11. Heidi
HEIDI
“What the hell is this?” Delaney asks as she steps out of the van. Her eyes snap to mine, sharp and accusing. “Look at what I’m wearing.”
She gestures to her bright red bandage dress and heels high enough to cause an ankle sprain. “I thought this was a five-star dinner. You said this would be special.” She points at the picnic blanket draped over the grass as if it were a crime scene.
“It is special,” I say, using the soothing tone I usually reserve for my nieces. We’ve set up a picnic in the hills at golden hour with a million-dollar view of the city. “It’s classic romance. Plus, the red will pop against the greenery. You’ll be the only thing in the frame.”
She hesitates, the gears of her brand management turning.
“It’s going to look cinematic,” I add. “The bombshell who can also enjoy a casual picnic? The audience will eat it up.”
“Right,” she says, finally smoothing her dress. “They’ll love me.”
A car door opens and Max steps out. He’s overdressed too in a navy suit, but he makes it look effortless. He takes in the setup, shrugs off his jacket, and rolls the sleeves of his white button-up.
I look away—too fast—my eyes darting to my clipboard as if the shooting schedule holds the secrets of the universe.
Rule number one in this industry: don’t sleep with the talent. It’s the only thing keeping us from total chaos. And I’ve broken it five times now. Kind of.
I told myself the first night was temporary insanity fueled by a window climb…that it would never happen again. But then he showed up at my door the next night. And the night after that. We haven’t actually slept together. He just...does things to me until I’m a wreck, and then I make him leave.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to turn him away.
And besides—it’s over in ten minutes. Hardly enough time to qualify as a scandal.
It’s efficient, really. Almost professional.
Max has been behaving better than ever, his focus on set sharper than it’s been all production.
So if letting him put his mouth on me for a few minutes every night keeps this show on track... that’s a net positive. Right?
“Are we starting, or what?” Delaney snaps at a cameraman.
“Positions, everyone,” I call out.
Delaney didn’t just ask for this date; she brokered it.
She’s been keeping a notebook of forensic math, calculating that she’s only received fourteen percent of Max’s total attention so far.
Now that Penelope’s gone, she’s made it clear she expects her market share to jump to twenty-five, effective immediately.
If you think lawyers are intimidating, try a Texas socialite who’s been shortchanged on her airtime.
This date has all the hallmarks of a disaster.
Beyond being ridiculously good-looking, Max and Delaney have zero in common.
But that’s the play. I’ll focus on the awkward pauses and the stagnant air.
I want the audience to feel the slow, painful death of the conversation.
I can already picture the editors layering in the faint sound of crickets.
Just enough to signal that Delaney isn’t the one.
My phone buzzes. Vivian.
“Two minutes,” I call to the crew before moving away to answer.
“What did you think?” I ask, bypassing the pleasantries. We sent the rough cut of Penelope’s exit this morning.
“It’s structurally sound,” Vivian says. “Molly is reality TV gold, and Max is…gorgeous. But we need movement.”
Movement. The network’s favorite euphemism for skin.
“He’s behaving,” I say, keeping my voice level. “That’s the premise. He’s the reformed rake. We’re selling growth.”
“Rakes don’t reform,” she counters. “We need temptation. A stumble. A mistake with someone expendable—someone we can cut before the semi-finals. Then we give the audience the grand redemption arc with the winner.”
My stomach does a slow, nauseous roll. Engineering a hookup feels wrong on every level.
“I thought you wanted less mess,” I say, trying to use her own logic against her.
“We want balance. The sweet spot between trash fire and flatline. Right now, we’re leaning toward flatline. You’ve kept this show from becoming a train wreck, and I appreciate that, but you need to push harder. If the reviews are bleh, it’s your name is the one on the credits.”
The line goes dead.
I smile at a passing cameraman while my brain loops Vivian’s words. It will be my name on the credits.
I watch Max work the crew. It’s like a switch flips the moment he steps on set; the air warms up, and everything feels lighter. He’s always been polite, but today he’s open and engaged. He’s using names I didn’t even think he knew.
“Why is he talking to them?” Delaney mutters, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion.
I glance over. Max’s got one of the PAs hanging on his every word.
