2. The Welcome Party
The Welcome Party
HAYES
E ight Months Later…
So this is what it feels like to be America’s most eligible bachelor.
I’m sweating bullets on this perfect seventy-five-degree March day in Atlanta as thirty women prepare to compete for something I hope like hell to give away—my heart.
Eight months ago, I was just a photographer who happened to pee on a jellyfish victim at the beach.
Now, I’m “Hero Hayes,” and because my son talked me into it, this season’s replacement star of Groomsman to Groom . Life has a twisted sense of humor.
I’m standing outside the show’s ridonkulous mansion dressed in a five-thousand-dollar Dior-sponsored tuxedo. It’s not my usual style—and I definitely miss my T-shirt, jeans, and Vans, but I clean up nicely. I mean, wait until my old high school classmates see me.
They’ll be shocked. When I knew them, I was so painfully introverted, I had one friend who was a fellow gamer. My father will be the most shocked of all. That is, if he even sees the show—but I’m not going to think about that.
I still can’t believe I’m here. For so long, everyone kept saying that there’s more than one fish in the sea, but it was hard to wrap my head around my devastating grief over Sarah.
A lot of Bingeflix, boxes of Kleenex, and years of therapy later, I understand she’ll always be in my heart, but I know I have room for another.
There is someone else for me, and I’m hellbent on finding her.
With August pushing me, I’m busting myself out of the rut I’ve been in for the past three years—and it feels damn good.
Mostly good, except the skintight boxers that’re cutting off circulation to parts I’d prefer to keep functioning.
Skye, famous in her own right and the show’s host, is leaning in to tell me something when Tanya, our high-strung on-site producer, calls out, “Two minutes!” She taps her headset.
“Remember to smile. America fell in love with your smile.”
America fell in love with the pixelated blur over my crotch, but sure, let’s go with my smile.
I tug at the bowtie that’s plotting my strangulation, along with the knowledge that my nine-year-old son will watch this circus later. Although I promised to fast-forward through any “steamy” parts.
“You good?” Tanya’s eyebrows perk so high they’re practically part of her hairline.
“Never better,” I lie, channeling my inner Vulcan to suppress the anxiety bubbling under my skin. That’s how I’ve gotten through most of my life—compartmentalizing emotions when they threaten to overwhelm me. It worked when my dad left. After my wife died. After I became a single dad overnight.
The first limo pulls up, and here we go. Game face on.
Skye, her bright pink gown a splash of color against the blue stone driveway, looks into the camera and says, “And it’s time for our star, Hayes Burke, to do what he came to do—find his soulmate. Will he or won’t he? Only the universe knows his path. The rest of us will have to watch to find out.”
“Hayes Burke,” Tanya whispers, “if you don’t smile right now, I will personally ensure your photography website experiences a mysterious and permanent crash.”
I muster my most charming grin. The camera guys give thumbs up. The door opens.
The first woman steps out of the car, flipping her long blond hair in the breeze and flashing me a fluorescent smile. She’s sporting a little more spray tan than I normally like, but she’s gorgeous… and perky.
She approaches me and says, “Hayes. You’re even more handsome in person than you are on TV. Oh, my God—I’m so, so, so excited to be here.” She yanks me into a hug and giggles.
When she pulls away, I hold my smile when I say, “And you are?”
“Gabby. And do I have a surprise for you.”
My stomach clenches. I know to be prepared for whatever wild things these women will do to get my attention, or launch their careers in showbiz, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that part. I just want to see who I have genuine connections with, so I steel myself and say, “Let’s see it.”
“I’m last year’s Miss Iowa, and I’m going to show you how I earned that crown.” She whips off her long coat, showing her sequin bikini and magazine body that I usually find too thin, but it suits her.
My eyes bulge from shock as she struts along the pavement before pivoting at the corner. She puts a hand on her hip and says, “First place in the bikini contest. What do you think?”
“I can see why you won.” Forcing a grin, I hope my nerves aren’t showing. I’m super uncomfortable, but hey, she does look like a pageant princess.
What follows is a parade of gorgeous women with increasingly elaborate entrances.
There’s Jordan, a pediatric nurse who makes me take her pulse—racing, apparently, because of me.
A financial analyst who tosses actual money in the air as she steps out—weird flex, but okay.
Taylor, a yoga instructor, does a full split on the driveway, which is impressive, if slightly terrifying.
I’m saying all the right things—I hope. Complimenting dresses.
