Page 15 of The True Love Experiment

Her eyes go round. “Wow. Thank you.”

“That is not at all—”

She waves this off. “Have you watched any dating shows or read any of her books since you agreed to take this project on?”

“I ordered them.”

She looks unimpressed.

“And,” I continue proudly, “I had Brenna do write-ups on Felicity’s five top sellers.”

Stevie shakes her head again. Natalia gives me a disappointed frown.

“Okay, I hear how that sounded,” I say. “I’m the arsehole executive pawning my work off onto my assistant, that was shitty. But, Nat, the show isn’t even about Felicity’s books. It’s abouther. Abouthow charismatic she is, how good she is in front of people. It’s about the audience rooting for her.”

“Are you really so thick not to see that her audience roots for herbecauseof what she gives us in her books?”

Before I can answer, she continues. “If you told me you didn’t like Wonderland’s music, I’d say, ‘Fine, to each their own.’ You’ve heard all their songs at least a hundred times, so you would be making an informed opinion. But you’ve never even read a romance novel or watched a reality show and have formed this opinion based on what youthinkthey are.”

I slip another piece into place, bridging a large elephant ear to its head. “C’mon, Nat, you’ve got to admit romance novels are a touch predictable.”

“Why? Because the couple ends up together?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s a rule of the genre, Connor,” she says. “Which you would know if you’d bothered to even google it.”

I wave her on, hearing the way she’s frothing up over this. “Go on. Get it all out.”

“You describe them as my ‘guilty pleasure.’ Do you have any idea how condescending that is?”

“Well, don’t they bring you pleasure?” I ask, confused. “How is that condescending?”

“Yes, but why should I feel guilty for reading something that makes me happy?”

I open my mouth to respond, and she pins me with a look so clear in its meaning it might as well be a warning shot fired overhead.

“You treat the things I love as if they’re silly or something to be indulged,” she says. “My point, Conn, is this: You asked me if it was weird that she’s questioning your attitude. But if I see your condescension—and I’m someone who knows what a good man you are in a million other ways—what do you think she saw, when she doesn’t know you at all and her entire career is centered around something you believe is beneath you?”

I close my eyes as this one settles in. I worked on a project once where an expert said intolerance is a failure of curiosity, and it’s always stuck with me. Am I being quick to judge things I know next to nothing about? “Okay. Yeah.”

“Read one of her books.” Nat picks up her spoon again. “Keep an open mind and you might even like it.”

I know that she’s right, and I’m about to tell her so when my phone buzzes on the table with an incoming email. I open it, and immediately my brain locks up. “What the fuck?”

“Dad.” Stevie glares at me.

“Sorry, but—” I gesture to the phone. “It’s the list of Felicity’s conditions.” I do a quick scan of the text. “She wants to keep shooting to four days a week.” I look up. “I thought it was standard to keep people sequestered or something on these shows. To keep the results hidden.”

“They are onThe Bachelor,” Stevie offers.

Nat reaches to adjust Stevie’s tiara. “It’s almost like knowing how these shows work would make his job easier.”

Stevie giggles.

“Okay, you,” I say, and continue scrolling through the email. Looking at all this I immediately know it’d be easier to cast someonewho’s only concerned with fame and exposure. But if I’m stuck doing this, I’d rather do it with someone who has something to say.

I realize I expected her terms to read like a rider—requests for time away from the cameras, a list of dietary demands, marketing money, or specific stylists, as much promo of her books as possible—but there’s none of that. Her list of conditions reads strangely like a dare. “She’s given me a very specific casting list.” I look up at Nat. “What the hell does ‘cinnamon roll’ have to do with casting?”

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