Maybe because, under all that bravado, he’s actually a decent person? One who treats people like people. I look away before I can think about that too hard.
“Let’s get started,” I say.
I walk over to Max under the guise of checking his mic. I keep my head down, my fingers brushing the small of his back as I adjust the wire.
“The network wants more…movement,” I say, flicking his transmitter off so the sound booth can’t eavesdrop.
“Movement?”
“A kiss.”
“No,” he says immediately.
“The audience was sold a reformed playboy, Max,” I press. “They want a slip before the reform. A reminder that you can charm any woman you want.”
“No,” he says, his tone flat and final.
“It’s not like you’ve struggled with this before,” I counter, frustration bubbling over. “I saw your intake interview. I know about the four women in your office.”
“I was young,” he says, dismissing the point as if it were a lifetime ago and not thirty-six months.
“It was four women. At the same time. That isn’t exactly a different—”
He lets out a soft, unrepentant huff of a laugh. “There was no overlap,” he says. There’s no gloating in his voice; he just sounds tired of the story. “And that’s not who I am anymore.”
The words are simple, devoid of his usual charm, and the sincerity makes my throat tight.
“It’s just a kiss, Max. Think like an actor. We’re putting on a show…And you didn’t have trouble kissing Grace the other night.”
“Things are different now,” he says, giving me a look that far too intimate.
“They’re really not,” I say.
He takes a half-step closer, crowding my space.
“I don’t want to and I don’t want to upset you,” he says softly.
I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “I can assure you that won’t be a problem.”
He looks genuinely hurt for a fleeting second before his eyes turn cold. “Fine. I’ll do it. But remember that you’re the one who asked for this.”
He saunters toward the set, leaving me standing alone in the grass. It’s ridiculous. Why would I care who he kisses? Just because I’ve spent the last few nights letting him touch me doesn’t mean I’ve handed over the keys to my heart.
When we start rolling, I stand at the monitor with my headphones clamped on, piping his voice directly into my skull.
On screen, Delaney is prattling on about the magical skyline.
For a second, I think he’s going to let me drown in a boring conversation just to prove a point.
Then, I watch him recalibrate. His posture shifts. The switch is thrown.
He leans into her space.
“You know,” Max says. He’s looking down as the words come out, his jaw tight. “I came here looking for The One…and I think I’ve found her. I think I’d do just about anything she asked of me.”
With his gaze still lowered, Max pulls Delaney into a kiss. It’s framed perfectly. I’ll have to cut the found the one line in post—we can’t have him declaring undying love for a filler contestant—but the kiss?
The kiss is perfect. And it’s going on...and on.
The crew murmurs in approval, someone whispering about chemistry, but the air in my lungs has turned to lead. I asked for a stage kiss, something polite and marketable, but he’s kissing her like he’s trying to prove a point.
Does he think I care? I mean, I told him to do this. I demanded it. But as the seconds tick by, the sight of his hands tangled in her hair becomes unbearable. I want to scream Cut, but the word is lodged in my throat. I can’t stop this, not without looking like a lunatic.
I look away, my gaze dropping to my shoes as my stomach twists into a hard, cold knot. Fine. He was right. I care. For some stupid, inexplicable reason, I don’t like him kissing other women.
When they finally break apart, Delaney is beaming with a smug, radiant victory.
The AD pats my shoulder in silent approval. I’ve delivered the moment the network demanded, the exact kind of gold that saves a career.
But I feel like I’m going to be sick.
When the wrap is called, I brace myself for Max to find me. Instead, he spends a few minutes saying a polite goodbye to Delaney. Then, without a single glance toward me, he gets into his car and leaves.
On the monitor, a technician rewinds the footage. The kiss fills the screen again, larger than life and twice as painful.
“We need this in the sizzle reel,” someone says, buzzing with excitement.
I nod, forcing the words out. “Yeah,” I whisper, my throat tight. “It’s perfect.”
I stand there, staring at the frozen image on the monitor, and the truth finally hits me. I don’t just like the way he looks in the dark, or the devastating things he does with his mouth.
I like him. The whole impossible, arrogant mess of him.
I’m a complete idiot.