First impressions are everything. Screw up and you won’t get a second.
—Shacking Up: The Definitive, Unauthorized Guide to Winning Love Shack
Chapter One
I’m the last one out of the limos, the twentieth woman Roland will meet tonight.
It’s a challenge to hoist myself up in my sequined fishtail dress. The other nineteen champagne-buzzed women made it look so easy, squaring their shoulders and winking back as if to say, See you on the other side.
My seat belt snags, and the driver, a balding man who seems bored of inept women, has to yank it out of the socket for me. Then my legs can’t part wide enough to exit the vehicle without assistance. Curse this ridiculous dress. The way it makes my ass look can’t possibly be worth this much trouble.
With the driver’s help, I finally totter onto my heels and take a deep breath. If getting out of a limo was the hardest part of tonight, I’m in good shape. But I know it’ll just get worse from here.
Around me, Love Shack producers swarm like gnats, already shadowing my every move. The handheld cameras in the limo were invasive, but nothing compared to the fifteen or so shoved into my face now like I’m a starlet on the Oscars red carpet. I’d naïvely thought I would get a few minutes to collect myself, maybe even meet Roland before our first interaction is filmed for the masses. But in the brief second when the cameras stop rolling, a makeup brush is thrust in my face and phantom hands reach around my chest to adjust my body microphone. Then someone shouts “Action!” and everything whirls back into motion.
Like magic, the sea of cameras parts, giving me a direct line of sight up the driveway to Roland Marchetti. Behind him, the infamous Love Shack mansion spreads like hot butter along the Malibu coast, backlit by a cotton candy sunset. At this hour, the surf is quiet, the distant waves barely audible over the whirring of cameras and constant buzzing of nerves in my head. The ocean smell sneaks up my nose like bath salts, but far from jolting me awake, it calms me down. It’s familiar, even if everything else, from the body mics to the miles of electrical cords, isn’t.
On cue, I take my first step toward Roland. I know how this goes; they drilled it into our heads for the entire fifteen-minute drive from our holding rooms at the Best Malibu Motel. Up the driveway, stop and smile, meet your husband.
Easy.
What they failed to mention was the sheer quantity of open flames.
Candles line every inch of the gravel driveway, and I shuffle forward, uncomfortably aware of just how flammable I am. From the bottom of my dress, it’s a quick trip north to my head, which, at the moment, is more hairspray than hair. You’d think that after an entire can and no luck getting my flyaways to stay down, I would have given up, but no. It was on to a second can, as if I were trying to become a bombshell in more ways than one.
“And stop,” a producer says, a second too late. My chest bumps into the camera in front of me, giving future viewers an Only Fans–level angle on my tightly squeezed chest. I stumble back and get ahold of myself, plastering on a smile that I hope doesn’t say Enjoy the view!
I’ve almost reached Roland when a producer signals for us to wait. For a few seconds, we stand facing each other in a silent limbo. Behind his manufactured smile, Roland looks tired, though I can’t blame him. Meeting twenty prospective wives in one evening is no easy feat. And it’s not like the promo video would have shown him in anything less than prime condition. On my computer screen, Roland lunged across a tennis court, sipped dark beer, hugged his mother, grilled. “And he could be yours!” the promo shrieked, like he was the newest Dyson vacuum. The final shot was Roland winking, a dark smolder in his gray eyes. The same smolder he turns on me now as a producer gives us the go-ahead.
I shoot a furtive glance at the cameras and hold out my hand to him.
“Hi, I’m Georgia.” A simple introduction: not as bold as the woman who did seminude cartwheels up the driveway or the yodeler I could hear from three limos back, but hopefully memorable all the same.
“Hi,” he echoes. My heart softens at his shy little grin. He seems as nervous as I am, but for different reasons.
“You look stunning.” His gaze travels down my turquoise sequins and snags briefly on my chest. I shift uncomfortably and pull my smile tighter. This is what you signed up for, I remind myself. This is what you expected.
