There’s also a list of nos. No photography or video or audio recording. No hair pulling. No name-calling. No spanking. And no contacting me in any way after—although, oddly, there is a provision for me to contact the bidder. As if. This isn’t Pretty Woman.
After eating a light lunch, I return to my room and have a last-minute freakout. I look in the mirror, at the stubborn bit of cellulite on the back of my thighs—it just won’t go away, no matter how many lunges I do. I look at my not-quite-six-pack stomach and wonder if the winning bidder will want more. What about my breasts? They are nice, but they’re not Ds. My fingernails are bare, but my toe-nails are painted red. I have weird toe-nails. The one on the big toe looks like a space helmet. And my voice... In third grade, Holcomb McVey said I had a stupid voice. I don’t think I do, but—
My cell rings, and I whirl around naked to face my bed.
Suri.
“Thank God,” I answer.
“What is it?”
“I’m freaking out here.”
“Do you need a getaway car?”
“No!” I laugh. “I need to remind myself that this was my choice and that I don’t need a getaway car. Or anyone’s approval.”
So Suri talks me down, and she tells me about Cross—he told her he was tired today!—and when I get off the phone with her, there’s a knock at my door and it’s Marie V. She’s wearing a pink robe and holding a small bag of lotions and perfumes.
“Are you nervous?” she asks.
“Um, hell yeah.”
“Let me tell you something: They won’t be expecting much. Every man knows virgins are kind of clueless. As long as your hymen is still intact, the guy will have a great time.”
I scrunch my face up. “Um, thanks?”
She laughs, and surprises me by leaning in for a hug. “I’ve enjoyed hanging out with you, Scarlett. I hope you have a great night.”
“Thank you. I’m glad I met you, too.”
“Any chance we might see you again?”
“I don’t think so. I think if I do end up leaving the ranch to do the deed—”
“You probably will.”
“You think?” I ask, wide-eyed.
“Just a guess.”
My belly bats do a simultaneous dive. “Well if I do, I’ll be picked up by a driver in my car, and I’ll go home I guess.”
“We’re going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss this place, too.”
She bows out of my room and I put the things she gave me in my toiletries bag. Then someone else knocks. It’s a man named Max, who is here to do my hair. While he’s using some super-powered hair dryer on me, Brenda comes in. She tells me how good I look and offers me a small, black box of condoms.
“He should have his own, but just in case.”
“Thank you.” I say goodbye to her, thanking her for my better-than-ever calves and biceps, and when the room is empty, I start zipping my bags. If I stay here to do the deed, I’ll have to get my things out of them, but if I go, someone else will collect them for me, so I’ll be glad they’re packed. As I’m zipping my largest suitcase, there’s another knock on my door.
I open it hesitantly, trying not to mess up my pretty hair, but it’s all for naught: Juniper and Loveless throw their arms around me, and the last thing I care about is my hair.
“We came to help you dress!” Juniper says.
I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much in such a short period of time. Over the next half hour, my nerves nearly disappear, and I know I’ll be forever grateful to them.
At 9:30, the girls walk with me to the showroom, where a huge king-sized bed is set up, all the bedding red to match my bra and panties. I lie out and they help pose me, spraying yummy scents in the air and lighting candles.
“So gorgeous.”
Loveless nods. “You’re beautiful.”
I thank them for their help, and they leave one at a time, each with a final word of encouragement. Juniper is last. “I remember my first time. Believe it or not,” she laughs. “It’s scary, and then it might feel slightly good or strange, and then it’s over. You’ll be fine.”
I have about two seconds to myself, just enough time for my heartbeat to blast off, when the door opens and Marchant strides in. “Hi there, Scarlett DeVille.”
My heart stops. I stare at his smiling face, and the only thing I can say is, “Uh…you know my name?”
He nods. “Don’t worry, though. Our secret.”
I say nothing, mortified beyond belief. I want to ask him if he’ll be watching. I want to ask him to not watch. But of course he’s going to watch. I almost drop dead when another thought occurs to me. If Marchant knows, does that mean—