Saving Saul (The Cravings Collection)

1. Lights, Camera, Love?

LIGHTS, CAMERA, LOVE?

TESSA

When the door of my red Honda Accord clicks shut behind me, I pause, feeling a rush of awe and appreciation, like I’m on the brink of something big.

I, Tessa Baptiste, aspiring actress and unemployed chef, stand outside the most beautiful and largest house I’ve ever seen. It is the home of the hit reality TV show Love, Unmasked. This mid-century modern glass mansion has been transformed into a fantastical stage for romance—or so they say.

I allow the grandeur of the house to wash over me. It stands out amongst the lush greenery of the Hollywood Hills, its sleek glass exterior reflecting the bright California sun. It is an impressive sight, with multiple levels and large, open windows that offer a glimpse inside.

My best friend Carissa will never believe this. She loves opulent homes. Without thinking, I take out my phone to snap a picture to send, but then I remember the ten-page NDA I signed to get this gig.

Damn! That contract is going to be a problem.

I step closer, and the heavy glass doors slide open, unveiling a world of opulence I’m unfamiliar with. I’m greeted by a wave of cool air infused with the delicate scent of vanilla. The foyer is breathtaking—a blend of modern elegance and timeless charm.

To my right, a sweeping staircase curls upward, its wrought iron railings twisting like vines kissed by morning dew. Potted ferns line each step, their green leaves softening the grandeur with a touch of natural beauty. On my left, a sitting area beckons with plush velvet couches upholstered in rich shades of emerald and sapphire. They encircle a marble-topped coffee table adorned with fresh blooms and stacked art books that whisper stories of far-off places.

Staying in this home for the next two weeks will not be a burden.

The walls hold abstract paintings, each stroke of color alive in the golden light streaming through the towering floor-to-ceiling windows. The art seems to shift and sway as if the house were breathing, alive with secrets and stories waiting to be discovered. An arched doorway reveals an atrium bathed in sunlight just beyond the sitting area. Tropical plants stretch toward the light, their vibrant greens and splashes of color creating a lush sanctuary—the soothing sound of a trickling fountain hums softly, calling me forward.

Absently, my fingers glide over the smooth pearls of the necklace resting against my collarbone. It has been a constant presence in my life, passed down through six generations of Sinclair women, each of us connected by its quiet power. This necklace is more than an heirloom; it’s a lifeline, a thread tying me to the women who came before me.

I can’t call my mama to calm my nerves—I never could. Her voice is forever silent, but this necklace, warm against my skin, carries the echoes of her strength. It’s my shield, my reminder that I’m never truly alone. Our family history reveres it as a *Holy gris-gris,* an amulet blessed by the divine.

The story, whispered from mother to daughter, is as much legend as it is true. My great-great-grandmother earned this necklace in an act of defiance and salvation. She saved her mistress, a Creole woman passing for white, from being beaten to death by her husband—the master of the house. She didn’t just intervene; she ended the violence, stabbing a man three times her size in the back.

The Lord only knows how she found the strength, but in my family, we know the spirit world is as accurate as the blood in our veins. My great-great-grandmother was a holy woman, deeply connected to the divine. After her act of courage, she prayed over this necklace, weaving into it an incantation meant to protect the women of our line for eternity.

“All you have to do,” my grand-mère would say, “is wear it. The Lord’s spirit and our ancestors’ strength will do the rest.”

I can almost feel the warmth of Grand-mère Sinclair's arms around me, her embrace as comforting as those long weekends at the old house. My daddy always had gigs on the weekend, and my stepmother often went with him, so I got to be with Grand-mère.

She never complained when I was underfoot; instead, her love was a balm for the ache my mama’s absence left behind. From the moment Mama vanished, Grand-mère wrapped me in love as thick and enduring as the roux we made together for her infamous gumbo. Its rich aroma constantly weaved through her home. Each flavor held a story; each bite was a promise I was hers to cherish and nurture.

Even now, I can hear her humming the jazz music she’d play, her voice a gentle undercurrent to the melody. I hold on to those memories, the feeling of safety and belonging. Grand-mère’s love wasn’t just an anchor; it was home. It still is.

