restaurant with her wife Samantha. Elliot’s stepfather was already out front smoking a cigarette, and some of the men from Jenna’s season approached the restaurant’s entrance.

Once the cameras were in place, the ladies exited a nearby party limo, and Elliot emerged, straightening his navy suit and leading the way inside. He held the restaurant door open, trying to acknowledge each of them as they walked in, but the instant the last woman stepped through the door, Ginger appeared from out of nowhere, and all Elliot’s breath got trapped in his chest.

She looked unbelievable. She rarely dressed up, and it wasn’t as if she was wearing an actual cocktail dress—only body-hugging black pants and a silk blouse. But that’s not what killed him. Her hair was loose. It flowed like a river of midnight over her shoulders and breasts. It was so thick, so everywhere, dark as crow feathers. Just like that night. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“Your mom’s on her third drink.”

Mood killed. Classic Ginger.

Elliot’s hope for an easy night withered. “How long has she been here?”

“Less than an hour. You look…handsome.” Her eyes ran up and down the length of him, though a slight frown appeared when she got to his hair. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy her focused attention, but maybe she needed a reminder of their circumstances.

“Sorry. I’m taken,” he said.

She shot him an exasperated look. “We’re keeping it super casual tonight since this wasn’t on the original schedule. Feel free to mingle with the crew. We all know we could be on camera. Tonight may or may not make the final cut. It was too last-minute to map out logistics. Anyway, my problem. Go have a drink. There’s a booth set up. We’ll send the women over one at a time.”

“So I don’t get to mingle…”

“You will. Once everyone’s gotten their time.”

His mouth set in a grim line as he spotted Amanda walking up to the bar, hips swaying beneath the slinky ivory fabric of her dress. A year ago, he would have seen potential in a sway like that, but that night he only saw the chore of it. “Right.”

Ginger followed his gaze. “You want her first?”

He gave his producer a cool smile. “You can save her for last.”

Eyes now slits, Ginger turned on her heel and marched away.

Vanessa carefully navigated him through the field of partygoers, crew, and cameras to show him to his assigned booth where he’d remain a sitting duck for the women to wow him with their amazing qualities. He was ready for it though. He needed to be wowed.

After about an hour of quick, semi-personal “dates” a few more personalities started to shine through the chaos of the process. Daisy, whom he’d been close to blowing off, made him laugh with her self-deprecating wit and convinced him to try a yoga class. Elizabeth the virgin threw some steamy looks his way and talked about her role in a Utah ballet company. Maggie, with her hipster glasses and her love of 90s anime, opened the door to a conversation about why he’d pursued a career in graphics.

Cassie, another Cubs fan, started talking about the upcoming playoffs as soon as she slid into the booth, having learned through Elliot’s visiting Chicago friends of two players coming off the disabled list.

Amanda arrived last. The easy conversation with Cassie had gone a long way toward helping him forget where they were despite the cameras capturing every shallow breath he took, but Amanda had been a handful at her barbecue—literally. Constantly pressing into him, giving him long, heated looks, and taking any excuse to touch him. Elliot picked up his drink, shaking it into his mouth in an effort to drain the few remaining drops.

Amanda coyly stared down at her full glass and spun the cocktail straw through the ice. “So, something I’ve been meaning to tell you…”

Here we go.

They only had ten minutes, but by the time Kat tapped him on his shoulder and gave him the all-clear to mingle, Elliot had aged ten years. Turned out Amanda had already been married and divorced at the ripe old age of twenty-six, and she hadn’t come out and said it, but it sounded like she cheated on the guy. “We both made…mistakes” were the exact words she’d used.

Jumping at the opportunity to talk to literally anyone else, Elliot scanned the crowd. His gaze landed immediately on Ginger at the bar, cozying up to his coworker Kyle. She was smiling. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her smile. Elliot turned his scowl on Amanda. “Let’s go grab another drink. We can keep talking.”

“Great!”

He and Amanda stood, cameras following them to the bar. Elliot maneuvered himself close to Kyle and Ginger, determined to know what his friend had said to make his tightly wound producer throw her head back and laugh like that.

He slid in behind Kyle unnoticed while Amanda took the opportunity to press herself into his side.

“If you ever make it out to Chicago, I’ve got Cubs season tickets—”

Elliot’s head turned sharply at Kyle’s invitation. “You a baseball fan, Ginger?”

Kyle startled, turning to face him. Ginger’s eyes went wide with alarm as she took in Elliot’s entourage of cameramen within feet of her. Knowing she’d likely wind up cutting any footage of herself for the final product, he gave her a smirking grin. Served her right for flirting with Kyle.

“Hey, Elliot. Happy birthday!” Kyle clapped him on the back, smiling warmly, and introduced himself to Amanda.

