His white teeth flash in a wide smile. “Sort of feels like nothing and everything’s changed all at once.”

“I like seeing you in the chair next to me again.”

“And I like your hair.”

I blush.

Rebecca tsks at me. “Now I have to powder you again.”

I wave my hand. “You don’t. It’s the Cam effect. I’m still getting used to him after all these years apart.”

Cameron hops off his chair, brushing down his long legs. We’re both dressed pretty closely to our typical style, just … more coordinated. But give that man a pair of well-fitting jeans and … somehow Cam isn’t just Cam anymore. He’s full-on Riggs. Gone is the boy who used to tap-dance into the hearts of little girls week after week (including mine). He’s standing still, arms held aloft, as they hook up his mic pack. I can’t keep myself from drinking in his powerful form, remembering the way he hefted timber on Saturday for his mother’s garden, as if it was nothing.

Listen. It’s been a while, okay? A bit of a drought, if you will—and in walks my first kiss, looking straight out of a Jack London novel, complete with a responsible brow and thighs the size of tree trunks.

Thighs that could easily support me against a tree trunk. If I was into that kind of thing and … I very much could be, if this man was offering.

(Confession: I’ve never understood the appeal of muscular thighs, but I’ve been converted. In fact, I am sorry for every minute before this that I didn’t fully appreciate quads. Who knew Wranglers would be my kink?)

Cameron turns around, crouching to tighten the laces on his work boots, and I bite back a whimper.

Glory be.

Hallelujah.

Take me now.

“You ready?” he asks, guileless.

I hop off my chair, stumbling a step because of the high-heeled booties they’ve put me in. Sorry, Wardrobe, these will be the first to go after today.

“Not in the least,” I say, my cheeks flushing. Not ready for filming and probably not ready for him. But when has that ever stopped me? “Let’s do it anyway.”

The first house is a dud. The second is better but not an automatic yes. I suspect Jazz was instructed to make the choice obvious for the benefit of television, because the moment Cameron pulls up to the third house, I know. This is The One. Full-body chills, Spidey sense, all that. Forgetting the camera is on us, I say, “Holy shit, this is it.”

Cameron snorts and I shake my head, trying again. “Wow, now this has potential,” I say with a little more decorum. No bleeps, Springfield, this is a family show.

“Fuck yeah, it does,” Cameron says, flashing a blinding smirk right into the camera.