Page 27 of One to Watch

Mack gave Bea a warm smile, and in the next instant, a producer was tugging on Bea’s sleeve, leading her out the front door, down the wide stone steps, and into the living rooms of several million Americans.

TWITTER THREAD FROM USER @REALI-TEA

@Reali-Tea Okay shippers & sippers, time for the season premiere of Main Squeeze! Let’s see if a lady of largesse can find love on our teevees. Ready?!

@Reali-Tea … but first, one million corporate sponsors. Bea uses Lucky Lippies Lipstick in her everyday life? WHAT A COINCIDENCE, they’re also advertisers on ABS!

@Reali-Tea Ok ok ok, Bea’s doing her live interview with Johnny, she’s excited to meet her men, FRANKLY SAME. WHERE ARE THEY?

@Reali-Tea Ah, well. Time for a commercial break. Hiya, Lucky Lippies!

@Reali-Tea HERE WE GO, the first guy is about to walk onstage! Bea looks nervous but maybe a little amped? Go get ’em, sister. We’re with you.

@Reali-Tea Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

@Reali-Tea I don’t know if I can actually watch this.

It only took a few seconds for Bea to get used to the lights. In a way, they were helpful; she couldn’t see the audience or the crew, only what was happening onstage a few feet in front of her. For her first several minutes on camera, that was restricted to Johnny Ducey’s crookedly attractive face, made somehow stranger and blurrier by a combination of Botox and the uppers Bea was quite sure he hadn’t kicked, as if he were now a wax model of the movie star he used to be.

Johnny asked Bea all the softball questions Lauren had prepped her for, and Bea delivered all her scripted answers, eliciting the appropriate laughter, empathy, and applause from the studio audience. By the time they broke for the first commercial, Bea was feeling much calmer. This wasn’t a massive first date on live TV where it actually mattered what the men across the table thought of her—it was the highly scripted opening act of a story with a preordained ending. This was just the requisite meet-cute that would lead to romantic dates and declarations of love and, eventually, a picture-perfect engagement. Lauren had a plan—all Bea had to do was follow it.

When the commercial break was over, Bea stood at her mark at center stage. Behind the mansion, the sun was setting over the Pacific, and the whole set was bathed in a soothing pink glow, accentuated by the warm lights.

Bea smiled placidly as her first suitor walked toward her.

He was backlit at first, but as he came into focus, Bea took in his broad shoulders and narrow waist, his muscles rippling beneath the perfectly fitted fabric of his Italian wool suit, his thick golden hair, warm brown eyes. He was looking at her with distaste—or maybe, worse, disgust.

“Hi,” he said tentatively, well mannered but clearly perplexed. “Are you … Bea?”

“Yes, hi, I’m Bea.” She struggled to maintain composure even though her heart was pounding. “What’s your name?”

“Brian,” he replied. “So, you’re the person we’re going to be dating? Sorry, I’m just a little surprised.”

That makes two of us, buddy, Bea thought—this guy didn’t bring a new look to the show in any way whatsoever. She smiled wider.

“Yep, that’s me! I guess you should head over there, and we’ll talk later?”

Bea nodded toward the risers behind her where the men were meant to stand and wait as the rest of them filed onstage. Brian wandered off, looking dazed—Bea felt the same way. Was this just ratings bait, throwing out a stunning Adonis before Bea got to meet the diverse range of men who might actually look like they had any interest in dating her? That must be it. Of course that was it. Bea squared her shoulders and mentally prepared herself to meet the next man, someone she could sell to the world as her Prince Charming. She could do this. She was ready.

Then the second man appeared.

He was imposing and Latino with powerful arms and pillowy lips, like a young Javier Bardem with a mischievous smile. He wore fitted jeans and a button-down, but the ten-gallon Stetson made the outfit.

“Well, howdy,” he greeted her warmly with a thick Texas accent, and Bea was momentarily so captivated that she forgot to be horrified.

“Hi, I’m Bea.”

“Bea? Jaime. It’s a damn pleasure to meet you.” He kissed her hand. “Can I say damn? I don’t know the rules.”

“Who cares about rules?” Bea blurted, and Jaime let out a full laugh, a great laugh—the audience appreciatively joined in.

“Talk more soon, I hope.” He gave her hand a squeeze and headed off—Bea didn’t bother not to stare at his ass as he left. Talk about damn.

Except—wait. That was two men who could just as easily have been Calvin Klein models as contestants on this show. But before Bea could think too much about what was happening, the third man walked onstage: He was young and Black with a broad, muscular frame, a thick mustache, and a dazzling smile, the spitting image of Michael B. Jordan. No. This wasn’t happening. These were all the same men you always saw on Main Squeeze—more diverse by skin color, sure, but so far, Bea thought these men looked far more likely to give advice on weight-lifting technique than give her the time of day.

Bea needed to talk to Lauren—crap, they were on live television—could she maybe signal a producer? Get someone’s attention? She turned to see who might be around, which of course was the exact moment the third man extended his arms to give Bea a hug hello, and poked her directly in the stomach instead. Bea closed her eyes and imagined the moment replayed in slow motion on YouTube, an unflattering GIF of her mid-section shimmying up the list of trending topics on Twitter.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, I was trying to hug you—”