The True Love Experiment

The first time I ever met a producer to discuss adapting one of my books into a film, I was so excited I barely slept the night before. I spent hours picking out what I would wear. I told every person I knew that my book was being adapted into a movie. I gave myself five hours to drive the 124 miles to Los Angeles and then paid forty dollars to park so I’d have a place to wait because I’d arrived three hours early. I sat there and thought about what I might wear on the red carpet, who might be cast as the hero, and how it would feel to see him on the screen for the very first time. I walked in with big smiles and big plans and big hopes.

That collaboration didn’t go anywhere, and neither did the next meeting, or the next, and the meetings that were productive were about projects that eventually languished in predevelopment for years. I had to learn the hard way that everyone in Hollywood is excited about a project until it’s time for the wallets to open. Now I know this song and dance; the meeting my film agent set up for me this morning at the unknown-to-me North Star Media doesn’t even register as a blip with my adrenals.

North Star’s administrative assistant is a sweet twentysomething cutie-pie who offers me coffee and a doughnut from a pink mom-and-pop-shop box on her desk when I arrive. I consider answering a few DMs while I wait, but what my readers want is an update on the book, and I’ve got nothing for them. I put my phone away and busy myself with a doughnut instead.

Looking around, I must admit the vibe in this small San Diego production company is much beachier and chill than all the glossy glass-walled or intentionally industrial bluster of LA. But when the dude I’m meeting steps out of his office, I’m reminded that Hollywood is Hollywood, even in San Diego.

I think I know him from somewhere, but I can’t place where—this is not a man who would hang out in any of my favorite coffee shops or bars. His hair is so perfectly coiffed that from a distance it looks like a Lego hair block. I’m distracted by his height, so I don’t catch his name, but I smile as if I did. White gleaming teeth, glimmering eyes that would get the sparkle sound effect in a cartoon, and muscles bunchy and flexing under his white dress shirt. He is hot in a very obvious way. If I were writing this book, I’d immediately cast him as Hot Millionaire Executive. Sadly, my mental Rolodex tells me three important things about this hero archetype: He will talk a lot about whatever sport he played in college. He is, at best, a performative feminist. And, relatedly, he does not enjoy going down on women.

But I follow him into his office anyway because if I stay in the waiting area, I’ll eat a second doughnut.

Hot Millionaire Executive’s office is tidy and sparse. Unlike many other film executives’ workspaces, it doesn’t have a framed collection of signed rare comic books, a coffee table book about vintage sneakers, or a vanity wall of film posters. He has a few framed black-and-white photographs of what looks like the Central California coastline, some other framed photos facing away from me on his desk, and then nothing but clean walls and surfaces.

The hot, boring man gestures that I should sit in one of the expensive leather chairs grouped around a low wood coffee table, and I really do try to fall effortlessly into the seat, but the rip in my jeans hits at the worst place in my knee and the second I sit it makes an audible tearing sound. A moment passes where I can see him debating whether he should react to it.

He seems to decide against it, smiling instead. I add nice smile to his character description. “Thanks for coming in today, Felicity.”

“Oh. A Brit.” I feel the first, tiny pants flutter in ages and update my mental archetype Rolodex.

“Born and raised in Blackpool.”

“I don’t know where that is, but it sounds piratey.”

He laughs at this, a low, rumbling sound. “Northwestern England.”

I nod, looking around, trying to figure out how a man looking like that left his pirate hometown, ended up in an office this bland, and eventually found his way to my books. What a journey. When my eyes return to his face, I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve met before. “Do we know each other?”

He hesitates, mouth briefly forming one word before it takes a different shape. “I don’t believe so. But my ex-wife is a huge fan.”

An indelicate laugh rips out of me. “I’m going to say that’s the weirdest compliment I’ve ever received.”

Even his wince seems too perfect to be real. “Sorry. I guess that’s a strange way of saying that I was impressed by you. Natalia has discerning tastes, and she owns every one of your books.”

I feel an eyebrow point sharply skyward.

“She’s made a fan out of me, too,” he admits, and oh no, now he’s gone too far. It would be so refreshing if one of these dudes would just say, I haven’t read your books and I like to mock the genre with my bros, but romance has the largest readership in publishing, and I want to make money off it.

I smile, flashing my teeth. Time to catch him in a lie. “Which book is your favorite?”

“I know you probably expected me to say Ranger’s Castle or At the End of the Road because of the action in both of them, but I’m going to say Base Paired.”

Ah, so his adorable assistant is good at the Google. That must be why I’m here. “Base Paired it is.”

Hot Brit spreads his hands magnanimously. “It’s a clever idea, Felicity, and the timing was great.”

Or maybe he’s not so good at the Google: anyone who knows me either personally or professionally knows that the only people who call me Felicity are my former schoolteachers, and even then only on the first day of class or when I was in trouble.

Anyway, despite his patronizing tone, he’s right—the timing was great. I wrote Base Paired just as GeneticAlly launched the DNADuo app, and its publication dovetailed perfectly with the rising hype of the technology. That book, about two sworn enemies who turn out to be a Diamond Match, spent a long time on the bestseller list. But after a small production company failed to sell a series, I got the rights back last month.

“Listen, Ted—”

“Connor.”

“—I’m going to be honest,” I say, rolling past this because, frankly, his name doesn’t much matter. “The rights are available, and I’m not opposed to working with someone to adapt it into a film or series, but this project is special to me for a lot of reasons, and I’m wary of—”

He holds up a giant man hand. “Sorry to interrupt. It’s just—that’s not why I asked for a meeting.”

I am immediately confused. And maybe a little annoyed with myself for skimming my agent’s email. “What?”

“I’m not interested in adapting Base Paired.” Hot Brit shakes his head. “I’m curious whether you’re open to being cast as the lead in an upcoming show.”

