Reality Check

25. Mother of Pearl

I don't know where to find Rebecca, the woman Sarah called to decorate the magenta cabin, but I should probably find out, because I owe her a major thank-you. Rose petals litter the floor, while flameless candles flicker by the bed. External Mia Benson, the one wearing the mask, hates rose petals and cute candles, but internal Mia kind of thinks they're sweet. Not that she would ever admit it. Maybe just to Rebecca.

And Max. I might admit it to him.

Speaking of Max, he looks handsome as hell. His hair is starting to need a trim, and it's at that sexy, run-my-fingers-through-it length. A few locks broke free between the stylists' trailer and the cabin. He hasn't bothered to brush them aside, and I never want him to. He's the perfect combination of neat and messy.

Did I just say perfect?

I guess there's something about getting engaged that makes me feel sappy. Who would have guessed?!

I run my fingers down his face, letting his scruff tickle my skin. "You look handsome," I murmur into his chest.

What's he wearing, Mia? I know, you're dying for me to tell you. Clearly, you're just as invested in Max's appearance as I am. Wait no longer. Baby blue button-down, navy-blue shorts. Not cargo shorts. I'd have to decline his proposal if he tried to rock cargo shorts, though the pockets would make for an excellent ring hiding spot.

Anyway, he's looking kind of preppy, and I kind of love it.

Like-like it?

"You're breathtaking as always, Mia Benson," he murmurs back.

I shiver.

This is crazy. I'm doing a crazy thing. I don't know if being aware of how absolutely reckless and insane my actions are makes this situation better or worse. Probably worse.

I'm getting engaged to a guy who got to know me by hacking into a reality show's servers. We met (for real, not via forged audition tapes) less than a month ago. We've been together for less than an eighth—I repeat, an eighth—of that.

Also, he's infuriating. He doesn't have a fixed address.

All that, and I'm going to say yes.

Does that mean I love him? Mom would say no. She'd say it's infatuation (and then she'd ask if I'm pregnant). Noelle would say yes. She believes in love at first sight, that time doesn't matter when two people are right for each other.

I don't know.

Regardless, I'll say yes. That I do know. I want off this show. I also kind of really want Max.

The first course is Caesar salad—the fancy kind with shaved parmesan—and light bickering. Max thinks he has blue eyes. I think they're gray.

"So, Max," I say as we dig into the entrée, "after Amsterdam, where's your next digital nomad stop?"

"Where would you like to go?"

"Oh, am I invited?" I'm keeping a teasing expression on my face, but my heart is pounding. Is this the leadup to the proposal? How do people handle these things when they're actual surprises?

"You're invited."

"Alright. If I can squeeze you into my busy schedule, I'd like to visit somewhere warm. I've always wanted to go to Thailand."

"Thailand it is."

"If I can squeeze you in."

"Something tells me you will."

"Is something named Max Vau—what are you doing?"

There's something cold on my finger.

"Look."