marry a complete stranger? No to the thousandth power.
I look longingly in the direction of where Joe parked his Jeep.
“They wouldn’t do that, would they? Force strangers to marry?” I ask, alarmed.
She shrugs. Oh god. They would. “Haven’t you ever seen Married at First Sight?”
Married at what? She does know who she’s talking to, doesn’t she? “So wait . . . you’d get married to a stranger, even though you’re dating Joe?”
She nods. “For a million dollars, yeah. He’d do the same.”
Joe wraps an arm around her and says, “Hell yes.”
Who are these people? Romance is truly dead in this world.
A bit later, a woman in a polo shirt with a name tag that says “MDM—Hi, I’m Eve!” comes by. She has a very official-looking headset on and is murmuring into it.
“Excuse me,” I say to her. “Can you tell me if the contestants will be required to marry?”
She just looks at me and laughs like I’m an idiot.
Oh god.
She’s handing out sheets of paper and pens. “Please fill out this survey and have it ready for when you approach the check-in table. Thank you!”
Check-in table? I stretch out my neck, trying to see anything other than Siberian wasteland. Just as I do, Courtney laughs. “Oh my god, these questions are a riot.”
I look down at my paper. Besides all the regular info, it has this:
Please indicate on a scale of one to five (one being “fits me perfectly” to five being “does not fit me at all”) how well each of these statements fits you:
I love to meet new people.
I like being alone.
I have a huge social circle . . .
And on and on. I page through it and realize there are more than five hundred of these personality questions, on everything from sociability to athleticism to intelligence.
Well, happy day. I love taking tests.
I get right down to it, using my book as a desk, filling out ovals excitedly. For some reason, this has always relaxed me. I actually loved taking the SAT and the GRE. I smile the whole time, or at least until Nee nudges me.
“Anyone ever tell you that you look like a serial killer when you take tests?”
I smack her.
The thing that takes me longest is listing all my degrees and awards, but I still finish before everyone else. As I do, I sense someone’s presence hovering over my shoulder. “Shit, you did that fast.”
I turn and look up, up, way up at the dirtiest hunk of man I’ve ever seen. All his ripped muscles look like they’re fighting to escape from an inadequately small T-shirt. He has tattoos—I’d say way too many, but one is too many for me. He’s hairy, too, unshaven, with a mess of brown hair falling over his eyes. I detect a whiff of tobacco. He’s a . . . thug.
And his eyes are on me. Beautiful, sparkly green eyes that don’t fit with the rest of him. Penetrating to my core.
Ohhhkay. I stiffen and face my back to him, hoping that if I ignore him, he’ll go away. I pretend to be really interested in what Courtney’s doing.
That’s when Joe says, “Holy shit. Aren’t you Jimmy Rowan?” to the men behind me.
“Yep,” the dirty guy’s friend says.
“Shit! That’s crazy. You going out for this thing?”
Oh no.
Behind me, Jimmy says, “Nah. Just here to support my friend.”
“Really? They’d probably pick you in a second. They’d totally want a celebrity,” Joe gushes. Courtney’s ears prick up at the mention of the word celebrity. She stands up and stares closely at him as Joe says, “He’s a famous YouTube star.”
Courtney’s jaw drops. I roll my eyes. What the hell is a YouTube star, and why do my goofy friends find it so appealing? The guys behind me are thugs.
Joe starts to go through his backpack. “Can I have an autograph?”
Oh god. I stand on my tiptoes and try to see if the line is moving, then cross my arms, completely not willing to turn around and engage. Courtney yanks on my sleeve, but I tear it away and give her a death look.
“Nell,” she murmurs in my ear, dazed. “He’s famous. And did you see his friend?”
She fans her face. Is she insinuating what I think she’s insinuating? “I don’t care,” I singsong.
“You should care. Flex your flirting muscles for once in your life. Maybe then you’d get Gerald the Goofball out of your head.”
“Um. One, I don’t have flirting muscles. Two, I don’t have Gerald in my head. And three, even