So, I wear the pearl necklace whenever doubt creeps in. Whenever fear tries to steal my resolve, I reach for it, grounding myself in the knowledge that I am not just one woman—I am all the women who came before me. I am guarded, guided, and never without the strength to face what lies ahead.

Over the next week or so, I’ll need all the strength the divine can give me because, as beautiful as this house is, I know it’s only a harbinger of drama.

"Tessa Baptiste, welcome to Love, Unmasked, " the showrunner’s production assistant greets me with a warm smile, her tablet in hand. Are you ready to find love on television?"

I smile. She remembers me from auditions, which makes me feel more comfortable. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Great.” She chirps through a less genuine smile. “Why don’t you follow me to the family room, where all the other girls are waiting? The men arrive separately and are in their wing of the house, blocked off and guarded, just in case your curiosity gets the best of you.”

I wish I could tell her she doesn’t have to worry about me sneaking around. I can guarantee her that I won’t want any man here. Love is a gamble I refuse ever to take. This is a business opportunity and nothing more. I don’t need any help getting a man.

They’ve always wanted me in their beds, and for a while, I wanted that, too. My dark chocolate skin and hazel eyes always throw men for a loop, and I have two dimples to accentuate my smile, thanks to my daddy. I’m curvy with long Black hair that brushes the curve of my generous backside, thanks to my mama’s Creole heritage.

That backside has gotten me more attention than I’ve enjoyed. However, nothing lasted beyond a few night-time thrills. Most of that was by my design, not wanting to open myself up to the possibility of being hurt. Why wait for some fool to leave and break my heart when I can leave him first?

So, I do. Always.

But instead of boring this poor girl with my jaded philosophies on love and men, I nod and follow her around a corner until it opens into a big, beautiful room with floor-to-ceiling windows, built-in bookcases filled with books, and soft couches.

So, it’s pretty much heaven.

After a beat, the room’s scent overwhelms my allergies, and I sneeze. The cocktail of perfumes is so potent it could knock out a mule.

Once I can breathe again, I take in all the women milling about. They are glossy, like pages torn straight from a fashion magazine, unnervingly perfect. The kind of beautiful that makes you wonder if you've accidentally stumbled into an alternate reality where every human flaw has been airbrushed away. I’m grateful I chose a silk magenta halter top and matching wide-legged pants instead of my usual casual fare.

I, a NOLA native and beignet enthusiast, stick out like a sore thumb because I’m not tall, lean, or blonde. But at least Escada came through on this outfit.

Lord, why did I ever audition for this?

Maybe, subconsciously, a combination of no sex life with a heavy dose of mama issues drove me to it. According to my therapist, the latter left me with a profound fear of abandonment and severe rejection issues.

She irritates my soul.

I was two years old when my mother vanished without a backward glance, leaving me in the care of my daddy. Charles Baptiste—his name still carries a tune in New Orleans, a beloved jazz musician whose life was a melody until his liver surrendered to one too many liquid encores. Raised by his love, a decent stepmother, and the bitter taste of whiskey kisses, I learned early that dreams have a cost.

Now, here I am, years later, as an out-of-work actress-my dreams of acting as stalled as rush-hour traffic. Bookings come sporadically, like the Louisiana rain I miss—torrential one second, nonexistent the next.

I've got more ambition than money, and that's saying something. Culinary school was my safety net, a quiet passion for baking simmering beneath the roaring fire of the stage. But even that feels like admitting defeat.

"Make it big or bust," Daddy used to say. So, I packed my life and chased stardom to Los Angeles, only to watch as every door I knocked on stayed shut, each audition another note in a requiem for my aspirations. When Daddy's final curtain call came, I lost more than a parent—I lost my champion.

Love, Unmasked isn't just another gig; it's my last shot before the shame of retreat becomes a reality, and I slink back to New Orleans and Selene's disappointed yet loving gaze. My architect sister always planted her feet firmly while I reached for the stars that seemed to dodge my grasp. She didn’t show up in my life until later; she was a product of one of Daddy’s many affairs. My stepmother hated her, but Daddy and I loved her. She’s bossy but my lifeline, nonetheless.

So, no. I’m not here to find love. Being a contestant on this show is only a last-ditch for exposure, a desperate dive for industry connections that might finally lift me from obscurity. If I’m a star, I won’t be forgotten, and I’ve been an afterthought one too many times in my life. The thought alone is enough to twist my insides, a silent plea that this chance won't slip through my fingers like so many before it.

