Page 86 of Groomsman to Groom

“The show’s done filming,” I lie, voice steady. “I’m contractually prohibited from discussing details.” I take a deliberate sip. “But I can tell you that reality TV is exactly as authentic as you’d expect. Now, about the AI ethics commission subplot in episode four—”

“But they’re not done filming,” a junior exec I don’t recognize points out. “I thought they were shooting fantasy suites this week?”

Shoot me. Of course they know the schedule. They’re in the TV business.

“As I said, contractually prohibited,” I repeat, my smile fixed in place. “But I’m much more interested in talking about how we’re going to visualize the cascade failure in the neural net when our main character’s emotional programming collapses under stress.”

Marcus, bless him, picks up my redirect. “Absolutely. We’ve been workshopping some visual concepts that I think you’ll love. Tess, can you pull up the mood board?”

The conversation shifts back to business, and I feel my shoulders drop from where they’ve been living somewhere near my ears. For the next hour, I’m almost normal. Almost the Brielle who existed before Hayes Burke gently wrapped bandages around my arm and inadvertently around my heart.

“So,” Marcus says, bringing us to the business end of the meeting. “Exciting news. We’d like all eight episodes of season three completed within the next three months. We’re pushing for a compressed time frame between seasons to capitalize on your current… visibility.”

Translation: We want to ride the coattails of your reality TV infamy before people forget you. Except they don’t know I’m the woman who got embarrassingly eliminated.

“That’s aggressive,” I say carefully.

“But doable?” Tess leans forward. “We’re prepared to offer additional support—a writer’s room, research assistants, whatever you need.”

What I need is to not be in Atlanta, where every coffee shop could potentially contain a fan wanting to discuss my elimination, where my apartment is full of clothes I tried on and rejected before cocktail parties.

“I can do it,” I hear myself say. “But I need to work remotely. Completely remotely.”

Marcus and Tess exchange a look that contains an entire conversation.

“How remotely are we talking?” Marcus asks. “Like, home office remotely? Or ‘unreachable by modern technology’ remotely?”

“The latter. I need space to focus, to immerse myself without distractions.” Without Hayes’s face appearing on entertainment news. Without my phone buzzing with notifications about the latestGroomsman to Groomgossip. Without well-meaning friends trying to set me up on dates to help me “move on.”

“We can work with that,” Tess says. “As long as you’re available for weekly video check-ins and hitting your milestones. Where were you thinking?”

The truth is, I hadn’t been thinking of anywhere specific until this exact moment. But now an image forms in my mind—a cabin I visited years ago, nestled among pines, accessible only by a trail, with no cell service but satellite internet good enough for uploads. A place where I could heal, write, and avoid seeing Hayes’s face every time I turn on a screen.

“I have a place in mind. In Alaska. It still snows there in April. It’s remote but has internet access. I’d have to cross-country ski in, about three miles from the nearest road, but once there, I could work without interruption.”

“Cross-country ski in?” Marcus’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “You complained about the walk from parking to our holiday party last year.”

“Things change. People change.” Four weeks on a reality show changes you in ways you never expected. Falling in love and having your heart broken on camera changes you more.

“If you’re sure...”

“I’m sure. And when I leave, I’ll have the rest of season three ready to submit.”

32

Fantasy Suite Plus One

HAYES

St. Sebastian welcomes me back…again. Twenty-four hours with August has shifted something fundamental inside me. I’m stillGroomsman to GroomHayes on the outside—freshly pressed linen shirt, camera-ready smile—but inside, I’m a dad who promised his son he’d start making choices based on what’s right, not what’s safe. Which makes today’s fantasy suite date with Luna as appealing as a root canal performed by a toddler.

The production assistant who meets me at the airport chatters about schedule adjustments and weather forecasts while I nod mechanically, my mind replaying August’s words on a loop: “You should pick the woman who makes you laugh like you used to with Mom.”

“Mr. Burke?” The PA’s voice pierces my thoughts. “We’ve arrived.”

We pull up to the beachfront resort and I grab my bag. “What time is the date?”

“One hour. Kayaking first, then dinner, then the overnight portion.”

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