Chapter One #2
She flicked her gaze up at Marla, who was chewing her lip in anticipation.
“Fine,” Skye mumbled under her breath. Marla was right.
She didn’t have to fall in love. Most bachelorettes didn’t.
The entire premise of the show was more about the illusion of finding love than the outcome.
Sunset dates, hot tub confessions, a few tearful kisses, and then six weeks later the happy couple would unfollow each other on social media while fans speculated about their breakup in the comment sections.
The bachelorette moved on, and so did the finalists, usually with a thousand or so more followers.
That was simply the way it usually worked.
Fall in fake love on national television and then mutually break up.
Skye could manage that, couldn’t she?
“Fine,” she relented.
Marla squealed. She closed the gap between them in three quick steps and yanked Skye into a hug. “I owe you my life, Red.”
“I’ll just take the raise,” Skye muttered into Marla’s soft shoulder.
~~
Skye found herself standing on the beach, dressed in a linen jumpsuit. She’d had her makeup done and gotten a spray tan against her will. The stylist had tried to force her to wear a strappy top before she’d relented on the linen jumpsuit that Skye had chosen from the rack.
Skye was told to stand still and look dreamy, but also sensual, while drone footage was captured from above. She had never felt more uncomfortable in her life. But a raise was a good enough incentive for her. Especially if it meant a bigger apartment and maybe a dog.
“Can I put this down?” Skye asked, glancing at the pineapple she was holding in her right hand. The spines pricked her palm, and the heat from the sun made her neck sweat.
“No,” Cypress chirped. He was the show’s resident photographer and didn’t mind getting down and dirty for the best shot. “The pineapple is symbolic.”
“Of what?”
“Hospitality,” he said, crouching to get a lower angle. “Now tilt your chin and gaze into the distance like you’re yearning for a connection. But also look guarded, you know, because of some past betrayal or something.”
“I was betrayed,” Skye declared, glancing at Marla, who was watching from the monitor with an iced coffee in hand and a huge grin on her face.
It wasn’t simply the fact that she had to play the role of a bachelorette—a feat she would’ve preferred to live her life without ever doing—but all the extra fluff that came with it.
The hair. The makeup. The way everyone fussed around her.
Not to mention the scripted soundbites and the shoots.
So far, Skye had been asked to recline in a hammock with a come-hither expression, pose with a surfboard she had no idea how to use, and lie in the shallow waters of the ocean, chest out, while the waves crashed all around her.
If that wasn’t a betrayal, Skye didn’t know what was.
“This is perfect, Red,” Marla said, stepping out from behind the monitor. “The network is going to lose its mind.”
“I have sand in my ear canal,” Skye replied grumpily. “And somewhere else too, but I’m not going to mention where out loud.”
“Well, you look amazing,” Marla added. She tossed the empty cup into a makeshift bin and stepped onto the beach. “The light is loving your hair. It looks like fire.”
“How much more of this?” Skye groaned before allowing the makeup artist, a pink-haired woman with a nose ring, to lead her to a chaise lounge they’d dragged into the surf.
On any other day, she would’ve cared greatly if her linen pants were damp, sand sticking to skin, but now, with exhaustion setting in and the nerves of the inevitable, she couldn’t care less.
“Only two more set-ups,” Marla replied, following her.
Skye clicked her tongue. “You said that three set-ups ago.”
Marla grinned. “This is The Sapphic Match, baby.” She winked, then glanced toward the ocean, her expression softening and turning starry-eyed.
Skye followed her line of sight. And that was when she saw it. A white speck on the horizon, growing larger by the second. The catamaran.
It was actually happening.
They were arriving. There were twelve contestants who had signed up to fall in love with someone tall, someone tanned and beautiful, someone worthy of love.
Instead, they were getting her. Skye Wilder.
Thirty-three and emotionally constipated.
A woman who was ghosted by a Pilates instructor called Storm a mere month ago.
A woman who hadn’t had a healthy, stable relationship since, well, since ever.
She raised her free hand to her hair and tried to smooth her locks. Waves lapped at her ankles. A warm breeze brushed across her cheek, and her stomach twisted itself into knots.
“Here they come,” Marla said, still gazing out at the horizon. “Are you ready?”
“No,” Skye replied flatly.
The boat was close now. Close enough to make out waving arms. Close enough for Skye’s stomach to flip over and over again until she felt sick. This was it. Showtime.
A ship full of twelve hopeful women, who all thought they were about to meet the romantic lead of their dreams. Twelve women who had probably already rehearsed funny one-liners for their introductions. Skye exhaled slowly and clutched the pineapple even tighter.
May the universe have mercy on me.