I get into my car, turn it on, and then sit idling at the curb, staring out at the dark street. This feeling I have right now—the jittery, hyper-adrenaline, restless feeling—most people would have this reaction to seeing themselves on a dating show, to witnessing how the masterful editing made the entire episode sing, and then, at the end of the night, getting the call that the show is on track to being the biggest reality show debut in a decade.
But I know myself and know that the reason I get these kinds of heart flutters is the same reason I became an author in the first place: I love romance. I love the swooping in my chest when I read a good kiss, the choking of my lungs when I get to the angst, the shaken-carbonated blast of joy reading the happily ever after. I just watched eight perfect men vying for my heart, and they’re not even why I have the flutters. I have them because I got to see my new favorite person tonight.
Stretching, I find my reflection in the rearview mirror and glare at that harlot. “Listen up,” I tell her forcefully. “It’s a relief that things didn’t go very, very wrong because you had sex with your producer. Be grateful you can be attracted to someone again. You did it to get it out of your system. Now get your act together and stop thinking about his eyes and his smile and his dick.”
Satisfied, I put the car in gear and drive home.
I don’t care how confident you are, nobody wants to run into someone when they’re braless, wearing pajama pants, and buying single-serving canned wine at CVS. But as I step out of the booze and spirits aisle at the respectable hour of noon on Sunday, I collide face-first with the center of a very, very solid chest.
“I am so sorry,” I say, quickly dropping to the floor to retrieve my scattered armload of canned rosé.
“Fizzy?”
I glance up, eyes traveling over miles of toned leg—momentarily bummed by the obstruction of black running shorts—until my eyes skip up to one of the best smiles I’ve ever seen. “Isaac?”
He kneels to help me retrieve my spilled treasures and it’s a little embarrassing how many there are. I’m not sure how I managed to balance all of these in the first place.
“Stocking up for hibernation,” I joke as we stand. Even I can appreciate the shame in wasting such soaring specimens of men on pocket-sized me, but who am I to question the universe?
Isaac grins adorably. “Rosé: the perfect winter wine.” He carefully balances my last can on top of the teetering pyramid. “What are the odds of running into each other here?”
“I’m sure you could calculate them, Hot Nerd.”
“Touché.” He laughs and eyes my haul. “Grabbing some quality refreshments for what looks like some day-drinking fun?”
I eye the single Gatorade in his left hand. “We all choose to hydrate in our own way.” He laughs again, and I add, “And it looks like you aren’t suffering similarly, but I felt so mentally drained after the episode aired last night. I’ve been useless all day.”
Isaac nods. “Yeah, I felt the same. I finally went for a run just to get away from every relative within fifty miles who showed up at my house this morning to talk about the show.”
I groan. “My mom has been calling me nonstop since last night. Conveniently forgetting my phone at home while also procuring wine felt like killing two birds with one stone.”
He laughs again, but this time it has a quiet huskiness, the tenor of an inside joke. The sound sends a heated thrill down into my stomach and… what’s that? Pants feelings? For someone who isn’t Connor? Right here in the middle of CVS? Holy shit, baby. I am back!
“While this has been the absolute highlight of a very weird day,” he says, grimacing, “I’m pretty sure we’re breaking at least half a dozen rules by seeing each other outside the show.”
“Oh shit, you’re right.” I quickly glance down the nearby aisles. As contestants, we all signed contracts that, among other things, expressly forbid us from fraternizing outside of the show. We could be fined, fired, or even sued. And yet you don’t see me going anywhere. “I half expect an alarm to go off and for Connor to come out with one of those cartoon nets.”
“I could escape,” Isaac says with a grin and a single backward step. “I’ve got better running shoes on.”
“Don’t discount me,” I tell him. “I’m surprisingly agile.”
“I bet.” He gives me a very long once-over. “Does it give me an advantage with you that we frequent the same CVS?”
“I don’t get to decide, remember?”
He snaps his fingers. “Shoot. All right, well, I’m gonna get out of here.” With a sexy little wink, he turns and waves over his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I watch Isaac until he’s out of sight, my pants still aflutter down below. “As a professional writer,” I mumble to his very nice retreating backside, “I must say I would absolutely verb the adjective noun out of him.”
“Are you Felicity Chen?”
My entire body jerks around at the voice to my left, where two older teen girls stand holding snacks and Red Bulls. I clutch my collection of wine to my chest, willing my heart to slow. I’ve been recognized before, but it’s usually in the context of something bookish, such as browsing in the aisles of my local indie, not when I’m dressed like a writer on imminent deadline and carrying enough wine for an entire football team.