“You’re tall,” he says, then, “Shit, I don’t know why I said that. You know how tall you are, and anyway…”
I laugh, even though the comment prickles. If I had a dollar for every time someone’s commented on my height, well, I certainly wouldn’t have taken this job. “It’s okay—I am tall. But you’re definitely taller.” Even in my heels, my eyes are just level with his lips. “I’m sure that helps when you’re on the court. But I’ve got to say, you look a little different tonight than you usually do on TV.”
He smiles broadly and steps back so I can get a fuller look at him.
“Oh yeah? Different how?” He holds out his arms and does a little spin.
I smirk, pretending to think about his question. “Well, usually you’re wearing a bit less, there’s a racket in your hand, cheering fans in the stands. But that movie-star smile is about the same.”
He grins. “I think the biggest difference is the beautiful woman in front of me.” The response is so perfect I couldn’t have planned it. But I know the microphones catch it—he probably has one hidden in the folds of his navy tie. The words aren’t just for me.
“I’ll see you inside, Georgia Peach,” he says. My chest swells with pride at the nickname.
“You’re not the first man to call me that,” I tell him. Then I bite my tongue. Why the hell did I say that? Everything I planned on saying—everything I carefully prepared—is oozing from my brain under the hot TV lights.
“But maybe the last?” He quirks up an eyebrow.
Relief washes through me. It’s not so much him as the fact that his words sound like they’ve been plucked from a blockbuster romance script. But this is Love Shack, after all. Millions of viewers don’t tune in for tepid conversations about the weather. They tune in for true love.
Too bad that’s not why I’m here.
New rumors have surfaced about Love Shack’s producers. Previous contestants anonymously report that they were emotionally manipulated, trapped in interview rooms, and severely underfed. Thinking of applying for the hit show? Think again.
—“A Love Shack or a House of Horrors?,” LitFeed, six months ago
Chapter Two
The cameras stay outside with Roland, so I have a few feet of breathing room on my way into the mansion (or rather, gasping room, thanks to my boa constrictor of a dress).
Once I catch my breath, I lose it all over again at the sight of the palatial foyer. To my right, a winding staircase curves up to a second floor. A crystal chandelier dangles above me, fracturing the spotlights into glimmers across the stucco walls. With a glance at the line of cameras to my left, I walk across the entryway to the sitting room ahead.
Under the high ceiling is utter chaos. Potted plants and velvet beanbag chairs have been shoved into corners, and blankets are hung up over the windows to block all light except the LEDs. Long folding tables line the room, stacks of paper spilling off the ends and harassed-looking producers standing behind them.
In the middle of everything is a U-shaped couch with nineteen elegant women perched atop it and one open spot left for me.
I step forward, and something crunches under my shoe.
A producer in a beanie shouts, “Where’s the deck? Shit, I lost it!”
My dress pinches me in the stomach as I bend down to pick up the piece of paper. Headshots litter the page, twenty bright smiles sparkling at me through the wrinkled printer paper. It takes a second to find myself in the corner, given that I look more like a model for teeth whitening than myself. A few photos, including mine, are circled in red pen. Under my disembodied head are the words: “Georgia, 27, Music Journalist.”
I almost burst out laughing. It could be a child’s haiku of my life. Not inaccurate, but certainly not the full picture. When the show airs, these words will follow my face around like a mugshot placard. In a more accurate world, it would also list my crime: “Georgia, 27, Here to Topple Love Shack’s Reality TV Empire.”
This photo was taken when I still could have backed out, told Serena that I couldn’t go along with her plan, claimed there was some reason I couldn’t leave my life for six weeks—a more compelling reason, that is, than cleaning Presley’s litter box and putting out the trash on Wednesdays. Certainly she couldn’t go on the show. She had a “life” to attend to.
“Come on, Georgia,” Serena had wheedled, “you’re perfect for the show. You look like you were birthed into a Billabong ad.”
I spit out my seltzer but took the compliment and ultimately agreed to go undercover. When I was cast, I signed my life away via Love Shack’s nondisclosure contract. Though when they mentioned they weren’t liable for death, I hadn’t expected suffocation by formalwear.
“Hey, what are you doing with that?” The beanie producer snatches the paper out of my hand and lumbers away. I scowl at his retreating back, then take stock of the couch.
