“It’s fine,” she spat, grabbing the books off the barstool and putting them back where she’d gotten them.
He watched as she stomped back to the stool, snatched it off the floor, and hurried it back where it had been as well.
“Hey, some people’s past isn’t very pretty,” he defended. “What, did you want me to make up some pretty little tale?”
“No, Easton. It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. And why had he liked the way she called him by his name? As if she were already, after just half of a day, so familiar with him?
His stomach growled in the quiet pause, causing him to realize how long it had been since he’d eaten. And how long it must have been since she’d eaten too.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“No,” she spat, but then added to it. “Maybe.” She moved back to her bench, turned it to face the fire instead of him, and plunked down onto it.
Easton glanced down at her sock-covered feet, a thick wool pair he’d leant her. Ivy’s leg bounced restlessly as she stared into the fire, her jaw visibly set into a tight clench.
Helplessness quickly gave way to irritation of his own. This was the reason he didn’t want a relationship. He didn’t like playing games. Having to guess at what the other was thinking. Stewing over every imagined possibility as if—
“I don’t know which parts were true and which parts weren’t,” Ivy blurted, shooting to a sudden stand. “That’s why I’m frustrated.”
…Or maybe she wasn’t going to make him guess after all. He followed her movement with his eyes, from one side of the yurt to the next as she paced back and forth. “I get that you didn’t want to do this, but this is my career, you know? I’m supposed to push and pry and get all the information I can and you…you made that impossible!”
Easton tipped his head. “How?”
She paused mid-stride and darted a glare at him. “By…by giving me one-word answers that brought my questions to a screeching halt.”
“Did you want me to lie?”
“I figured you already were lying since you admitted that being on the show was the last thing you’d ever want to do.”
“It is,” he assured, coming to a stand as well.
“So what parts were true and what parts weren’t?”
He sifted back through the questions. “Almost all of it was true.”
“Almost? You made a mockery out of the whole thing.”
“How did I make a mockery out of it?” he asked, throwing his hands up.
“And believe it or not,” she continued, “there’s big money in this industry. It’s nothing to turn your nose up at.”
“Just because there’s money in it doesn’t make it right.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it either, Easton. It’s a matchmaking show, get it? Most people have a very hard time finding their match. And thanks to a long list of Marsha Langston’s dating shows—many of which I’ve played a part in—dozens of people have found the love of their lives. You can’t just dismiss that.”
A small knot formed in his gut as he realized something very surprising. She was passionate about this. Passionate about people finding love.
He shook his head, fighting back the words in his mind. Too bad you can’t take a glimpse into the future to see what comes after those happily ever afters you think exist. Or perhaps, he thought, a level of envy washing over him, perhaps it was better if she never did. Not everyone needed to become as jaded and pessimistic as he was. In fact, he mused as she carried on, it would be a shame if she did.
“…And that doesn’t even include the number of contestants who didn’t make it to the end but still found love,” she was saying. “Since it’s all aired on TV, most contestants come out with a pretty big fan base, resulting in hundreds of marriages in the last eight years.”
He’d resigned himself to leave the first rebuttal alone, but another one rose in its place. One he couldn’t ignore as easily. “Well, if it’s so great, Ivy, why don’t you enter?”
Her mouth went from poised to pursed in a blink. “Because I don’t want to,” she spat.
The adamant tone she’d slapped onto her statement made him wonder if she, in fact, had her own jaded edge. He held her gaze for a blink, wanting very badly to know her inner thoughts. The thoughts she refused to speak aloud.
“You don’t want to?” he echoed.
“No.”
“Neither do I,” he assured.
Her eyes widened before she narrowed them into a seething glare. “You’re impossible.” With that, she pushed past him, bumping his shoulder with her folded arms.
He glanced behind him to see her stand before the fire. Seconds ago, while she was speaking with all that passion and flare, every limb was tightly locked into place. But now, as she let out a heavy sigh, all those limbs went limp. Her shoulders and knees slouching as if she’d aged a hundred years after their conversation. She was…defending something, he felt. But what?
Guilt rumbled low in his gut. She was right. He was impossible. The trouble was, he wasn’t sure how to make it right. He recalled her frantic insistence when he brought her to the yurt. She’d been determined to do the interview and go catch her flight. The poor woman was down in more ways than one, and Easton was only adding to it.
His urge to argue his points fell away. He walked over to the bench she stood beside and took a seat on the end farthest from her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, gaze fixed on the fire.
“You are?” She turned to look at him, searching his face for a blink.
“Yes,” he said.
She took hold of her phone once more, pressed the power button, then looked up at him in question. “Okay, then I need you to do one last thing.”
He fought back an eye roll. “What?”
She tapped the phone screen, swiped her thumb across it, and handed it over. “Sign the contract,” she said. “It says that the station can use this interview to determine whether you move on to the next round or not. And that, if you do, you agree to show up.”
Easton groaned as he took hold of the device. His inner voice was screaming—don’t sign anything. You’ll be locked in for sure.
“If I don’t sign it?” he asked, testing.
Ivy gave him a warning glare. “Then it’s the same thing as refusing the interview. You wouldn’t be doing what you promised your sister you’d do.”
He figured that. So it was inevitable. He stared at the screen, his insides starting some sort of revolt. “Fine,” he managed. “I just sign this line with my finger?”
“Yes,” she instructed. “It will ask for your thumbprint too, to verify that you’re the one who signed it, in case you tried to deny it later.”
Geeze. “I wouldn’t.” He wasn’t a liar.
“Then we’re good.”
Easton let out a defeated huff and squiggled his name across the screen. “There,” he said, attempting to hand it back.
Ivy pulled her hand away like the phone might burn her. “The thumb print?” she prompted.
“Oh yeah.” Easton rested his thumb in place and felt it pulse just beneath. A small beep sounded as a green checkmark filled the screen. Done. As in, too late to turn back now. That fact seemed to prod at parts of his insides. His muscles went tight. If only he hadn’t made that stupid bet.