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shit. If he didn’t do it, Greg would call him a chicken-shit bastard. If he did, he could well be on his way to getting married in front of a live audience. He gulped for the first time since he began this crazy venture, his throat was tight.
    Marriage to Kelsey Little.
Holy hell. And there was no backing out either. If you signed you couldn’t leave unless you were voted off by the jury. There were clauses and crap in that contract.
    August saw the value of the show catching them off guard. It made you make snap decisions you might not if you had more time to rationalize. That was what the show was all about, wasn’t it? Making a life-altering choice in a month. What was the worst that could happen? He’d lose and go home. No big deal. Losing wouldn’t be as bad as backing out on Greg’s
triple-dog dare
.
    “You have like five minutes, August,” Darren warned, “and then I need you to sign this contract. The one you reviewed before the final interviews.” He pulled it out of his back pocket and slapped it in the palm of his hand.
    Five flippin’ minutes? Who decided to leave town in five minutes? For a month, no less? Didn’t these people care that he had a life—a company to run? And most importantly, a goldfish to feed? Of course they didn’t. They cared about putting you on the spot and dangling the Kelsey carrot in front of your interview-weary eyes.
    August walked toward the front of the car and sighed, absently watching a woman in tight jeans, three rows ahead of him, ass end out of the trunk of her car.
    Nice ass…
    He straightened immediately. What kind of tho ught was that to have when he was pondering boarding a plane to compete in a reality show for the woman of his high school dreams? Jesus…
    August Guthrie, you are swine, even if she does have a nice ass.
    “So … we on? ”
    He turned back to Darren, determination all over his face. “Yeah, you’re
on
.”

Chapter Four
    Is it hot in here, or is it just me?
    T ara wobbled her way out of the airport and into the hot noonday sun, fighting the nausea that assailed her with each step. Cloying heat and humid, oppressive air assaulted her, bathing her clammy skin in a rush of warmth. Surely, the jaws of hell had opened and exhaled hard. It was like a frickin’ furnace here.
    “Aloha!” a beautiful Polynesian woman greeted her with way too much going on in the perky department, perfect olive skin, and a big flower necklace. Screw her for being so damn perfect when it was so damn hot. Tara winced. She felt bitchy and whiny, and it was because she was setting out to do something so unlike her she wanted to spew. Why couldn’t she just do this and enjoy it?
    Someone chuckled from behind her, “You’ve been laid, so to speak.”
    She turned and gave the male voice a weak smile,
yes laid. If only…
Oh, shit! Her eyes opened wide and her stomach did the jitterbug. The guy from the water fountain loomed in all his God-like blondness was right behind her, smiling. The guy with the name of a month on the calendar. August … was August still looking for water? Was the water in Hawaii better than in California? What right did he have to be here, when she looked like this? What kind of a name was that, anyway? Who named their kid after a
month
? Maybe it was the new “in” Hollywood name and all the hunky guys wanted it.
    He appeared as shocked as she was. “So, we meet again. What brings you to Hawaii?” he asked, piercing her with his blue gaze, sending her heart rhythms into valve replacement inducing beats.
    Tara was fumbling for an answer when someone yelled sharply, “August! Could you please stop taking it upon yourself to just go wandering? You’re not supposed to be here!”
    He leaned in close to Tara, making her throat clog up and whispered, “I think I’m in trouble again…,” then smiled devilishly before turning and following the voice that had scolded him back into the crowd.
    Tara dropped her luggage and reached for the back