At this, I frown, concerned. “I’m an author.”

“Yes.”

“I felt like we were on the same page for a minute.” I wave a finger back and forth between us. “But that question took us to different genres.”

He laughs, and not only does it seem to come from some sexy depth in his chest, it also reveals a small dimple, low on one cheek.

Tall, British, and dimpled? Never trust a cliché.

“We’d like to offer you the role of the central character in an upcoming reality dating show.”

I stare blankly at him. “Me?”

“Yes.”

“A dating show?”

“Yes.”

“One where I’m dating?”

“Yes.”

“Is this a joke?” I am immediately suspicious. And then it clicks. I went on a couple of dates last year with a community theater director who insisted he had lots of connections in the feature world. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so obvious in my disbelief. “Did Steven put you up to this?”

“Steven?”

“I don’t remember his last name,” I admit. “But picture the hot guitar-playing college heartthrob archetype, then add twenty years to his jawline.”

Hot Brit frowns. “I don’t—Yeah, no. There’s no Steven involved in this.”

Oh. Of course. “Billy? He used to work at Paramount.” I mime muscles. “Gym rat? Shaves everything?”

He shakes his head, bewildered. “It’s coming from—”

“Evan.” I slap the arm of the leather chair. “Goddammit, of course!” I look at Hot Brit. “He loved a practical joke. I broke up with him because he had a Bart Simpson tattoo low, and I mean really low on his hip, and I couldn’t go down on him without thinking Cowabunga, dude. It was a mood killer.”

“I—”

“We got into this big argument at the end, but he still reminded me to turn my clocks back an hour that night for daylight savings.” I laugh. “I basically told him his terrible tattoo ruined our sex life, and he was like, Wow, that’s a bummer, but also don’t oversleep.” I turn my attention back to Hot Brit. “So now that I’m thinking about it, he might be too nice to have done this. You can tell me if—”

“It’s not coming from any of these men,” he says slowly. “I am developing this very real show, and you are the first person I’ve approached for it.”

I am utterly speechless.

“But are—are any of these men your current boyfriends?” he asks.

“I’m never sure when to use that term,” I admit, rolling past the thin film of disapproval in his voice. “Is a boyfriend someone you have sex with more than once? Can you have a one-night boyfriend? A weekend boyfriend? Or is it necessary to have the boyfriend-girlfriend talk after a specified amount of time spent dating? Regardless, no, none of those men are current boyfriends by any definition.”

Hot Brit clears his throat, reaching forward to straighten a book on the coffee table. “Okay.”

I watch him, fighting a smile.

“Would you like to hear the show premise?” he asks once he seems to have finished clutching his pearls.

I’m willing to let him run through the entire ruse if he’s so well prepared. “Knock yourself out, Colin.”

He takes a beat before speaking, and when I look at him, I see flat disappointment in his gaze. I don’t know what I did, but I’m delighted anyway. If I could get paid for disappointing white men in suits, I would be a gazillionaire.

Regrouping, he begins, “I’ve always been fascinated with the idea of arranged marriages—”

“Oh boy.”

“—in that most in the modern day are quite successful.”

Okay, that is not where I thought he was going with that.

“When we let people who know us well choose our partner, they generally do a pretty good job. But then I also had the thought the other day that most of us have seen so many portrayals of love—in person, on-screen, in literature—that we should be good at identifying real emotion. Don’t you think?”

I shrug. “Actually, I’m amazed at the often limited capacity of emotional intelligence in adults.”

“What if we put you in a house with twelve men—”

“Well, now I’m definitely listening.”

“—who are each trying to win your heart—”

“Keep talking.”

“—but instead of you choosing who gets to stay in the competition each week, we’ll have the audience live vote over the twenty-four hours after the episode airs on who stays and who goes. The eliminated contestant or contestants will find out at the start of the next episode.”

“So you let the audience vote on who they want me to end up with? I have no say?”

He tilts his head from side to side. “Yes and no. The audience will have to gauge your reactions. But I am hoping there will be some great options in there, because here’s what I think could make it really interesting: We’ll cast the contestants based on your DNADuo compatibility scores. I assume you’re familiar with it?”

It feels like my heart stops. That’s River’s technology. “Oh, I’m familiar.”

“Some scores will be low, some will be higher,” he says. “But we’ll make sure there is at least one Gold Match or better in the cast. The twist is to see who can better find your soulmate: technology or the audience.”

I struggle to hide my shock. “You’re serious.”

Hot Brit nods. “Your books are international bestsellers, Felicity. You have readers in every age and socioeconomic demographic—and your biggest fans are right in the heart of the reality TV audience. This overlap could be very advantageous for your book sales as well as our ratings.”

I stare out the window. I was wrong: it isn’t satisfying to have him be so forthcoming that the bottom line is why I’m here. He wants me because my brand—happy romance—would play well with audiences. This man would have no way of knowing I’m no longer happily romantic, but given his industry, he’d tell me that doesn’t matter as long as I can put on a good show. It all makes me feel even more pessimistic about love.

“I know a lot of these dating shows are manufactured or cynical,” he continues, oddly reading my mind, “but I think this could be different. Because it’s you. I’m drawn to you, and we’ve only just met; viewers will feel the same. Your readers will want you to find love.”

This one is like an arrow to the heart. My sweet readers do want me to find love, and it appears to be the one thing I cannot give them. Well, that and a new book.

Hot Brit leans in, green eyes earnest and soft. “I truly believe that women want to watch other women find happiness.”

As I blink back over to him, something cools in my blood. “That seems like such a nice thing to say, so why does it sound ironic when you say it?”

He looks taken aback for a second, his expression crashing. “I—No, I truly mean it.”

I push to stand. “Thanks for making the time. I’m not interested.”