Page 64 of The True Love Experiment

“Better than I expected. It’s really good, Connor.”

“You’rereally good.”

“I’m serious. You took my suggestions—which, let’s be honest, were really just me starting a big game of power-play chicken—and turned them into something totally unique. A lot of people are going to watch this show and love every minute. Hell, I’d watch it. With someone else as the star, that is.”

“That’s a fucking relief, and I mean it.”

Remembering the wine bottle in my hand, I reach into the cabinet behind her for a glass, and freeze. The moment is so reminiscent of the one last night: our bodies close, sharing the same breath, my hand on the cupboard door for leverage as I pushed into her over and over, harder and harder.

Her breath catches and I watch as goose bumps erupt along her neck. I could kiss her now, and I think she’d kiss me back. If I asked her to stay after everyone left, I think she’d do that, too.

In the other room, music cuts through the air, signaling the end of the commercial break. I follow her back just as the first confessional begins. The guys each have their turn solo, and each is charming and obviously interested in Fizzy. Frankly, the idea that any of these men wouldn’t fall all over themselves to be with her is unfathomable, but our editing team—myself included—has done a good job of creatively tempering Tex’s and Arjun’s enthusiasm so no one feels too bad for them when they are likely voted off over the next twenty-four hours.

And then my confessional with Fizzy begins.

I’d neglected to mention this part to any of my family, and as my face appears on-screen, the room explodes with their noisy surprise. Nat is fucking delighted, Stevie is dancing on the couch and shouting that that’s her dad, and Ash lets everyone know that he’s just been issued a free pass to give me shit for the foreseeable future.

Next to me, Fizzy is as smug as I’ve ever seen her. “Do you see that charisma?” she calls to the room, glass held in front of her. “Hollywood, please hire me as your casting director.”

When it quiets again during another commercial, she taps me and motions to the TV. “Is now when you tell me I was right?”

“Let’s manage expectations.” Most of the room has emptied out during the break, everyone waiting for the loo or off to the kitchen to refill their drinks. “We’ll get numbers tomorrow. Your phone must be blowing up with messages. What’s everyone saying?”

Fizzy drains her glass and leans back against the couch. “Not ready for that level of reality yet. Let me stay in this soft-launch enthusiasm bubble until at least nine tomorrow morning. Then I’ll tiptoe into opinions. But for now”—she motions to the TV—“I was right about you. Say it.”

“You are occasionally clever.”

“Always.”

“An average amount.”

“Tell me I’m the best.”

I smile. “You, Fizzy, are the best.”

“Thank you, wow, I never expected such a compliment, but it means so much.” She hands me her empty glass. “Now please, more wine.”

twenty-nineFIZZY

Iget into my car, turn it on, and then sit idling at the curb, staring out at the dark street. This feeling I have right now—the jittery, hyper-adrenaline, restless feeling—most people would have this reaction to seeing themselves on a dating show, to witnessing how the masterful editing made the entire episode sing, and then, at the end of the night, getting the call that the show is on track to being the biggest reality show debut in a decade.

But I know myself and know that the reason I get these kinds of heart flutters is the same reason I became an author in the first place: I love romance. I love the swooping in my chest when I read a good kiss, the choking of my lungs when I get to the angst, the shaken-carbonated blast of joy reading the happily ever after. I just watched eight perfect men vying for my heart, and they’re not even why I have the flutters. I have them because I got to see my new favorite person tonight.

Stretching, I find my reflection in the rearview mirror and glare at that harlot. “Listen up,” I tell her forcefully. “It’s a relief that things didn’t go very, very wrong because you had sex with your producer. Be grateful you can be attracted to someone again. You did it to getit out of your system. Now get your act together and stop thinking about his eyes and his smile and his dick.”

Satisfied, I put the car in gear and drive home.

I don’t care how confident you are, nobody wants to run into someone when they’re braless, wearing pajama pants, and buying single-serving canned wine at CVS. But as I step out of the booze and spirits aisle at the respectable hour of noon on Sunday, I collide face-first with the center of a very, very solid chest.

“I am so sorry,” I say, quickly dropping to the floor to retrieve my scattered armload of canned rosé.

“Fizzy?”

I glance up, eyes traveling over miles of toned leg—momentarily bummed by the obstruction of black running shorts—until my eyes skip up to one of the best smiles I’ve ever seen. “Isaac?”

He kneels to help me retrieve my spilled treasures and it’s a little embarrassing how many there are. I’m not sure how I managed to balance all of these in the first place.

“Stocking up for hibernation,” I joke as we stand. Even I can appreciate the shame in wasting such soaring specimens of men on pocket-sized me, but who am I to question the universe?

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