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So, though I can’t failsafe against a bad boy eventually emerging, there is one thing I’ll absolutely never tolerate on my show, and that’s a fame-hungry ex-lover.
Ugh. Cringe.
There won’t be any surprise visits from jilted ex-boyfriends—or ex-girlfriends—on this show, thank you very much. After years of my life spent studying various reality dating shows, dissecting them episode by episode, cast member by cast member, analyzing the good, the bad, and the downright nasty, I know what works. And everyone loves a villain.
Fine. I can accept that.
But audiences rarely react well to an ex showing up and throwing a wrench into things.
So, unattached doesn’t just mean single, it means single for a long—but not too long—amount of time. Long enough that he won’t have some recently-jilted ex-girlfriend popping off to the tabloids, but not single so long that the audience will question why he’s still a bachelor.
Because a perpetual bachelor is just that: perpetual.
Sigh.
Is it too late to delegate? (Asking for a friend.)
In this glorious age of the internet, anything can be found online with just a little bit of digging, so in addition to thoroughly investigating each man’s dating history, my crew was tasked with digging up anything even slightly untoward. No records. No arrests. No charges. Not even a jaywalking ticket will pass through to the final round.
Am I being too careful? Possibly. But I have one shot at this, and I’m not about to blow it.
A DUI arrest could mean a history of alcohol abuse. A speeding ticket could indicate recklessness. A battery charge could be a one-off barfight… or a history of domestic abuse. There is just no way to know, so I have no room to take chances.
You’d think that all my prerequisites would have thinned the herd.
And you’d be wrong.
So here I sit, surrounded by hundreds of composite cards that need to be narrowed down to twenty-three finalists by—I glance at the time on my desktop computer—yeah, two days ago.
But it’s fine.
I’m fine.
Help?
Chapter Two
Dawson
Driving my hand through my hair, I pace divots into the plush carpet of my oceanfront hotel room. It’s certainly nicer digs than I’m used to, and I’m a bit surprised my cousin sprang for such a place; it had to have cost him a pretty penny. But now that I know his motives, I realize the room’s extravagance is a direct reflection of his guilt.
And he should feel guilty.
I flew out to Los Angeles on a redeye flight because this little weasel promised me a spot on an upcoming cooking show. I stopped everything and raced across the country for my big break.
What Mikey failed to mention until he got me here, however, is that this cooking show is not just a competition in the kitchen, but a fucking dating show.
A dating show.
Breathing deeply, I try to keep my cool while Mikey backpedals on the other end of the line.
“It’s a great opportunity, man, you have to know that.”
It takes everything in me not to reach through the phone and strangle him. I don’t give a shit if he is Mama’s favorite nephew; blood only goes so far when there’s a betrayal of this size on the table. “I’m not doing a fucking dating show,” I growl.
“Think of the opportunity, man. I pulled a ton of strings to get you in.”
Breathing deeply, I try to unclench my jaw. I know he must have pulled strings. I do. And I know I should be thankful. No, I am thankful.