It seems to be divided into two distinct groups: The women on the left sit with their backs arched and drinks balanced carefully in their hands. The women on the right are laughing uncontrollably, their drinks in danger of spilling onto the tangerine carpet. A woman with curly red hair scooches over to make room for me between herself and a pretty, dimpled woman whose wheelchair is pressed up against the end of the couch.
“Hi, I’m Brooklyn. Brooklyn Levy, not that last names seem to matter around here.” She rolls her eyes as she leans against the back of her wheelchair and fluffs up her curly hair—blond to her shoulders, stylishly brown at the roots.
“I’m Georgia.” I return her smile. “Just Georgia.”
The redheaded woman on my other side looks older than the rest of us, probably in her mid-thirties. Practically geriatric by Love Shack standards, at least when the lead is a man. “Hi, Just Georgia, I’m Olie,” she says, sticking out her hand, “like ravioli.”
She has a deep voice and gives off a whiff of caricature. Her curly hair reaches up and out in all directions, and her eyes are so heavily made up I can’t tell if they’re naturally such a deep green or if it’s just the reflection of her eyeshadow.
Olie-Ravioli gulps the last of her champagne, then tosses her glass to the ground. My shock must show because she rolls her eyes and mutters, “Plastic … Like they’d give us anything breakable.”
“I guess the only thing that’ll be breaking around here is hearts,” Brooklyn says.
Olie barks a laugh, and I tune out their conversation to focus on the producers huddled at the other side of the room, watching us intently. They point, scribble on clipboards, but don’t engage: scientists examining lab rats.
There’s no sign yet of Lainey Williams, Love Shack’s executive producer and the key to the allegations I’m here to investigate. Right now, she’s probably tucked in a dark room, listening to the feeds from twenty women’s body mics. I wonder if she can hear how fast my heart is beating, if she can tell I’m here for her.
Brooklyn pokes me, trying to draw me back into their conversation. “Who do you think the host is?” she whispers, eyebrows wiggling. “I heard a rumor they got Oprah. God, imagine lounging by the pool with Oprah. I’d lose my shit. You get a husband! You get a husband!”
“One of you gets a husband!” The shout comes from the doorway, making us all jump. A Viking-esque producer with a deep Scottish brogue and thick rust-red facial hair walks in. I have to tip my head to see his face—he must be at least six-five. “Or at least, that’s the idea. Now Roland’s going to walk through that door, right there”—he points dramatically to the entryway—“and it’ll be the best thing you’ve ever seen. The anticipation has been mounting since you met him outside, tensions are running high, hearts are pounding!” he bellows, then looks down at us and softens his voice. “I’m Norbert, by the way. Does anyone need a refill?”
I glance around. My plastic glass is almost full while everyone else’s is empty. I fake a sip, but don’t let any liquid past my lips. I can’t afford to get wasted tonight.
Norbert holds a hand to his earpiece and motions for silence.
“This is it, ladies. Good luck!” He retreats to the hallway, leaving us with a few camera operators and our pooling sweat.
We hear the footsteps of our future husband before we see him. The tapping of his shoes on the polished wood floors quiets when he gets to the carpet. He rounds the corner, and the hushed gasps turn to laughter as we see that it’s not Roland, but someone else.
Red-brown hair, tan skin, adjusting his cuff links like he just stepped out of a motorcycle photo shoot in the desert. Cowboy boots instead of Oxfords like Roland was wearing.
My eyes zero in on his face and something flickers in my stomach.
He is certainly not Oprah.
“Ladies,” he says smoothly, the faintest hint of a Southern drawl swirling in the dregs of the word. “Nice to meet y’all.”
He looks around the room, taking us all in. His eyes land on me, and when he blinks, I feel it as deep as a bass drum pounding through a crowded room.
“I’m Rhett,” he says quietly, eyes locked with mine. The flicker in my stomach turns into a pulsing knot. “Rhett Auburn. And I’ll be your host this season.”
“He was the lead two years ago!” Brooklyn whispers as someone else gasps, “Have you heard his new album?”
Rhett’s eyes move on, passing over Brooklyn and Olie, and he gives the cameras a wink.
The other women melt, but I’m still sitting up straight as the memory hits me with full force.
