1. One
one
GINGER
Six months later
As I push open the swinging glass door of Matched ’s Hollywood offices, I pick up the fourth call from my assistant since rolling out of bed at five a.m. “For heaven’s sake, what , Vanessa? I’ll be at the Hacienda in an hour. If I wanted to be in constant contact with you, I wouldn’t keep hanging up the?—”
“Last thing. Sorry,” Vanessa interrupts in a rush. My assistant sounds as dangerously over-caffeinated as I am. “Holden confirmed he’s got Elliot. They’re heading into the offices—ETA of fifteen minutes.”
I pick up the pace to get to my desk and grab what I left behind last night. I have no desire whatsoever to be here when the new star of the season arrives. Ignoring the waving hands of people trying to get my attention, I step quickly through the open workspace. “That it?”
“Lavonne finished her walkthrough.”
“And?” Our reality show’s high-maintenance relationship expert is notorious for demanding big, last minute changes.
“Thumbs-up on everything but the guesthouse. She wants blackout curtains installed.”
I slip inside my office. “Lavonne is Matt’s problem. Listen, I have other calls to make, so please stop tying up my phone. After I grab my laptop and touch base with Frank, I’ll head your way. I’ll bring tacos,” I add. I know the best taco place. Greasy food will get everyone’s day started on the right foot, and it’s the least I can do for all the extra hours everyone’s putting in.
“You didn’t hear?” Vanessa’s voice rises an octave, panic-style.
“Hear what?” As I open my bag to shove my computer inside, the imposing figure of my boss darkens my doorway. Before my assistant replies, I cut her off. “Text me. I’ll be there soon.”
The instant I lower the phone, my boss Marlon speaks up. “I need you, Ginger. It’s an emergency.”
Everything is an emergency the day before filming starts. I pull myself up to my full five-foot-two-and-a-half inch height. Hand on hip, I lift my eyebrows hoping to convey bored disinterest and not the internal chaos I’m currently experiencing. I have a lot to do, and Marlon knows it. If he’s calling something an emergency only I can handle, there might be some leverage to work with. “What’s up?”
“Frank turned in his notice.”
My hand slips off my hip. “But he’s lead producer—how—what happened?”
“Some stupid Hulu documentary.” Marlon takes a few long strides into my office, stopping only when his thighs hit the edge of my desk. “Meanwhile I’ve got Hale showing up any second, and no one to produce him.”
Oh, hell no.
I hold up both hands to fend off the “favor” I know is coming. “Wait—no—you have me scheduled to direct four episodes, and Kat can’t manage all the women on her own—no—Marlon. No!”
No on so many levels!
“Ginger, I get this is a lot, and those episodes are still yours—but look, you and I both know he needs a dedicated producer. I can’t pawn him off on Matt or Kat. He’s too much work.”
Of course he’s too much work. He’s the star. But he’s also Elliot Hale.
And I’ve specifically scheduled out the next three months of my life to have as little interaction with him as humanly possible. For— reasons .
Dread, slow-moving and sickening, climbs my throat, wrapping around it like a boa constrictor. I tug at the collar of my shirt, but it’s a V-neck and clearly not the issue.
Reading me like a street sign, Marlon gently places his hands on my desk, leans in, and lowers his voice. “Listen, Ginj, you’re the best producer I have. You know it, everybody knows it. You’ve heard the rumors about Australia?”
I gulp, nodding.
“They’re all true. I know you don’t want to work here, for me, forever. You’re too good to be checking up on hot tubs and wrangling stoned cameramen. But I need this. I need you.”
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, isn’t it? From the moment my ninth-grade theater teacher entrusted me with the keys to the auditorium and told me to make her proud, I’ve known I wanted a career in show business. It’s a long way from high school stage manager to executive producer, but I’ve put in the time. I’ve done the work. I’ve earned this, and Marlon is no idiot. He’s the showrunner. He can manipulate any situation presented to him. And he’s found my sweet spot.
Rumors of an overseas franchise have been circulating for months, and I have my heart set on the executive gig. It isn’t Hollywood, but it’s a huge career move. In a year or two I’d return to California with an EP credit on my resume—poised to create my own show. Something new, something fresh—something groundbreaking. I’ve done my time at Matched , doing Marlon’s bidding, working around the clock, letting my social life wither on the vine, but it will all be worth it if I finally have a chance to make it to the top of my career.
“You deliver me Elliot Hale’s happy ending—the executive job in Sydney’s yours.”
So this is what it feels like to make a deal with the devil.
