Runaway Groom (I Do, I Don't 2)

The worst part—which is saying something, considering this whole thing’s a nightmare—is that I don’t even get to choose which twenty. The preliminary round is the “viewer participation round.” The show will air tonight, and over the next three days, the viewers get to vote on which five get eliminated.

Yes, you read that right. A bunch of women sitting on their couch with chardonnay and reduced-fat Oreos get input on my future wife.

I’m told I get a veto, but considering I can spend only two minutes with each woman, I don’t know that it even matters. How the hell am I supposed to know in two minutes which woman might be “the one”?

“You ready for this?” Raven asks.

I give her a look, and she surprises me by giving me a smile of commiseration. “It’ll be better than you think.”

I think of my brother and Layla and their new baby, and I shrug.

Maybe she’s right.

It sure as hell can’t be worse than my life as it is now.

Ellie

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“Of course you can. You can do anything.”

I’d roll my eyes at the quintessential mom comment, but my stomach’s too busy doing the rolling.

“No, like for real…I don’t think I can make myself go out there.” I take a sip of flavored seltzer, hoping it’ll settle my stomach.

“Ellie. Sweetie,” my mom coos into the phone. “He’ll love you. Everyone does.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Did you get some self-help book on mother/daughter relationships or something? You’re sounding very Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul.”

“Marjorie told me you were freaking out. I wanted to be prepared.”

I hear a rustle of paper and imagine a whole slew of motivational quotes in her messy handwriting.

“Marjorie should be the one freaking out,” I mutter. “She got me into this situation.”

“This situation,” of course, being the fact that any minute now the hammer will slam down on the final nail in my dignity’s coffin.

I, Ellie Wright, resourceful, no-nonsense business owner, am about to become a contestant on Jilted, a ridiculous TV show in which I and twenty-four other women compete to be the bride of Gage Barrett.

Gage Barrett, people.

When I agreed to go to the audition it was with the assumption that it’d be some balding loser whose last chance of finding a future bride and baby mama was having a bunch of women literally delivered to him. In my wildest dream, I’d never imagined that the Runaway Groom to be “won” was the hottest name—and body—in Hollywood.

Sorry, did I say wildest dream?

I meant worst nightmare.

I have about as much use for a diva actor as I do for a third tit.

My only reason for doing this show in the first place is to rummage up some free publicity for my company, High Tee.

And even that came only after a prosecco-fueled “brainstorming” session. I don’t think Marjorie (BFF and co-founder) or I ever thought I’d actually make it through the initial selection process.

Yet here I am, expected to woo Gage Barrett in two minutes if I want to get to the Maui round.

Which I’m not sure I do.

“Did you decide on the black dress or the red?” Mom asks, as though that’s the pivotal question here.