A dark club, bodies pressed in on all sides, and the band dared everyone to kiss a stranger. It was a blur. The club, the music, the moment in the early, early morning when we fell into my bed.
Now, my eyes find his beneath the too-hot TV lights. The green flecks in his irises sparkle and my stomach somersaults. He clasps his hands together and smiles at the sea of women hanging onto his every word, but he directs the next line right to me.
“Welcome to the Love Shack.”
* * *
Rhett’s speech might be metaphor-stuffed clichés about everlasting love, or maybe he’s telling us that Love Shack has adopted an elimination-by-death policy. I have no clue. My head is buzzing too fast, my heart slamming against my ribs, and all I can think is He shouldn’t be here.
Roland finally enters the sitting room, looking far too shiny to be legal, but I can’t focus on anything he says. It’s nothing that hasn’t been said on previous seasons: He wants a wife, someone to share his life with, family is everything to him, and … I think I’m going to die in this overheated room.
When the cameras finally cut, I allow myself a single glance at the spot in the corner where Rhett had been standing, but he’s vanished.
Brooklyn pokes my arm, peering carefully at me. “You okay? Want some?” She holds out her champagne glass, and I take it, slosh the entire thing back, then clutch my stomach.
“Oh no,” I mutter.
“What—what’s wrong?” she asks.
“She’s probably just lovestruck,” Olie says sagely. She reaches around Brooklyn and thumps me so hard on the back that my teeth smash together. I stumble to my feet, the room spinning around me.
“I think I’m going to be sick.” I run from the room as fast as my heels will allow. Once I’m in the hall, I careen into the nearest bathroom, bolt the door behind me, then sink to the floor, my eyes straying to the ceiling corners to see if my breakdown is being filmed.
No cameras, but for some reason, a defibrillator next to the door. Do hearts often stop in this mansion? Or do they simply break, like Brooklyn said?
I’m so lightheaded from the alcohol and the smell of fresh paint on the walls that I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire mansion had suddenly turned into a Tilt-A-Whirl.
When I close my eyes, I’m back at the Pink Iguana club last year, Rhett’s hands on my waist as we swayed to the indie music beating from the speakers. His voice in my ear, sweet and smoky, as if whiskey had a sound.
I scrape my nails over the tiled floor and ball up my fists, sinking deeper into that night, seconds ticking by until we reached midnight, one AM, two AM, stumbling into my apartment. The way his eyes widened when he listened to me, like he really cared where in Reno I’d gotten my vintage LPs. The way he studied me. Carefully, gently. Like we both wanted to savor the eventual, delicious tumble into my bed.
That night, I’d told him things I’d never spoken aloud—how freelancing barely covered my rent, how I missed home and was lonely in LA. Secrets that spill faster when they’re spoken to a stranger. When he asked my name, I whispered in his ear like a debutante telling her suitor she’s not wearing panties.
“I’m Gracie Hart,” I said. A secret and a lie. The pseudonym I’d concocted to publish my investigative work under—the name only Serena and I knew.
That morning, waking up and finding him gone, as if I’d imagined him. Staring at myself in the dirty bathroom mirror, eyes zeroing in on the mark his lips left on my throat. Wondering if I’d done something wrong, or if this was the inevitable outcome of spending the night with someone whose boots cost more than my car.
He’s a celebrity, I told myself. And celebrities don’t want women like me. Not for more than one night.
When Serena was helping me prep for this assignment, asking me everything from my sixth-grade teacher’s name to my first boy band crush, I was supposed to tell her the whole truth. She already knew most of it, but there were little things that had slipped through the cracks of our friendship. Since I started writing freelance for Vivid, the lifestyle magazine where she’s the pop culture editor, and my writing really started to take off, she’d become more of a boss and less of a friend. Our weekly coffee meet-ups turned into monthly pitch sessions for new articles, and somewhere between her interrogation about my workout routine and the deep dive into the time I accidentally attended a Mosquitoes Aren’t Real convention, I decided she didn’t need to know about my night with Rhett. The job she was promising if I did this was too good to risk.
But now? Now it could ruin everything.
“Hello?” bellows a voice.
