Chapter 1 — Jessa

I can’t tell you yet what it’s like to be on a reality TV show, but I can tell you what it’s like to show up late for your first day of filming one. 

You get dirty looks, a rushed makeup job, and nobody available to do your hair. Which means your hair looks just like it did when you rolled over in your hotel bed this morning, saw what time it was, and panicked. And that, in my case, means my hair looks like I stuck two asymmetrical brown tumbleweeds on either side of my head and called it a day.

You should know that this is so not me. I’m not the type of person to go on a reality TV dating show. Or to show up late anywhere.

But times are changing.

I’m in Northern California at the filming location, an obnoxiously gorgeous luxury resort owned by that media giant family, the Sincourts. I’m vaguely aware of the green, grassy hills and bright blue sky around me, but right now I don’t have time to appreciate the view. 

“Holy cat-crackers, I still can’t believe I’m late. I’m never late. I’m so sorry I’m late.” 

The short woman in front of me barely takes the time to spare a glance in my direction, and I get the feeling I should stop reminding people of my tardiness. Unless I want them to resent me, that is.

“What’s a cat-cracker?” she says.

A valid question. And a much better topic of conversation than my tardiness. 

“Oh, don’t ask me, I have no clue,” I tell her. “Though if I had to guess, a literal definition might involve kibble, catnip, and an experiment in panini press technology.”

The woman’s name is Sophie and she introduced herself as the show producer assigned to me on set. I almost feel like apologizing to her for it. 

“I made up the phrase ‘cat-crackers,’” I explain. “By the way, which one sounds better: ‘holy cat-crackers’ or ‘holy cat-cakes?’ I’m trying to find non-sweary ways to swear, since there’s no cursing on The 90-Day Catch.”

“You know they’ll just bleep out any swear words you say when the show airs, right?”

“Yes, of course.” 

The Catch airs on network television at 8 p.m. In other words, at a time when impressionable young children might still be up trying to resist bedtime instead of letting their parents relax and enjoy their trashy television. That means the language is censored, because if it wasn’t, you’d have little kids giving their classmates inappropriate vocabulary lessons on Friday mornings.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m usually not opposed to dropping an f-bomb if the situation calls for it,” I say. “But I don’t want to get bleeped too much, you know? If I should lose myself in passion for one reason or another, I wouldn’t want to lose half my passion to bleeps.”

Besides, I’ve done my research. I don’t tell Sophie this part, but I happen to know that contestants who get bleeped too much never win. The show might keep them around for the drama, since they’re the ones most likely to go off on a colorful rant about how they’re hot for the Catch or irritated with the other contestants. 

But the most-bleeped contestant will never be enough of America’s sweetheart to win the whole shebang. The network wouldn’t stand for it.

And not winning this thing is not an option for me. I touch the rose gold locket necklace on my chest, picturing what’s inside—my favorite picture of me and my little sister—to remind me of why.

If I have to come up with some creative non-curse words to get around the censors and win this thing, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.

Remind me to keep that explanation on hand later in case someone finds me muttering “cat-crackers, cat-cakes” to myself as I try to decide between them.

It may seem silly, but this amount of preparation makes sense, I swear. Or rather, I don’t swear. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?

Sophie leads me down a hall, then changes her mind and doubles back to make a sharp turn to the right. I nearly trip over myself turning to follow her. 

I’m trotting to keep up, because for some reason it takes me several steps to match just one of hers, even though she’s several inches shorter than I am. It must be something about her energy—the portly, red-haired woman seems like the type who doesn’t even need caffeine to go a million miles a minute, but gulps down more than her fair share of coffee anyway.

“Don’t mind me, I’m a little scattered today. Only got to grab one cup of coffee this morning,” she says, flashing me a smile. “Usually I’ve had three times that much by now!”

Yup. 

She turns her smile away just as quickly as she flashed it, like any half-second spent on nothing but pleasantries will take away from her efficiency. 

