Falling Into Love with You (The Hate-Love Duet 2)

“More swoonworthy?” he says. “You admit I was already swoonworthy?”

“I admit nothing. I’m merely conceding there are probably plenty more nutjobs in this world than you who’d think so.”

Savage belly laughs. “Touché, Fitzy. Too-fucking-shay.”

Butterflies.

They’ve just now whooshed into my belly at the sound of his laughter.

With a little wink to me, Savage returns to his phone, so I look out the car window for a while, biting back a huge smile. After a few minutes of staring at the coastline, I realize our car has headed far enough north that we must be heading into Malibu. “Do you think we’re going to be staying in Malibu?”

Savage looks up from his phone and looks around for a beat. “It sure looks like we’re headed there.”

“I hope that’s where we’ll be living,” I say. “I love Malibu.”

“Me, too. I love the ocean.”

“So do I. I wish I could wake up every day of my life and see it, first thing.”

“You can. By the end of the season, you’ll have two million bucks in your bank account. Buy yourself a beachfront condo, if that’s your pleasure.”

I press my lips together. That’s not going to happen, for several reasons. After taxes and commissions, and a few important things I want to do for my family, there won’t be much left of that two million bucks. Certainly, not enough to upgrade my small condo in the Valley to something along the coast. Beachfront property isn’t cheap. Plus, Savage is assuming I’ll make it to the end of the season on the show. When in reality, that’s not a certainty.

Unfortunately, when Daria and I finally got my contract from the show yesterday, it contained a buy-out clause that would allow the show to terminate me at any time for a payment of a hundred grand. Daria said the clause was non-negotiable. A dealbreaker. So, I signed on the dotted line. Luckily, Daria also assured me the chances the producers would exercise the buy-out were virtually nil. But, still, to be safe, I’m not going to spend a dime of my earnings from the show unless and until I’m positive I’m going to be around for the long haul. And even then, most of my salary will go toward helping my family in ways I’ve dreamed of doing for a while now, so a beachfront condo will have to wait.

The car makes a turn off the highway that makes it clear my Malibu guess was right, and ten minutes later, our SUV pulls to a stop in front of a large, gated home that’s instantly recognizable to me—a cliffside mansion I’ve seen countless times on one of my favorite reality TV shows.

“Oh my gosh!” I blurt, my butt dancing on the car seat beneath me. “This is the mansion from The Engagement Experiment!”

Six

Savage

As our SUV rolls to a stop in front of a large Mediterranean-style home seated on a cliff in Malibu, Laila shrieks, “My mom and sister are going to freak out we’re living at the mansion from The Engagement Experiment!”

I’ve never watched the long-running reality TV dating show Laila’s referenced, but I’m familiar with its basic concept, since Sasha watches it with Mimi sometimes. Also, my feed on Twitter is constantly filled with memes and tweets about that show, so I’m passively kept up to date on the gist of it.

“Is this where Savage and I will be living for the next three months?” Laila excitedly asks the driver.

“It sure is,” the man replies, making Laila squeal and bop around in her seat.

The bodyguard in the passenger seat says, “Please wait here, while I do a sweep of the area.”

When the bodyguard exits the car, the driver steps out, too, leaving Laila and me alone. Laila leans back and says, “Have you ever watched The Engagement Experiment?”

“No, but I know the concept. A bunch of fame-hungry women live in a big house, vying to get ‘selected’ by some random dude who’s been anointed ‘Prince Charming’ by the show, for no discernible reason. At the end, the ‘happy couple’ rides off into the sunset, only to break up as soon as their contract allows, at which point, they become influencers who can charge upwards of fifty grand per Instagram post.”

Laila makes a face like she’s offended.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “You can’t possibly think anyone actually finds true love on that show.”

“Some of them do,” she insists. But when I look at her like she’s naive, she adds, “At least, I think they think they do . . . for a little while. Whatever. The only reason I asked if you’ve seen the show is to explain that, at the beginning of each season, before the contestants start getting the boot, thirty women live in this house together, and there’s plenty of room for all of them. So, I think we should be able to avoid killing each other over the next three months, if only barely.”