I knew this season would be a personal challenge, but not this personal. Not this important. It figures my one-night no-strings fling would come back to bite me.
I take a deep breath, willing my pounding heart to calm the hell down so I can consider what’s at stake. No more student loans, no more bosses to answer to, no more LA gridlock. Ratings, deadlines, and sleepless nights I can handle if it means a ridiculously big paycheck and a chance to make my dreams come true. I nod once, tightly, barely.
“Great. Meet us in the conference room in ten.”
Marlon leaves my office with a spring in his step. I stare at the slowly closing door and reach for my half-empty four-shot latte. My heartbeat stutters irregularly, and I’m perspiring all over, but I down the rest of my drink, damning the consequences. If the latte doesn’t kill me, then my fate is set.
I’ll be producing Elliot Hale. Side by side. For twelve weeks, I’ll be guiding him on his journey while he and his Panel decide between his fifteen gorgeous, intelligent, hand-picked options.
An unwanted image of him locked in a romantic embrace with Daisy, the easygoing yoga instructor from Portland, clouds my brain momentarily before it morphs into the memory of our own embrace in the limousine six months ago—the heat of his breath against my neck, his swallowed groan of pleasure as I found his mouth with mine.
How the hell am I going to pull this off?
Tossing my cup into the trash, my fingertips linger near the drawer that holds Elliot’s pocketknife. I mentally check myself. Of course I can do this. I’ve never once backed down from a challenge, and I’ve never had an opportunity like this. One regrettable night months ago is not about to stand in the way of a future I’ve worked this hard for. After all, it clearly didn’t stop Elliot.
Finding the Swiss Army knife, I drop it into my bag. We managed a clean break, and now it’s time for a fresh start.
Ten minutes later, armed with my laptop, a pen, Elliot’s personal file, and a fresh cup of coffee, I enter the conference room. It faces east. Since it’s insanely early, the shades are drawn to prevent the morning sun from blinding everyone.
Marlon sits at the head of the large oval table next to Davis Riley, the host of Matched . Beside him, Elliot Hale, fresh off the red-eye from Chicago, adjusts his tie. I don’t look directly at him. No need to. His presence is glaringly obvious.
“Good morning,” I say brightly as I make my way around the table to sit on Marlon’s left, across from Elliot.
“Hey, Ginj,” Davis says.
“Good morning, Ginger,” Marlon replies.
Elliot pulls at the cuffs of his white dress shirt but doesn’t make a sound.
Attention carefully trained on my things, I set down my laptop and place Elliot’s file on top. I put my coffee down gently lest it spill everywhere and therefore prove that my hands are shaking and I am in no way, shape, or form mentally prepared for this meeting.
Once I take my seat, Marlon kicks things off. “Welcome back, Elliot. We all know it wasn’t an easy decision for you, but we’re glad to have you. The buzz is incredible. The team and I have put an enormous amount of planning into making this season everything you could possibly hope for.”
“Thanks, Marlon,” Elliot says, his voice low and quiet.
Why is he being so quiet?
With my tension mounting, I, still not ready to look at him and come to terms with the reality of the situation, flip open the file containing all of Elliot’s demographic information, his measurements, dietary preferences, psych evaluation, and medical records.
One form in particular stands out. My eyebrows lift with interest.
Marlon continues. “I’ll turn it over to Ginger. She can answer any questions and go over some of the specifics.”
Still mentally reeling and near desperate to gain some control of myself and this impossible situation, I make a choice. Removing the lab report from Elliot’s file, I arrange it to face this season’s star and slowly slide it across the conference table. With his attention on the paper, I dare a look at him.
Someone cut half his hair off. Someone turned America’s favorite bad boy into every impatient executive I’ve ever stood in line with at Starbucks. When did this happen? Was the network even informed ?
Caffeine could be causing the sudden flutter in my chest, but it’s bitter resentment making my fingers twitch. Truth? I can’t blame hair and makeup for this impending shitshow. I’m entirely at fault. But Elliot and I are in it together now.
And there’s no reason he should get to have all the fun this season.
I find my voice. “As you can see from the lab report, all your STD results came back A-OK.”
Glaring down at the paper, Elliot Hale’s angular jaw betrays his agitation with a clench.
My confidence making a comeback, I suppress a grin as I tighten my ponytail. “Physical contact is, as always, optional, but as of today, everyone’s in good health.”
Powered by a deep breath, Elliot pushes the page of test results away. “I appreciate your attention to detail.”
