<div class="floatleft">(https://i.imgur.com/9f0bU30.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Delaney Clarke (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=308599.msg15011810#msg15011810)<br/><strong>Age:</strong>27<br/><strong>Sexuality:</strong>Pansexual<br/><strong>Hometown:</strong>Mina, Nevada<br/><strong>Date/Time:</strong>2 July, 2019 | 9:00am<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Breakfast date on the beach.<br/><strong>Wearing:</strong>This bikini and cover up,  (https://i.pinimg.com/564x/7f/0a/27/7f0a27af09999d8f3a7e9ef43de6a23f.jpg) blue sandals, this Lapis Lazuli necklace. (https://i.pinimg.com/564x/79/76/a9/7976a91c957ec2691985e6d55e4b4cc5.jpg)<br/><strong>Coupled with:</strong>No one #SingleAF<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Logan<br/><br/>Delaney cracked one eye open and gave the phone a churlish glance. She squinted in opposition to the morning sun, cursed the PA that brainstormed the bright idea of an 8:00am text and after three failed attempts to clear the blurriness of sleep by sole effort of blinking, rubbed her eyes and sorted herself out. Sleeping on the daybed outside, without the benefit of air conditioning, hadn’t done her any favors. If banishment from the island wasn’t incentive enough to couple up, not sleeping on the patio sure as hell was.<br/><br/>Clearly misery loved company. On the next bed over she heard the thrashing of limbs and blankets, a muttered, ill-tempered “fuck!”, and a joint-popping stretch she could envy.<br/><br/>She raked her fingers through the tangled mass of brown hair and propped herself upright long enough to fire off the requisite texts before she hauled herself out of bed. Going on her first date smelling like sweat and mojito seemed...ill advised.<br/><br/>Most of the couples were still in bed when she reached the top of the stairs on the way to the shower. Despite her beeline to get ready she caught sight of Logan (damned early risers) and offered him a sheepish, disheveled grin as she passed. The cami and short pajama set paired with the crooked, half-in ponytail were significantly less glamorous than her skimpy little number the night before so she hurried. Maybe he wouldn’t really notice the hot mess express.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>By the time she strolled onto the beach less than an hour later she was bright-eyed and prepared to greet the day. Sweat and mojito had been replaced by bright notes of bergamot and the subtle warmth of vanilla. Her hair was drawn into an elegant, fashion forward ponytail instead of the knotted remnants of bedhead. She looked (and smelled) like she belonged here, if she did say so her herself.<br/><br/>“15 minutes until Logan’s arrival.”<br/><br/>She wasn’t certain which of the crew members announced it, but she heard the scurry of cameramen as she surveyed the table. On the far side was a single bench stacked with pastel pillows and just enough space to seat two people. The obvious intent was to keep them in close quarters and, she could only assume, use the footage against her at a later date. Without a read on Rhonda she had to hope for the best, though the picturesque view of a few weathered buildings left something to be desired.<br/><br/>“Can I move this?” The question was more of a formality and she was already pulling the bench to the other side of the table. “You guys chose a shit view.”<br/><br/>“It’s not about the view, it’s about the camera angle,” a junior producer huffed.<br/><br/>Undeterred, and amidst voluble protest, she dragged the bench to the side that allowed them to look out over the water, tugged the table far enough from the railing to allow a cameraman to shimmy between, then re-situated the vase to suit the new arrangement.<br/><br/>“Logan’s en route. Five minutes until arrival.”<br/><br/>In other words, too late to reorganize and she flashed a satisfied but entirely charming smile to the aggrieved party before she brushed sand from one of her feet then turned her attention to Logan’s impending arrival.<br/>