This isn’t how today was supposed to feel. I was supposed to be cool, calm, and collected. I’ve done a ton of research on the show, and I know what I’m doing when it comes to research, so I’ve got a foolproof game plan for how to win. 

Being late was not part of the game plan. Why, why, why did I have to oversleep today, of all days? 

Staying up last night and binge-watching past seasons of Catch on my laptop at double speed was a bad idea. I know this now. I knew this then. 

I half-expected to wake up this morning with my mouth repeating a cliché line like “He’s the one for me.” I pictured myself unable to say anything else, like that episode of Dexter’s Laboratory that had Dexter stuck saying “omelette du fromage” for everything from panic to seduction.

“He’s the one for me!” I’d shriek inconsolably, trying to convince the producers that I broke my noodle and I need a brain doctor to look at it ASAP.

Sophie interrupts my replay of this nightmare scenario with, “So, ‘Jess H.’ Is that what you’re going by?”

I’m glad I don’t have to answer in terms of cheese omelettes.

“That’s me!”

Yep. That’s me. I’m going from being Jessalyn Hargrove, sensible human with a sensible job in data analytics, to living life as “Jess H!”

Jess H. speaks in exclamation points (I’ve been practicing). Jess H. is the kind of girl who gets her nails done. I, on the other hand, am not used to having the extra half-inch of acrylic on the tips of my nails. So this morning when I was rushing to zip up my suitcases, I got the cursed nail on my ring finger caught in one of the suitcase zippers, causing a pain that caused a sound that would surely get bleeped by the censors. 

Bleep you and your fashion sense, Jess H. 

Jess H. is also the kind of perky go-getter who believes in true love and is actually excited about signing up for a dating reality television show. 

Not like the me who’s Jessalyn, who’s dreading the whole ordeal, and asking herself, not for the first time, what the hell she was thinking when she decided to do this. 

I’m going to stop thinking of myself and my multiple personas in the third person now. Wouldn’t want to make it a habit and speak this way out loud in a cringe-tastic display of weirdness on camera.

For the record, I told the show’s producers that I go by “Jess” before I saw the list of contestants’ names. Before I saw the four other iterations of “Jess” and “Jessica.” So, for now at least, I’m going to be Jess H. Like I’m a 2nd grader in a classroom full of kids whose moms once wanted to be Jessica Simpson when they grew up. 

“It’s so elementary school, though,” Sophie says with a wrinkle in her nose. Because Sophie seems to be able to read my mind. “Maybe we call you Jessa instead?”

I hesitate. It’s not that I have an issue with being called Jessa. In fact, that’s what all my family and close friends call me. But that’s kind of the problem. Jessa is me—not the reality show persona I’m trying to embody for the next ninety days. 

“Sure. Jessa works,” I say anyway. If Sophie thinks it’s better, then I’ll go with it.

Bye-bye, Jess H. 

I do have one thing to be grateful for: Quint Sincourt won’t be seeing me in my disheveled state today. Quint’s the man I’m about to compete for, the one who’s now known as “the Catch” on the show.

The man I’m about to compete for. I do hear myself, in case you’re wondering, and I can hardly believe I’m doing this either. 

Throwing myself desperately at a man while cameras roll for all the world to see? I don’t care how hot he is or what he’s got going on behind those good looks of his. I’ve never in my life met a man who deserved to have twenty-four women compete for the chance to marry him after knowing him for only ninety days. 

There was a time when I thought I wouldn’t be caught dead going on a show like this. But believe me. I have my reasons.

I touch my locket again, thinking of Ella.

Sophie stops in front of a wide, black curtain, so I guess we’ve reached our destination. 

I’m hoping I’ll have time to settle in and get some alone time before I have to be with the rest of the cast, but as I stop to listen, I hear them already. 

The sound of two dozen women on the prowl.

They’re murmuring and giggling and tittering about, probably halfway through orientation already. 