The sound of his voice sets off memories like fireworks. His presence burns exactly as much as I expected it to, but it’s now more important than ever to forget the night we spent together at the end of last season and focus on what matters: Sydney. If this is how I have to do it, then fine, but I’ll set the rules.
Davis claps a hand on Elliot’s shoulder, countering my ice-cold approach with some warmth. Having hosted everything from national radio, televised talent competitions, and a few short-lived game shows, Davis found his niche in reality TV. With his ageless good looks, laser-sharp wit, and a gleaming smile capable of charming a nation, he’s able to get any situation back on track, provided he shows up on time. “I got a chance to meet with some of The Panel last night, Elliot. You nervous at all? Putting your fate in the hands of friends and family? Your mom’s kind of a trip.”
Elliot folds his hands on the conference table, the sleeves of his shirt exposing tanned wrists and the barest edge of the midnight-blue tattoo I know travels all the way up his arm and around one of his broad shoulders. His eyes meet mine with the suddenness of a lightning strike. “They can’t do any worse than I’ve done so far.”
My pulse jumps as his insufferably magnetic slate-blue gaze narrows in on me. I force myself to bite back the words threatening to fly out of my mouth in front of my boss and everybody: What’s that supposed to mean?
Instead, I stick to the meeting agenda. Doing my job is all that matters, not his long, strong arms, his eyes, my doubts, or the sickening sense of unease creeping through me. This needs to stay business-y. With production scheduled to start tomorrow night, I need to establish the ground rules. “The schedule we forwarded you is subject to change at any time. Don’t make any appointments you can’t cancel if the show needs you somewhere at the last minute. If you have an emergency, you need to contact me immediately.”
His face brightens unexpectedly. “I’ll have a phone?”
I smirk. Silly boy. He knows better than that. No one really gets a phone once filming starts. I reach into my open messenger bag and pull out an old, clunky flip phone. I slide it toward him, bringing the test results back to my side of the table.
Mouth twisted into a grimace, Elliot stares at the phone with open derision. “Are you serious?”
I’m dead serious and not even sorry about it. He wants to do the show again? Well... Welcome back, Elliot Hale. “The only number in there is mine. You can text me, call me, or dial 911. You can keep your own phone for now while you take care of any loose ends, but when you show up on set tomorrow night, hand it over to me. I’ll keep it safe.”
His cold stare wavers at the edges. Enough for me to get the sense he’s questioning what he agreed to. If that’s the case, he isn’t the only one.
“Wait.” He blinks, a crease of anxiety forming between his brows. “You’re my only point of contact?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
I scowl but manage not to squirm. “Yes.”
“Why you?”
Fair question. But I don’t look to Marlon to explain Frank’s abrupt resignation. Instead, I say as clearly as I can manage, “Because I’m the lead producer now, Elliot. You’re my job.” And I refuse to screw this up because we have a little “history.”
However, as I sit here, looking directly into Elliot’s eyes has my bones hovering in the state between melting and freezing. Producing him won’t be easy. His intensity is alarming. He should be excited. All his freaking dreams are about to come true.
“Is there a problem, Elliot?” Marlon’s question causes panic to shoot through my veins at a dizzying speed. “Ginger’s a genius. She’ll keep everything moving smoothly. You’ll forget you’re on camera half the time.”
I will Elliot to be cool. Try not to ruin my life right this second. He has no idea how much I need this to work, how much I need to prove to myself and to everyone who’s ever counted me out that I can pull off something truly amazing.
His Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow. He blinks first and gives a nod to Marlon. “Ginger’s great. I trust her completely.”
It isn’t the most convincing line, but if Marlon’s widening smile can be believed, my boss is satisfied with his answer.
Elliot turns abruptly to Davis. “We done here?” Sitting straight in his chair, he tugs at his tie, the muscles of his chest tensing and twisting beneath his unforgivingly well-fitted shirt. He runs a hand over his shorn locks, and I die a little inside. How is anyone supposed to grab a fistful of it now?
I shake off the thought, not allowing myself the extended visual. The professional thought I meant to have is that the camera loved him last season with all his grown-out, scruffy good looks. I’m not sure how this network version of him will play on screen. Polished, clean, and so totally...
Not him.
America fell in love with him last year while he vied for Jenna Gibson’s heart. Women applied in droves when the show announced that the dark-haired, tattooed bad boy with the world’s most seductive smile would be returning as the new season’s star. Applicants from all over the country crashed the network’s website eager to right Jenna’s wrong when she and her Panel picked Eric, the charismatic youth minister from Houston, leaving Elliot heartbroken. The response on social media had been swift and brutal.