Ginger put down her drink in a hurry. Like she was trying to disappear into the background as quickly as possible, she shoved off from the bar. Turning the opposite direction, she ran smack into his mother.

The next five seconds unfolded in ultra slow-motion.

His mom reeled backward, laughing hysterically as she fell and landed sprawled on her back, her skirt up to her waist. Her laughter continued to ring out even after her head hit the ground with a smack.

Heat rose up Elliot’s chest. His blood pounded so hard it felt like his skull might explode.

In her loudest bellow, Ginger shouted loud enough for people in Universal City to hear, “Everybody stop tape!”

The room went completely silent. Even the soft music grew softer.

“Goddammit, Mom.” Elliot and Kyle both reached down to help Irene up. She giggled, red-faced.

As they lifted her limp body off the floor, her jaw went slack, and she vomited. All over Elliot’s handmade suit.

“Jesus Christ.” Ginger moved in close, like her little body could prevent anyone from seeing the evolving disaster. She shouted again, this time at the bartender for some towels. Then she turned to Elliot, her hand on his arm, squeezing. Hard. “Elliot, come with me. They can handle this.”

“I need to get her home.” It was his only thought as his mother sagged against his shoulder, smearing her face in her own vomit.

“Matt’ll take care of her. We need to get you cleaned up.”

Kyle stepped in, transferring Irene’s weight into his own arms. “I got this.”

“Come with me,” Ginger said again. This time her nails dug in.

Ducking his head, Elliot followed her into the ladies’ room. Once inside, he collapsed on the bench in the restroom, his head in his hands as his heavy breathing tried to make up for the air he’d lost during the shit show at the bar.

It was a miracle Ginger wasn’t filming this.

His measured breaths blew in and out with gale force. His shoulders bent and bowed. But Ginger didn’t call in a camera crew. Instead, she patted his back awkwardly. The way a robot would. “We’ll get her some coffee or a Red Bull or something,” she told him. “She’ll be fine.”

“She’s not fine,” he growled. “She shouldn’t be here.”

“Then why did you want her here?”

“Because I thought she was better.”

“Better?”

Something in him snapped. He stood to face her for two reasons: one—to get her hand off him, and two—so he could unload. “She’s an alcoholic, Ginger. Isn’t that obvious? I thought you were supposed to be paying attention.”

Her defensiveness got lost in her pity. “I’m sorry. And no—I didn’t realize. I’m not an addiction counselor. Look, I’ll talk to her.”

“No. Fuck it. There’s nothing anybody can do.”

“A conversation is a start.” She whipped out her phone. “Let’s get you out of this jacket. I’ll get someone to bring you a new shirt.”

“You wanna call in a camera crew, too?” he asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

She glanced up at him, “I’m on your side here, you know?”

He shut his mouth. Her tone didn’t leave a lot of room for disagreement.

While she tapped out a quick text, he stripped off his jacket since it had taken the biggest hit from his mother’s over-indulgence. After tossing it onto the sink counter behind him, he unbuttoned his shirt. Ginger was standing again, reaching for a towel he expected her to hand him, but instead, she closed in, aiming the towel straight for his bare chest.

Her fingertips brushed his collarbone sending a shock so electric down his arms he had to grab both her hands and physically remove them from his body. “What are you doing?”

She gasped, like she’d gone and shocked herself, too. Her wide eyes locked on his. “I—I’m sorry.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, her eyes continuing to blink with surprise, and his rushing wildly to take in every single curve of her heart-shaped face. He’d tried like hell to forget it, but all he could think as he stared at her parted lips was how good it would be to kiss her again. He remembered how well their mouths fit together. How each stroke of her tongue unwound him bit by bit.

Shoving the towel into his hands, she took a step back while his cock stiffened in his shorts.

He turned his back on her and yanked his open shirt off his arms, barely managing the necessary words. “You can go.”

“Elliot…”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. She was still staring, but this time it was at the tattoo that crept up his arm and over his shoulder blade. There was something like amazement or awe in her eyes, like someone seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time. It drove him out of his mind. His erection strained against his zipper. Gone were thoughts of morning yoga classes and merging calendars, along with concerns about his mother and the huge mistake he was making with his life. All his plans and his wish list future dissolved into one need—Ginger—right now.

“You need to leave, Ginger.”

“Nobody’s gonna mention this okay? And I promise you none of it will make the final cut.”

She wasn’t leaving. Fuck. He sat back down on the bench.

“Don’t worry.” She took a seat next to him. “I texted wardrobe.” Putting her phone in her lap, she folded her hands on top of it and proceeded to wait.

The silence and her nearness were too much. His right heel tapped the ground with relentless speed. He shoved a hand through his hair, then hunched forward, hands clasped between spread knees. “She was sober for eight years once,” he said to get his mind off Ginger’s leg an inch from his. “I’m so pissed.”