Laughing at jokes. Pretending I’m not freaking out as woman after woman tells me they’ve “followed my journey” and “knew we were meant to be” from the moment they saw me heroically urinate on a stranger—which, as it turns out, doesn’t even help a jellyfish sting.
Who knew? Definitely not me, but the old man was so shocked it ended up distracting him, so I guess it was a win?
Limo number five arrives and out steps a woman in a shimmering silver dress that catches the light like she’s wrapped in foil. Her red hair frames a face with a smattering of freckles, and she’s clutching a handkerchief like it’s her security blanket.
“H-hi Hayes,” she says, voice quavering. “I’m Annabelle. From Alabama. My mama says I should be myself, so here I am, nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.” She lets out a little hiccup-laugh. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but—” Her eyes well up.
“Hey, no, it’s okay,” I take her trembling hands. “I’m nervous too. Wanna know something?” I lean in. “I’ve been practicing introducing myself to my bathroom mirror for a week.”
This gets a genuine laugh, and the tears stop… sort of. Five successful human interactions down, twenty-five to go.
The night blurs as more women arrive. There’s Kavita, who hands me a custom bobblehead of myself—slightly unnerving but points for creativity. Then someone calls out, “Winter is coming... and so am I.”
I turn to see a woman wearing a striking platinum blond wig cascading down her back in intricate braids. She’s wearing a blue dress that seems to float around her, and there’s no mistaking the cosplay.
Holy hell. I could see how this might be corny, but she rocks it with her beautiful porcelain face and banging curves. “Khaleesi,” I say, genuinely impressed. “Mother of Dragons.”
She curtsies. “I’m Luna. And unlike Daenerys, I don’t plan on going mad with power if I win your heart.” Her smile is dazzling, confident. “Though I might still want to ride a dragon.”
I almost choke. “That’s, uh—”
“Too forward?” She laughs, self-assured. “Sorry, occupational hazard. I teach flirtatious banter workshops when I’m not competing for love on national television.”
“I’ll have to hear more about that.”
As Luna glides past, I notice a limo arriving differently than the others. It’s pulled up more discreetly, and Tanya’s whispering urgently into her headset. Interesting.
The door opens, and I swear time stops.
A woman emerges dressed in a skintight Vulcan costume—an emerald green uniform with the Starfleet insignia, pointed ears, and a sleek black bob haircut with straight bangs.
She’s wearing glasses that somehow make her look both intelligent and mysterious.
Her walk is measured, precise—perfectly in character.
My inner nerd is having a complete meltdown while I struggle to maintain external composure.
She approaches, raises her hand in the Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper, Hayes Burke.”
I return the gesture automatically. “Peace and long life.”
Her eyebrow arches in Vulcan surprise. “Your knowledge of Vulcan customs is... satisfactory.”
“I’ve been known to attend a convention or two.”
She steps closer, and there’s something eerily familiar about the shape of her mouth, the curve of her jaw beneath the costume. Before I can place it, she leans in, lips grazing my ear.
“My pon farr has been triggered,” she whispers.
Oh, shit.
For the uninitiated, pon farr is essentially Vulcan heat—an overwhelming biological mating urge that occurs every seven years. In Star Trek terms, she’s just told me she’s down for anything—and I mean anything .
I’m trying to keep my face camera-appropriate while my entire body short-circuits. This woman—whoever she is behind that costume—just shot to the top of my list with six words.
She pulls back, dark eyes studying me through those glasses, and I realize I haven’t responded.
“That’s...” I fumble out. “I hope we can find a logical solution.”
The corner of her mouth twitches—almost a smile, but not quite. Perfect Vulcan control.
“Logic dictates exploration of all available options,” she says, then walks past me into the mansion, leaving me staring after her like a lovesick teenager.
Tanya snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Hayes—three more limos!”
Right. Focus. But my mind keeps drifting back to the mystery Vulcan. Who comes to a dating show dressed as a character from Star Trek ? Someone I desperately need to know better, that’s who.
After I’ve been introduced to all the women, I make my way inside the mansion to join a cocktail party of organized chaos.
Thirty women in evening gowns circle me like I’m the last piece of chocolate in the box.
I make small talk, accept drinks I barely sip, and constantly scan the room for the Vulcan woman who seems to have disappeared.
“Hayes!” It’s Gabby, tugging at my arm. “Come see the pool area! I heard they’ve got a hot tub.”