And then it occurs to me. Did they see me talking to myself? Do I look like a horny hobo?
A more startling thought lands: Did they see me talking to Isaac? Shit.
“That’s me!” I finally manage to say.
They look at each other in shared excitement, then back to me, eyes sparkling with barely contained glee. “Oh my God,” they say in unison, and one adds a high-pitched “You were so good last night!”
The girl who spoke is taller, with an emerald-green hijab and makeup so flawless that it transforms her black-and-white tracksuit and sneakers into high fashion.
“Do you know if they’re going to make all the episodes available to stream?” she asks. “I’ve already watched the first one twice and might die if I have to wait a week.”
“Just the one episode a week,” I say, not relishing being the person who pierces their joy bubble. “We’re shooting it as we go.”
She groans playfully, but her friend in a UCSD sweatshirt pushes on. “I love your books and legit lost it when I saw you were doing this. I’ve read Base Paired four times.” Before I can say anything, she quickly adds, “Can we ask you something? I know you’re super busy.”
“Was it the pajamas or the armload of canned rosé that gave away my hectic schedule? Go for it.”
She laughs, turning her phone to face me, and points at the screen. “Do you know if this is Connor Prince’s Instagram?”
Connor comes up repeatedly that day: in the afternoon when my mom drags me along to H Mart and a woman recognizes me in the frozen food aisle, praising me for a moment before asking whether Connor has starred in anything else, and again in the evening, when another parent completely loses her mind in front of me and Jess at Juno’s ballet recital. Both times I find myself wanting to text him to gloat about how smart I am.
I resist. I do check his Instagram, though. By Monday morning, his follower count has ballooned from his mom, Nat, Ash, and some random dude, to twenty-two thousand. I’d bet my entire canned rosé collection that it hasn’t even occurred to him to look.
After hair and makeup on Monday, I am led into an industrial kitchen at the Hilton Bayfront hotel. We do the bad news first: As predicted, Arjun and Tex have been eliminated by the voting audience. But then, the remaining six—Dax, Isaac, Evan, Jude, Colby, and Nick—are called out one by one, dressed casually and wearing wide smiles as matching accessories.
Isaac gives me a little wink, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning back.
Lanelle introduces this week’s plan: I get to choose which Heroes I want for each of the scheduled activities, including preparing a gourmet meal for my bed-resting sister, planting trees in Balboa Park, taking a craft cocktail class, going deep-sea fishing, pampering with mani-pedis, and a beach cruiser ride around Coronado. Viewers will see the dates compiled sequentially, of course—although the six dates will take place over the next three days, with confessionals and loved-one interviews scheduled for recording on Wednesday.
First up, of course, is the meal prep date. I am given ten minutes to firm up a plan before the cameras will roll again, showing me “thinking it over” before spontaneously giving my choices. Of course, there’s the schoolyard pick vibe—whoever I choose first is the one viewers will assume I am most eager to spend time with—but I also have to be strategic about the best way to get to know each of them outside of their natural elements.
I choose Colby, the Navy SEAL, to cook with. In part because I like the idea of watching his forearms flex while he chops vegetables for the lunch we’re making for Alice, but also because at our date last week he told me his mother owns Querida, one of my favorite taco shops in San Diego County. I bet the dude knows his way around a kitchen.
He does, but unfortunately his expertise means he ends up mansplaining a lot about knife handling—fitting, I suppose, given his profession—and how to debone a whole fish. I flirt and crack jokes and drop innuendo, trying to help him out because I’m sure a lot of this bravado is caused by nerves, but unfortunately, he keeps talking over me. I don’t see an easy way for the editing team to make him look great.
Jude and I plant trees that afternoon in Balboa, and I joke that I am disappointed to discover that he doesn’t sparkle in the sun. His sense of humor seems to have taken the day off, because he gives me an unsolicited monologue about what Twilight did to “legitimate vampire literature.” I wonder whether, when it comes time to put the episode together, Connor will keep my unimpressed look directed at the camera.
Speaking of Connor, he’s there. Jesus, he’s so incredibly there. Being tall in the background, carrying equipment in those stupid, brawny arms. Laughing huskily when I hold up a zucchini and give the camera a knowing wink. Shaking his head in exasperation when I tell Jude our next date should be in Volterra and he readily agrees, clearly without knowing what that means.