“I would be pissed, too,” she said. “I mean—I am. Super annoyed, but…”

“She’s not your mom.”

“No. Alcohol gives my mom a rash.”

Elliot’s short laugh surprised him. But the relief of anything being funny passed quickly enough when he remembered where he was.

After a long pause, she spoke. “Why didn’t you mention this to any of the producers?”

“It was a long time ago. She was sick, and then she wasn’t. She still drinks every day, but you know—like someone who drinks every day—a couple glasses of wine with dinner. She hasn’t been plastered like this in years—at least not in public, but—why the fuck am I explaining this to you?” He scrubbed at his face with both hands, to shut himself up and come to grips with his own denial.

“I’m sorry we let this happen,” she said quietly. “I should have been paying closer attention. We’ll do better.”

Her firm hand on his thigh stopped the tapping motion of his leg. Everything he was made of froze and incinerated at the exact same time.

“Settle down,” she whispered, the sound so intimate, all his blood rushed to his groin.

He couldn’t handle her like this. It was too intense. His mind reeled with images of taking her into a stall and shoving up her shirt, palming her breasts, and fucking her until she was clawing at his back. As torturous as it was, it beat the alternative—having to consider what he was actually feeling.

Beside him, Ginger’s breath caught. But she didn’t move her hand. If anything, it shifted, the edge of her pinky finger accidentally grazing the outline of his raging erection.

Or maybe it hadn’t been an accident. She stood abruptly, reaching into her back pocket. “I keep meaning to give this to you.” Face awash with color, she pulled out his old Swiss Army knife. Sitting back down beside him, she left a few inches more space between their legs as she held out the knife for him to take.

He didn’t reach for it. “Keep it,” he said. “I gave it to you.”

“Giving someone a knife is bad luck.”

“Since when?”

“Look it up.”

He still didn’t take it back. “We need to talk,” he said, the words barely more than a vibration in the air between them.

With a soft grunt of frustration, she palmed the knife and crossed her arms over her chest. When their eyes met again, heat spread up his abdomen, causing the muscles there to tense. He finally cracked. As much as he wanted her, he could have wrung her neck for blowing him off the way she had. The way she still was. “I can’t work with you,” he said.

Her entire body went stiff as a rod. “Excuse me?”

He had her attention. Good. It was about time. “I want someone else.”

Her mouth went through the motions of forming a few words, but nothing came out.

Sensing he had her on the hook, he went in for the kill. “I’ll speak to Marlon about it myself if you won’t.”

Her voice started working again. “You can’t.”

“Oh no?”

“Elliot, I need this. I can help you. Trust me, I’m good at my job.”

He refused to budge. “I’m not seeing it.”

Her brows came together with anxiety and even a hint of guilt as she seemed to reach her own breaking point. “If you want to talk, we’ll talk, all right? Tonight.”

When the wardrobe assistant finally burst in with a new shirt and jacket, Ginger left the bathroom rattled. Her heart raced. She was fully aware of how close she’d come to taking Elliot’s face in her hands and kissing all his doubts away while her dreams of Sydney swirled down the drain of a nearby toilet. She was proud of herself for showing the necessary restraint, but the effort had been a marathon of hard work.

She joined Kat at the bar while the cameramen and the PAs covered the party. Her coworker’s gaze was glued to her phone. “Who are you texting?”

Kat dropped the phone face down on the bar and looked up at Ginger like she’d scared her half to death. “No one.”

Ginger made a grab for the phone, but Kat deftly slid it out of her reach. “Marlon was checking in.”

“With you? Why?” Marlon hadn’t been able to make it to the party tonight, but he had about ten other options for whom he could check in with. His determination to keep Kat at his beck and call was infuriating. He’d done enough damage to her already.

“What do you suggest I do? Ignore him? He’s still my boss.” With her fingertips, Kat worried her earlobe as she glanced around the bar.

“Anything work-related can go through me or Matt.”

“He tried. Neither of you answered.”

Ginger checked her phone. Two missed texts from Marlon. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“It’s fine. I can handle him.”

“He’s lucky you don’t sue, you know?”

Kat brushed her red bangs across her forehead. “Sue and say what? I came onto him, he went with it, and then he changed his mind?”

“He shouldn’t have gone with it. He’s married and your boss.”

Kat pressed her lips together and looked Ginger straight in the eyes. “He was separated at the time, and it’s not like I gave him much of a choice.”

Ugh. Kat. Her friend was nothing if not relentless. “You’re not still…?”

“No! No.” She took both Ginger’s hands in an effort to come across as truly sincere. “I swear. I’m over it. I learned my lesson.” She gave her head a firm shake and changed the narrative. “How’s Elliot?”

It was conversational whiplash. Ginger stuttered through her answer. “Uh…he’s…good. All cleaned up.”