Half the network feared that after ten successful seasons, the nation’s outrage at Jenna’s final pick would tank the entire show unless Elliot agreed to come back. And voilà . He did. So I have to play nice, even if the idea of quitting my job and moving into my sister’s basement in San Francisco to be a full-time nanny to my nieces suddenly seems a far less humiliating fate than coaching Elliot on how to find his perfect life mate.
As he and Davis leave the room together, I refuse to spare a single glance at Elliot’s well-formed backside. Instead, I swivel my chair to face Marlon.
“Remember we want to keep him happy, Ginger,” he says, but his appraising nod tells me I nailed the meeting.
“Of course he’ll be happy. He’ll be meeting the women of his dreams tomorrow night.” I force my grimace into a smile. “The shitty phone is your rule.”
Marlon strokes his perfectly groomed goatee. “You’ve met all the contestants. Anyone look like she could carry her own season?”
If I manage to pull this off, the star of next season won’t be my problem. On second thought, I should have gotten Marlon’s offer in writing. “They’re all lash extensions and spray tans to me right now. I’ll let you know after night one if I see any rising stars.”
“Whoever it is, I want her to have some sex appeal. Think Jenna Gibson.”
“Right. I got the memo.” Jenna’s love affair with Elliot last season drew in a lot of new viewers. Their unexpectedly physical connection raised the bar for what started as a practical show. Initially, Matched was all about what it takes to make a long-term relationship work— compatibility, communication, compromise. But what Elliot and Jenna tapped into was chemistry, and the audience ate it up. It was a delicate balance, always trying to walk the higher road of reality TV. Other shows have trash and scandal covered. The producers I work with all like to think our show has more gravitas.
Elliot, by far, is the sexiest man we’ve ever cast as the star. With his brooding good looks, slow, sensual smile and tall, protective stature, the production team designed the challenges this season to involve more body contact and intimacy. Still— Matched isn’t a cheap kissing show. And last season, Jenna proved it by defying all expectations and making the safe choice with Eric. Technically, she did the creators of the show a big favor. Jenna got practical and decided not to risk her heart. In doing so, she proved once again that Matched transcends lust and first impressions.
And she left Elliot free for the taking.
No one could blame me for getting a little carried away that final night. Anyone with a pulse and an even vague attraction to men would have done the same thing.
But that was months ago, and it was a fantasy. Now I have to face the harsh reality of Hollywood. Billie Holliday said it best: There’s no damn business like show business. You have to smile to keep from throwing up.
I check the notifications on my phone. My day is just beginning.
“I’d like to narrow our choices down as soon as possible,” Marlon continues.
Positioning someone as the next star is no easy feat, and once we pick her, it’ll be my job to keep her in the mix, but off Elliot and The Panel’s ultimate happy ending radar. “Anything else? I need to get to the Hacienda.”
Marlon uncrosses his long legs to stand. “How’s Kat holding up?”
Sweeping a side-eye his way to find him facing the window like the question was a throwaway, I address his back. “She’s busy. We’re all busy.”
“Good.” He gives his jacket a quick tug, snapping the fabric around his tense shoulders.
“Anything else before I go?”
Marlon shakes his head absently, continuing to stare at the closed blinds.
I gather my things and beat a hasty retreat. While Kat and Marlon’s disastrous affair has been over for several months, this is the first time they’ll have to be on set together since things ended. I need to do a gut check with my fellow field producer before filming starts. In the meantime, I have about eighty other items on my to-do list.
Returning to my office, I stuff everything I need for the rest of the day into my messenger bag while I mentally run through my schedule. Priority number one: finalize the order of arrival for the women. It needs to be perfect. If I’m in charge, I want Elliot excited. Open. He’s dark and edgy on a good day, so casting him as the star was always a risk. It’s what the audience wants, but his tendency to go rogue last season has all the producers anxious about whether he’ll take direction this time around. We’ve had like, four meetings about it already, but Frank assured us that our new star will shine now that he isn’t competing with fifteen other men.
Which is exactly what an insecure man would think about another man, but Elliot never struck me as insecure. Of course, Elliot also never struck me as someone who would come on this show in the first place, much less twice, so—shows what I know. But Elliot’s reasons for coming back aren’t my problem, either. If this is what he wants to do and how he wants to do it, fine. I’ll get him his happy ending, and he’ll catapult me all the way to my own.