At least Connor knows Volterra is where the sparkling vampires live.
During the craft cocktail class with Nick—complete with disastrous attempts at bottle throwing and a lot of puckering when I use way too much lime—Connor, Rory, and one cameraman are the only crew members nearby. It shrinks the sweet, stained glass–windowed bar down to a broom closet. When Nick feeds me a cherry, instead of looking deep into his eyes, I turn my gaze on instinct to where Connor stands behind the camera rig. They make us shoot it again.
If possible, the proximity issue is worse on the deep-sea fishing date with Evan. Connor is seated directly at my feet, holding the mic gear while Rory throws up over the side of the deck, and the two cameramen struggle with handhelds on the surprisingly turbulent boat ride. At one point, Connor reaches out and steadies me with his hands on my thighs, gripping me until I’ve successfully hauled a huge tuna aboard.
Evan notices, I’m sure, but has no time to question it because as soon as the briny scent of the fish lands at his feet he, too, loses his lunch over the side of the boat—which I am delighted to say is caught on video.
When Evan has recovered, we sit side by side on the now gently rocking boat while the crew changes battery packs. The thing is, the more time I spend with Evan the more I remember how much fun we had, how easy it was to be with him, to joke around and tease each other. But I also remember that, Bart Simpson aside, while there was a spark, there were never fireworks.
We only dated a few months, but Evan played on my brother’s rec league softball team and even met my family once. It’s crazy that in my many years of exuberant dating, only a handful of men have ever managed that.
“I got the invitation to Peter’s wedding,” he says. “I hope he knows I RSVP’d no because I had to”—he gestures around us, indicating the show—“but not because I don’t want to attend.”
“Don’t worry, he knows.”
“You like Kailey?”
“I suspect a love potion was involved because she’s amazing.”
Evan laughs. “I heard the guest list is over seven hundred people.”
I nod. “I don’t think I’ve met seven hundred people in my life.”
He sets his reel in the cage mount and leans his head back to look up at the sky. “I’m sure the catering is going to be insane.”
“It’s the reason I’ve inquired about wearing elastic-waist pants instead of my bridesmaid dress.”
He lowers his voice. “Can I admit that going out has been kind of weird since this thing started? Being recognized on the street is surreal.”
“I’m dreading the million questions from my family members about why I need a show to find a husband.”
“How are you managing the plus-one situation? I assume you can’t take a date, but it’s your younger brother’s wedding.” He winces. “That’s a lot of attention on you for multiple reasons.”
I shrug. I’d normally bring Jess with me, but she’ll be in Costa Rica with River for a much-needed vacation. Of course, I’m fine going to family events solo, but Evan is right: this wedding will be different. Friends and relatives are flying in from as far away as Hong Kong for the occasion. Alice will be set up in a comfortable chair, very pregnant and very happily married. Peter’s fiancée is a well-known dermatologist who also happens to be the daughter of the most successful plastic surgeon in San Diego. As comfortable as I would be going dateless, weddings are for family, and my mother would want me to attend with someone.
“I suppose I’ll have to brave it without a date,” I say.
“A date to what?”
Evan and I turn at the sound of Connor’s voice, and of course this is the one time I don’t have him on missile lock. “My brother Peter’s wedding.”
“It’s this weekend, right?” Connor asks.
“Yeah,” Evan says. “I met Fizzy through him. I’m not going, though, don’t worry.”
Connor glances over his shoulder and then squats down, lowering his voice. “I told Rory we are absolutely not shooting footage at the wedding, so don’t remind her it’s happening.”
I salute him. “Got it, boss.”
“Can you take Jess?” he asks me.
“She’s on vacation.” I wave it off. “Don’t worry about me. I can go solo. I may be swimming with sharks all weekend, but I, too, am a shark.”
With the popularity of the first episode, I know I won’t be able to fly under the radar. In the past two days, I’ve been stopped at least four times each day. For the most part, the interactions are great. A few of them are readers, most are not. Some ask me about the guys, or the DNADuo, or just want an inside scoop, but every single one of them asks me about Connor.
In fact, according to Jess by way of Juno by way of Stevie, Connor is being bombarded. Ten-year-olds have a tendency to exaggerate, but if it’s happening to me in the ladies’ room at Barnes & Noble, it’s got to be happening to him, too. The common theme: most viewers would like to ride him like a Peloton.
Connor’s attention on me is like a heat lamp, and I’m relieved when it’s time to start shooting. I’d rather watch Evan barf over the side of the boat again than think about Peter’s wedding anymore.