“He looked upset. Anything we need to know about Irene?”

“Watch her around the liquor apparently.”

“Well, that shouldn’t be a problem.” Kat’s sarcasm was heavy. Alcohol played a pretty key role in large portions of their filming schedule.

“Let’s talk to Matt. I’m sure we can figure something out,” Ginger said. “Where is he anyway?”

Kat gestured toward the parking lot. “He’s pouring Irene into a limo. I offered to help, but he said he’s got it. Does he seem okay to you?”

“Matt? Yeah.”

“He hasn’t been shaving…”

“Maybe he’s trying a new look.”

“I mean—it’s been months since his divorce was finalized. You’d think he’d be getting back into dating or whatever by now, but I get the impression he goes home, orders a pizza, and watches TV until he passes out on the couch.”

“I do basically the same thing,” Ginger stated for the record.

Elliot emerged from the bathroom in a clean suit looking like he’d never had a bad day in his life. Their eyes met, and he held Ginger’s gaze long enough to make her question her priorities again. His attention quickly shifted to Amanda, who snuck an arm around his waist and leaned in to whisper something in his ear. Ginger would have loved to tell Amanda to move on—she’d already had her time, but the idea behind tonight was to keep things casual. A regular birthday party. Lavonne’s idea. Marlon always thought her ideas were gold even when the rest of the crew didn’t see the point. The party was boring. The show was stalled in second gear, and Ginger was losing control over the story.

She tore her gaze away from Amanda and Elliot, back to Kat. “We need to start pulling some of Elliot’s friends off for interviews.” If she could get someone to cry, the night wouldn’t be a total loss.

“We should wait until they’ve had a chance to circulate a little longer. We’ve got hours to go.”

Kat was right. Ginger ordered another sparkling water and settled in.

Elliot did a decent job of balancing his time between smaller groups, usually one or two of the women, some random friend of his, and at least one member of The Panel. Lavonne did fantastic work facilitating conversations as she bounced around the party regaling everyone with in-depth explanations of her famous three Cs of successful marriages: compatibility, communication, compromise. Her book would be out just in time for Christmas, and her signature episode—the Redwoods Retreat—began filming tomorrow.

Since the impromptu party wasn’t part of the usual show format, the producers had collectively decided not to put too much effort into scripting it, but the lack of a monitor to spy on people had Ginger restless and needing something to think about other than the promise she’d made Elliot in the bathroom: that she’d find a way for them to speak alone. About that night.

Talking to Elliot in private was the worst idea ever, but what was she supposed to do? He’d been threatening to get her reassigned, or worse, thrown off the season, and he could, too. One word to Marlon about the night they spent together would have her boss seriously reconsidering her participation in the process.

She needed to convince Elliot that not only could she handle the job, but she was the only one for it. He should be able to trust her completely to make this work. So far she’d only managed to antagonize him and make both their lives more miserable. It was time for a major rebrand of their working relationship. He needed to believe that her sole purpose in life was to make him happy. It wasn’t entirely unrelated to the night he kept bringing up. She’d wanted to make him happy then, too. Well, not just him…

In her defense, the show had wrapped for the season, he was available, she was staring down two months of vacation, and honestly, accepting Elliot’s offer of a drink at his hotel had been the reward she deserved for a job well done. She hadn’t expected the night to latch onto her memory the way it had. At worst she thought they might get drunk at the bar, talk shit about the show and she’d take an Uber home. At best, she’d get to spend the night in his bed. In the end they’d done it all. Drinks at the bar had given them both a slight buzz, they’d talked shit about the show for an hour while their flirting had reached maximum intensity, and she’d spent the night in his hotel room…although they hadn’t exactly made it all the way to the bed.

But that was then.

Before he’d agreed to his second season.

She’d been doing this job long enough to know that no one came here without having been burned by love one too many times. 'Matched' was known for its ability to turn nothing into something, but it only worked because coming on the show meant the star no longer trusted his own heart—he was ready to tick off some boxes and make it work.

Ginger found it both comforting and depressing.

Elliot needed to believe he’d made the right decision coming back. That the night she’d spent with him hadn’t meant anything to her either. That she was totally on board with finding him a life partner, and she wouldn’t let anything get in the way. Not even her burning desire to slide her hands underneath his shirt. Or up his thigh…

Their encounter in the bathroom had been troublesome, but viewed through the lens of Mother Nature, it was inevitable. They had chemistry, but so what? She had as much future to fight for as he did, and the warmth of his muscular thigh beneath her palm had no bearing on the rest of her plans. She’d always managed to put her dreams first. Touching him might have confused her momentarily, but the truth was their goals were completely aligned, and they were in this together.

Maybe a quick limo ride back to the Hacienda would be enough to finally close the door on that night for good.