And every single one of them is gorgeous.

Okay, so I can’t know that for sure. I can’t even see them yet. But trust me, when it comes to “the look” for this show, I can be sure that several of them were born with supermodel looks, while others achieve aesthetic perfection every day with their makeup, fillers, and probably magical powers they picked up from a deal with the devil. That’s just how the casting for this show goes. 

Sure, I can clean up nicely enough, seeing as I also managed to get cast. 

But here I am, with the mess of tumbleweeds I’m trying to pass off as “hair” and my wrinkly jumpsuit (sure didn’t have time for ironing this morning, or this bad boy would’ve been smooth as paper). 

I’ve had my doubts before, but it’s only just now sinking in how small the odds are of winning this. I’ve obsessed about my research and figured out exactly what it takes to win, but do I really stand a chance against these made-for-TV beauties? 

My chest tightens and when I put my hand to it, my locket touches me. I hold onto it, cool and firm in my palm. 

My sister needs me. I need to get myself together.

“They’re already shooting one of the opening segments,” Sophie whispers. “We’ll have to wait for a break to get you in.” 

Just knowing I won’t have to immediately rush in there helps relief wash over me. 

“I’ll be back in a flash,” I tell Sophie.

Her eyes widen, and before she can tell me I have to stay right here, I avoid her gaze and slip away. 

****

I just need a moment to breathe. It shouldn’t be difficult to find a spot to be alone—it would take the population of a whole city to pack this place to the point of being crowded. 

I find a pretty little alcove tucked into a throughway between two buildings. This is as good a place as any. I can’t wander off too far, or poor Sophie might just drop dead from the stress. 

The bench feels cool beneath me as I sit, plant my feet on the ground, and close my eyes.

Then I take in a deep breath—just to swallow it with a gasp when a male voice enters the space around me.

“You’re not supposed to be over here, you know.”

I stand up and look around, my heart pounding and chest hurting from that sharp intake of breath. That’s when I see them—two tall, dark-haired figures looming down the hall from me. 

The taller one, who’s hot enough to melt an ice sculpture, is the Catch himself, Quint Sincourt. Seeing him in person is like seeing a model step off the pages of a magazine. His face is more clean shaven than I’ve seen in photos, revealing a chiseled jaw and impeccable cheekbones. 

What a face. What a stunningly handsome face. 

A face I’m not supposed to see until next week.

Oh, holy cat-cakes. 

The good news is that the guy who spoke wasn’t talking to me. They haven’t even seen me yet. This might actually count as great news, if not for the fact that I’m about to explode with a hiccup that will surely give my presence away. 

That’s what swallowing a bunch of air will do to you. So much for the benefits of deep breathing. I knew it was a scam.

With my hands clamped over my mouth, I slip silently around a corner to where they can’t see me. I can still peer through slats in the wall to keep my eyes on them. 

“Not supposed to be here? I can be wherever I want,” Quint answers the other man. “It’s my show, remember?”

He certainly sounds sure of himself. That must come with the territory of being a billionaire at birth and having women vie for your eligible bachelor attention. 

The other man snorts. “Your show, huh? Try telling that to our control freak producers.” 

I really shouldn’t be listening to this. I’m not even supposed to see Quint in person yet, let alone be privy to his private conversations. But I’m already feeling behind the other women, being late and all, and this could be an opportunity to learn more about him and get an edge.

Again, this is so not me. Showing up late and breaking the rules as soon as I get here? This made-for-TV version of me is something else. 

 “We’re way too close to where they’re filming the contestants,” the other man continues. “The girls could see you and it would ruin everything.” 

“Oh, please do ruin everything,” Quint says. “The producers know as well as you do that I do not want to be here.”

What? This throws me off so much, I almost take my hands off my mouth before I remember I’m fighting hiccups. 

I’ve done all my preparation based on the idea that this guy’s trying to find true love. Now, it turns out he doesn’t even want to be here?

What the bleep?

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