Love Galaxy (The Intergalactic Dating Show #1)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

We’re searching for city singles eager to find their happily ever after .

Are you single & ready to fall in love with one of our farmers ?

Apply today!

Briar

“ S ign on the dotted line.” The elderly lawyer holds his fancy pen out for me to take. It’s got a gold clip and weighs more than I knew a pen could.

I slide forward, my butt at the edge of the uncomfortable chair. On the desk is an employment contract, offering me a place on a reality TV show in exchange for twenty days’ accommodation and three meals a day.

Having passed my intensive (and rather invasive) medical, all that’s left is for me to sign, and then I’ll be their newest recruit. Their newest ‘city woman willing to travel to meet eligible and lonely farmers’ for the entertainment of their viewers.

I glance at the posters pinned to the office wall beside me, showing skinny women in cowboy hats and flimsy off-the-shoulder sundresses, driving tractors, lounging on picnic rugs, petting cattle and generally looking relaxed and happy.

In comparison, I’m a fucking mess. I haven’t washed my hair in almost a week because I couldn’t pay my power bill and my hot water got cut off. I haven’t eaten a decent meal in… months. I certainly can’t remember the last time I genuinely smiled.

Still, I hesitate to sign.

What I didn’t write on my application was that I’ve never watched reality TV. Back when The Bachelor Australia first aired, I was studying political science at uni and running for campus council. Never in a million years would I have imagined that in a decade I’d be thirty, jobless, entirely pathetic and tempted by the promise of free food.

“If you’re not sure, you can always reapply to be a City Single on next year’s season,” Mr. Smith says, drawing my attention away from the poster models, with their perfect hair and their skinny asses. “Although, we can’t guarantee you’ll be chosen again.”

He shuffles some papers and piles everything but my contract neatly under a glass paperweight. His face is exceptionally wrinkled, as if his skin is too large for his bones, and it kind of sags down toward his neck, giving the impression he’s tired and would prefer to be anywhere but at work. “There’s always the possibility of next time,” he concludes.

“I can’t—” I can’t wait a whole year. My rent is in arrears, and by tomorrow I’ll be homeless. I don’t even own a car I can sleep in, and it’s the middle of winter. Even in this heated office my hands and feet feel like blocks of ice, my fingertips bloodless and aching.

“You cannot what?” Mr. Smith squints at the clock on his desk, readjusting his glasses to better see it’s a few minutes past closing time. The sun’s preparing to set, and behind me, his secretary is dragging inside the A-frame advertising board off the street.

“Nothing. It’s nothing important.” Heart hammering, I scrawl my signature on the line he’d indicated.

Immediately, Mr. Smith snatches up the contract, blowing on my writing to ensure the ink’s dried.

“Congratulations, Ms.”—he reads my name from the top of the contract—“Chapman. You’re officially on-board LOVE GALAXY—I mean, World. Love World , that’s what it’s called. If you would step this way, I will show you to your… aircraft.”

“Love World?” That’s the best name they could come up with? “Wait, what aircraft? I can’t leave Sydney right this second. I’ve got to collect my stuff. And I can’t go without saying goodbye to my friends.” That is, if any of them are still talking to me. It’s been a long time since I could afford to go to the movies or to grab a drink at a bar. I’d been too embarrassed to tell them why I kept refusing their invitations, until one day their invitations stopped coming. Surely they’d still be pleased to hear I’ve found another job… well, that I’ll be a contestant on a reality TV show.

I imagine their faces as I tell them about how I’ll be in competition for the attention of a man, about how I’ll be throwing hundreds of years of women’s liberation in the bin so I can parade on their TV screens in a skimpy bikini (my idea of hell) while learning to drive a tractor (I can’t even drive a car) or herd sheep (I’m allergic to wool).

On second thought, maybe I won’t tell them. Maybe I’ll keep my fingers crossed that nobody who knows me ever watches the commercial channels.

And my parents don’t have a TV or wifi, so I guess they’re the least of my worries. For once.

It’s not like I’m actually planning on falling in love. I’m going for the accommodation and the three full meals a day. I’ll pretend to be interested in any number of eligible farmers, but after twenty days, I’ll cry some fake tears, announce I’m not in love and be returned to the city, ready to start fresh. I call it The Vacation for Poor People.

It's a good plan: I’ll disappear for twenty days, and nobody back here in Sydney should be any the wiser as to where I’ve been or what I’ve done.

So long as they never watch TV. Fuck.

I open my mouth, intending to negotiate my start time, right as his petite secretary covers my head with a dark hood. Her hold isn’t forceful enough to stop my breathing, but she’s blocking my vision.

Huh. It’s not every day a woman who’s half a foot shorter than me even in high heels tries kidnapping me. There’s a strong, sweet scent unlike anything I’ve smelled before, but when nothing else happens, I pull the hood off my head, wincing as my hair catches on the rough fabric.

“That won’t work,” I tell his secretary, looking around the office for the hidden cameras. I should’ve guessed filming would start right away. “If you were hoping to whisk me away to a secret destination and film my surprise, you probably should’ve read the fine print of my medical report. I’m resistant to anesthetic.” Which I found out the hard way a few years ago when my dentist tried removing my wisdom teeth. To this day, I’ve got all my teeth and a healthy fear of dentists.

“I’d be happy to pretend though,” I reassure them. “I think I’m a pretty good actor.” I learned from the best how to manipulate the truth to suit myself. And isn’t that what reality TV is all about—truths that have been manipulated for the benefit of telling a more entertaining story? It’ll be like my old job, working as a politician’s staffer. Only this time I’m determined to use the system for my own advantage and not end up as someone’s scapegoat.

“Akh.” Mr. Smith wrinkles his nose. “Get on with it, Chloe. We don’t have all day.”

“Yes, sir.” Chloe picks up the glass paperweight.

Pain erupts through my head, and everything goes dark.