Page 1 of Love Me Tomorrow

Prologue

Savannah

Los Angeles, California

There is not enough booze in all the world to help me survive this.

Twenty-seven men. One reality TV dating show.

And me.

The bachelorette.

America’s so-called “sweetheart.”

The girl most likely to end up facedownbefore the night is over, if the contestants I’ve already met are any indication of how this hot mess express is going to go. First there was the guy dressed in a dinosaur onesie. Then another who dropped to one knee, a Ring Pop clutched in hand, for an impromptu proposal. (I let him down gently, then discreetly threw the cherry-flavored candy in a nearby bush.) And, to round up ’em all up, the last man wheeled out of the limo in a pair of lime-green roller blades . . . only to promptly wipe out on the cobblestoned driveway.

His arms pinwheeled wildly.

I launched to the side but couldn’t escape his grasping hands.

One second my red strapless dress was looking modestly sexy, and in the next?

Nip slip, y’all.

Nipple. Slip.

Only two hours in, and I’ve already managed to surpass every worst-case scenario I’ve imagined since being toldPut A Ring On Itwould be my new reality.

Yay me.

Cheeks burning with the never-to-be-forgotten memory of flashing the production crew, Mr. Roller Blade Man himself and, possibly, even the universe at large—if the editors don’t do some major snipping to the final footage, that is—I skip the champagne flute and grab the bottle off the table instead. The red ribbon, wound around the glass neck, tangles with my fingers as I dramatically salute the empty dressing room.

“Bottom’s up,” I mutter under my breath, then toss back a swig of the bubbly. My eyes water and my chest inflates, and, you know, I’m not much of a drinker, but now seems like a good enough time to start as any.

The good news: as far as first nights go, I’m on the homestretch.

Only five more guys to meet.

It’ll be fine.I’llbe fine. So what if my heart hasn’t fluttered with excitement tonight? Not every relationship kicks off with metaphorical fireworks. Hell, look at my parents; sometimes I’m not even convinced theylikeeach other, let alone married for love. And, really, so whatif I flashed everyone and their mother within the first few hours of filming?

A nervous giggle bubbles to the surface.

Yeah, I’m not fooling anyone. More champagne is definitely in order.

I guzzle it down, only to freeze mid-gulp when the dressing room door flies open and rebounds off the wall with a heavythud.

Panicked, my gaze tracks the woman storming inside. One of the producers, I think. Rocking an official-looking headset and a pinched expression, she might as well be yanking along the accompanying cameraman by a leash, from the way he trails after her like an obedient puppy.

I sit up tall. “I was told I could have a few minutes before meeting the last group of guys.” A few more minutes to remind myself—yet again—that contracts have been signed, promises have been made, and I’m not the sort of person who exits stage right when people are depending on me. Even if I have just managed to flash fifty-or-so people my naked chest.

Never let it be said that I’m not a trooper.

The producer slides me an icy stare. “Your few minutes are up.” Her brown hair is a tangled mess on the top of her head, and whereas I’m on dress number two for the night (a gold sequined number that makes me feel like a sausage stuffed into inflexible casing), she’s decked out in a T-shirt, ripped jeans, and an old pair of Vans. The plastic ID hanging around her neck readsMatilda Houghton.“We need a testimonial.”

With dread pricking my skin, I set the champagne down. “Right now?”

“Yup.” ThePpops in time with her smacking a piece of gum in her mouth. “No one hired you to just sit around and look pretty.” Jerking a thumb toward the cameraman, she follows up with achop-chopsnap of her fingers. “C’mon, first impressions of the contestants you’ve met so far. Smile big now.”

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