I’m lost in my thoughts when the showrunner, Gavin Turner, strides over. He’s all business and broadcaster charm. His dark hair is artfully tousled as if he’s walked straight out of a glossy prime-time drama. His eyes are a shade of sea moss that likely spellbinds a good portion of the female population. Clipboard in hand, he offers a smile that's meant to disarm. "Tessa Baptiste?" he asks, confirming what he already knows.

"Guilty as charged," I quip, hoping the tremor doesn't show in my voice. My attempt at a casual stance feels as stiff as a Mardi Gras float out of season. The man is too handsome for his own good, and I've always been wary of those who know it—who use it like a tool in their kit.

"Welcome to Love, Unmasked ," he says, extending a hand. His grip is firm, which means business, but lingers just a beat longer than necessary. "I'm here to make sure you shine."

"I hope you brought a hefty supply of polish then," I shoot back, laughter bubbling up to mask my nerves. My mind races—how do I play this? Charming, aloof, desperate? But who am I kidding? My desperation to be on this show—any show—is a stench no amount of perfume can cover.

"Let's walk and talk," Gavin suggests, motioning down the corridor. His professional demeanor never slips, but there's an edge to him, something that whispers he's seen every card ever played on reality TV.

He dives into the show's format, explaining how the Hubs aim to foster genuine connections. "It's about the conversation, the emotional bond," he says with a conviction that nearly makes me believe him.

"Real love, huh?" I muse aloud, a hint of skepticism threading through my words. My gaze shifts to his face, looking for the telltale sign of a sales pitch. Instead, I discover earnestness, which tugs at something deep inside me.

"Sometimes," he admits, and there's a weight to that single word that captures my attention. "The publicity seekers are easy to spot. But every once in a while..." He trails off, and there’s a glimmer in his eyes that hooks me and draws me in.

"Every once in a while?” I prompt him, leaning in despite myself.

"Someone finds something real. And those are the moments we live for." Gavin's sincerity worms its way through my defenses, and for a fleeting second, I let myself hope.

"Sounds like a fairytale," I say, but my scoff is softer than intended. The idea of love, of finding someone who sees past the camera lights and the layers of makeup, is a nice thought—a dangerous one.

"Maybe," he acknowledges with a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes. "But everyone deserves a shot at their happily ever after, don't they?"

"I guess we'll find out," I reply, my heart hitching up into my throat. Even with my cynicism and understanding of the game, I want to believe him. There may be a sliver of truth among the scripted lines and staged kisses.

"Exactly," Gavin says, and there's a finality to it that seals our unspoken pact. We both know the score, but we're playing the game anyway.

And isn't that what we all in this city of dreams are doing? Pretending until the pretending feels like something real.

Gavin gestures forward, silently inviting me to follow him down the corridor. My heels click against the concrete like a metronome, keeping time with a nervous heartbeat. The harsh overhead lights shift to a softer glow as we approach the hub area. It's like stepping into a different world that feels personal in a place that's anything but.

"I thought the other girls and I would start getting to know each other before the hubs open," I ask, more to myself than to Gavin. You know, bond like they do on TV."

"Common misconception." Gavin’s voice is a smooth baritone with an undercurrent of industry secrets. "The real magic starts here in the Hubs. You’ll spend approximately ten to twelve hours a day in here going on your blind dates. Of course, you will never see the man talking to you from the other side of the wall. So, that’s where filming starts. Now, let’s hurry; your first date should arrive at any moment.”

What…I was not prepared for that. My luggage hasn’t even arrived.

I glance sideways at him, noting his profile—a sculpture of sharp lines softened only by the sincerity in his sea moss green eyes. It’s clear that Gavin is not here for play, so I may as well get my big girl panties on and start this train wreck.

As we cross a Hub’s threshold, the air around us thins, charged with the electricity from the invisible cameras observing our every move.

"Cameras already rolling, huh?"

"Assume they always are," he confirms, with a hint of apology.

Right, I’ll keep that in mind.

As I step into my hub, I run my fingers over my pearls. Immediately, I feel calm, and the world narrows to muted hues and textures designed for comfort. Plush green seating invites me to sink into its embrace, but I remain standing, my fingers tracing the fabric. The opaque wall before me offers anonymity, yet it feels like the most significant barrier I've ever faced.

