The Final Rose

Chapter Twenty-One: False Courage

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That evening's elimination ceremony was held in the grand ballroom at our resort. The room's perimeter was lined with thick marble pillars and large gilded chandeliers hung from the cathedral ceiling. It was admittedly beautiful, but the chosen venue was also too large, too open for the few of us who remained in the contest; instead of feeling glamorous or elegant, I felt vulnerable out in the open.

I clung close to the outer perimeter of the ballroom by myself, fretting with the pleats of that evening's dress—a sleeveless pale grey chiffon sheath whose bottom hem stopped just above my knees. I shifted my weight from one uncomfortable foot to the other. I normally avoided high heels, but I'd decided to wear one of the few pairs I'd brought. If I was going to go home that night, I wanted to look good during my departure.

Neither Lee nor Patience had returned from their two-on-one date by the time crewmembers had ushered us downstairs for the pre-rose ceremony cocktail party. Some of the others speculated that both of the women had been eliminated on the date, but their suitcases remained by the door so I maintained a sliver of hope that I'd still see Lee again that night.

A hand laid on one of my exposed shoulders, and I spun around at the contact.

"Nokomis, can I have a minute?"

It was the female producer with the ugly khaki shorts. I wondered how many pairs of the unflattering pants she owned.

"Oh, uh, sure."

She motioned for me to follow her to a small alcove off of the main ballroom, where we might have a modicum of privacy among the various cameras and chattering women. My brain raced through all the myriad of reasons she might want a word with me. In my limited time as a contestant I'd broken more than a few rules from the extensive contract we'd all had to sign when originally agreeing to be on the show. Not only had I snuck out of our hotel—a major violation of the contract's terms—but I'd also kissed, or at least had been kissed by someone that wasn't Jacob.

When we were alone, the woman turned on her heel and folded her arms across her chest. "You don't drink. You don't wear a bikini," she frowned disapprovingly. "Do you not kiss as well?"

I opened my mouth, but I had no ready response.

"I saw the tape of your date with Jacob from last night," she explained. "We're all pulling for you to stick around, Nokomis, but you've got to give us a little more."

"M-more?" I managed to garble out.

"Men have fragile egos, even sweet Jacob," she qualified. "And I can respect you wanting to maintain a semblance of decorum when the cameras are on. But there are ways of staying on Jacob's radar without embarrassing yourself on national television."

She laid her hand on my forearm. It was meant to be a friendly gesture, but it was too warm and too familiar, and I fought the instinct to shake her off.

"Listen, I don't normally do this, but I'm going to give you off-the-record time with Jacob tonight." She leaned in and lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Whatever you need to do to convince Jacob to keep you around a little longer, it'll be between you and him. No cameras. No microphones."

She didn't give me time to respond before her hand was abandoning my forearm to disconnect my microphone's battery pack from the center of my back. I stood frozen, too flustered and stunned to react, while she disconnected my wires.