I half expect Dax to take his socks off at the spa and reveal a missing toe or tattoo of a naked woman on top of his foot—both of which would be fascinating, but for very different reasons—but his feet are sadly intact and unmarked. Despite my concern that he might be bored or restless, he is a champ in the spa chair. He decides he wants his fingernails painted yellow, is ticklish when the pedicurist pulls out the pumice stone and gets to work on his calluses, and is shamelessly flirting with the woman doing his manicure—but sweetly, because she could be his grandmother.
When Connor told me last night at the marina that he’d be in the editing room this morning and his director of photography would be in charge for a few hours, I felt a pulse of relief like, finally, I’ll be able to breathe.
But I was wrong. My brain knows he isn’t here, but my reflexes don’t. I keep looking up at the empty space where he would normally be and find myself scanning the area. It’s a rude awakening to see how often I search for his reaction to things.
“You good?” Dax asks when we’re sitting with our feet and hands held carefully still, nail polish drying. The crew is packing up, having gotten as much footage as they needed, I guess. But still no Connor.
Will he meet us in Coronado when we drive over for my afternoon bike ride with Isaac? Or is he editing all day?
“What’s that?” I ask distractedly.
“Are you okay?” he repeats, smiling sweetly. “Are you in a hurry to get going?”
“No, no.” I must’ve scanned the spa again unconsciously. Why can’t I get my head in the game? I’ve done this before—slept with someone and then gone on dates with someone else later in the week! Sex is sex, it doesn’t have to mean everything!
But, it also doesn’t have to mean nothing.
Shit.
“Sorry,” I say. “I was just thirsty.”
Dax lifts a hand, waving to his new best grandmother-friend. “Can she get a cup of water, please?”
The adorable woman brings me some in a small plastic cup and Dax watches, concerned.
“Better?”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“It’s a lot of pressure, huh?”
“It is.”
“I have about a million questions for you,” he says, “about your job and your life.”
“Yeah?” I smile over at him. Look at this man right here, attentive and fun. A thought hits me like a door blown open.
Dax could be my soulmate.
The cameras aren’t even rolling, and he gives me a disarmingly kind smile. “I’m really hoping I get a third date.”
Connor isn’t in Coronado waiting for us. But the tandem bike is, and so is Isaac, with his knowing, crinkly-eyed smile and addicting belly laugh. We noodle around the island with cameras mounted on the bike frame and a cameraman ahead of us riding backward on a Vespa. Isaac is obviously a genius and makes me laugh the entire way, with the kind of off-the-cuff, quick-witted humor I find intensely sexy. It’s impossible to ignore that there’s something between us, and when he suggests we stop for spontaneous milkshakes I immediately agree. I want more time with him, face-to-face, close. Side by side, at a picnic table overlooking the ocean, we share stories from when we were kids, and for the first time on any of these dates, I forget that the cameras are right there.
I also realize, as I get to the bubbly bottom of my milkshake and Connor finally steps into view, sweaty and breathless, almost like he ran the whole way here, that I haven’t thought about him since my date with Isaac began.
Isaac could be my soulmate.
And yet I still want Connor.
Get it together, Fizzy, I think, and turn my attention back to Isaac and his caramel milkshake and the cherry he’s dangling for me to eat. No doubt viewers will compare this moment to the one with Nick yesterday, as I close my eyes and eat it with a smile. I tie the stem in a knot with only my tongue and open my mouth to flirtatiously display it. It gets the impressed reaction I’d hoped for—Isaac claps and gives me a sexy “Dang, girl”—but it takes every ounce of effort to not look at Connor to see what he thinks about it, and to wonder whether he’s thinking about what that tongue of mine felt like gliding over his neck, his bottom lip, his jaw.
We’ll have our confessional later, but my plan is to escape as soon as Rory says cut. My head is a mess, and I need to sift through my feelings for both men: my attraction to Isaac and the strange way it makes me feel like I’m betraying Connor, even though connecting with other men is literally the point of the show. But after the confessionals are all done and Isaac—who waited for me to finish—gives me a sweet hug goodbye and a gentle kiss to my cheek (pants feelings, we meet again), Connor’s hand comes around my arm.
I think he’ll ask me about Isaac, or tell me why he was late, or one of a dozen other possibilities.
What I don’t expect is for him to quietly lean in and say, “Let me take you to Peter’s wedding. It’s easy to explain why I’d be there. I don’t want you to have to face that alone.”