"Nice digs," I say, affecting nonchalance. Excitement thrums through me, laced with a thread of fear. This is it—the beginning of something. Or the end. I swallow hard, trying to moisten a throat that has gone dry.

"Take a seat, Tessa. Get comfortable," Gavin suggests before he steps back toward the door. For a moment, I'm torn between the urge to run and the pull of the unknown.

"Thanks, Gavin." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. I finally allow myself to sit, sinking into the cushion as if it holds the key to steadying my jittery nerves. The wall before me stands like a silent sentinel, guarding the path to my future—one conversation at a time.

The couch cushion holds my body in a comforting embrace that I need more than I care to admit. In this softly lit cocoon, the world of Love, Unmasked, feels miles away from the vibrant streets of New Orleans, but it's there—in the thrumming of my hometown—that I find my strength.

What the hell am I doing here?

"You’re a Sinclair daughter, and you can do this,” I whisper, grasping my necklace for dear life. The pearls feel hot against my palm, and I drop them with a frown. They’ve never done that before.

I take a deep breath and remind myself this isn't just another gig; it's not about playing a part. It's time to show them who Tessa Baptiste is—the cameras, the world, whoever might be on the other side of that wall.

After a few moments, the soft click of the audio system slices through the heavy hush of anticipation, sharp and clear, like the first note of a jazz solo cutting through a quiet bar. A soft blue light flickers on in my Hub, signaling that my first potential match has stepped into his side of the wall. My breath catches, my chest tightening with nerves and excitement.

This is it, Tessa. Showtime. For real.

I swallow the lump in my throat, letting it dissolve into something else—a flicker of thrill. “Hell,” I whisper, half a prayer, half a promise. “Maybe I can have love, too.”

And then I hear it.

“Hello,” a deep voice says, rich and smooth like dark chocolate, with just enough rasp to keep it from feeling too sweet. My stomach flips, and a shiver runs down my spine. Lord have mercy. This man sounds like trouble—the kind you pray for at night and regret in the morning, but only because morning comes too soon.

Okay, maybe it’s just been a while, but this voice is straight-up sex personified. Still, I catch a hesitation in his tone immediately, which won’t do.

If I want to stay on this show, I need to connect with one of these guys long enough to keep the cameras interested, be considered for a proposal, and then not get chosen if the universe is kind. But right now? I’m already picking up serious Big Daddy Energy through this wall, and I’m here for it.

“Hi!” I say, my tone warm and welcoming, tinged with just enough excitement to soften the moment.

I wait. One. Two. Two and a half seconds. Nothing. The silence presses against my nerves like a too-tight dress after too much crawfish.

My anxiety is not built for this.

"How about I introduce myself first?” I jump in, my voice dripping smooth, like honeyed rum on a humid summer night. I don’t usually sound like this, do I?

“I’m Tessa—straight outta New Orleans.”

I chuckle softly, hoping the sound carries the same easy rhythm as a brass band down on Frenchmen Street. “You ever been? It’s my favorite place in the world. The air down there—dances with music and mystery. It’s kind of like this moment, right? I mean, this has gotta be the craziest thing I’ve ever done, but it feels like it’s got potential for a big return.”

I sink back into my chair, the plush fabric cradling me, grounding me. But my mouth doesn’t get the memo, and the words keep tumbling out. It’s like someone else has control of my mouth, and they have a lot to say.

“I grew up with jazz and gumbo pots, learning life’s rhythms from my daddy’s saxophone. He was a musician—he used to say, ‘Tessa, darlin’, life’s just like jazz; you gotta improvise.’ And boy, am I improvising now.”

I pause for a split second, enough to breathe, not enough to stop.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is... what are we even supposed to discuss in a moment like this? How do you converse with someone you’ve never met, can’t see, but might end up marrying?”

Leaning forward, I let my hands take over. They flutter through the air, each word punctuated by the cherry-red tips of my nails. It’s a whole performance, and I can’t stop giving it my all.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize I’ve likely steamrolled over his chance to speak. However, my nerves or something else are steering this train, and all I can do is hang on and hope I haven’t scared him off before we even get started.