“Shit.” I pull myself up and check my face in the mirror.
“Is there a woman in there?” It’s Norbert, banging on the door. When I don’t answer right away, he shouts, “I’m breaking down the door!”
I lunge across the bathroom and open the door before Norbert can do any damage.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just freshening up.”
Norbert looks skeptical but nods and walks away, leaving me in peace.
“Georgia?”
I whirl around, expecting another producer, or even Roland. But Rhett is standing at the end of the hall, looking at me.
I stare at him for a few seconds, registering that he’s said my name. That he even knows my real name.
He glances up into the camera-free hallway corners and steps forward, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his microphone battery pack. Flicking it off, he runs a hand over his perfectly manicured topiary of stubble.
I want to speak first, but I don’t know what to say. What do you say to someone who gave you the steamiest night of your life and then evaporated with the dawn?
“Or Gracie?” he says, more softly. My heart drops. The only other time he’s spoken my pseudonym was when we were pressed up against the sticky muraled wall of the concert, his breath sliding down my neck as sweat slicked my back and heat thickened my tongue.
He opens his mouth to speak but I back away, frantically ripping at the cord running down my back.
“My microphone.” I try to unzip the back of my dress, but Rhett steps forward and tucks a finger under my neckline. Heat races up my chest as my back hits the wall. “What are you—”
Deftly, he tugs up the tiny microphone, squints at it, then pinches it hard between his fingers. “Listen to me,” he says. “We don’t have much time.” We don’t have much space is more like it. At most, there’s a few inches between us, and those inches are doing nothing to stem the tide rising in my chest. “You can’t let them know,” he whispers. “It would jeopardize both of our positions here.”
My mouth drops open, all the resentment I’ve held for the past year on the tip of my tongue. But he’s right, we don’t have time. At any moment a producer could scuttle around the corner, canceling out whatever safety this camera blind spot is providing.
I set my jaw and nod. “Wasn’t planning on it, but thanks for the reminder.”
He glances over his shoulder and steps, if possible, closer. So close that when I take a breath, my sequin-covered nipples brush his lapels and he inhales sharply.
“What should I call you?” he asks, eyebrow cocked.
I meet his eyes. “Georgia. If you—”
“Don’t worry,” he mutters. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Good.” I try to sound confident, but my voice is a bundle of nerves. I pull away from him, grab my microphone, and pinch it between my own fingers. “We should get back now. Wouldn’t want them to think you’ve pulled a four AM walkout on your host duties, would you?”
He jerks his head back like I’ve slapped him, but his face remains impassive.
I spin on my heel and stalk away before he can see how badly I’m shaking. He can promise anything he wants, but that doesn’t mean I believe him.
After all, the last promise he made me vanished with the morning.
MOST ELIGIBLE. Copyright © 2025 by Isabelle Giuttari. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271. Most Eligible by Isabelle Engel (Excerpt)
First impressions are everything. Screw up and you won’t get a second.
—Shacking Up: The Definitive, Unauthorized Guide to Winning Love Shack
Chapter One
I’m the last one out of the limos, the twentieth woman Roland will meet tonight.
It’s a challenge to hoist myself up in my sequined fishtail dress. The other nineteen champagne-buzzed women made it look so easy, squaring their shoulders and winking back as if to say, See you on the other side.
My seat belt snags, and the driver, a balding man who seems bored of inept women, has to yank it out of the socket for me. Then my legs can’t part wide enough to exit the vehicle without assistance. Curse this ridiculous dress. The way it makes my ass look can’t possibly be worth this much trouble.
With the driver’s help, I finally totter onto my heels and take a deep breath. If getting out of a limo was the hardest part of tonight, I’m in good shape. But I know it’ll just get worse from here.
Around me, Love Shack producers swarm like gnats, already shadowing my every move. The handheld cameras in the limo were invasive, but nothing compared to the fifteen or so shoved into my face now like I’m a starlet on the Oscars red carpet. I’d naïvely thought I would get a few minutes to collect myself, maybe even meet Roland before our first interaction is filmed for the masses. But in the brief second when the cameras stop rolling, a makeup brush is thrust in my face and phantom hands reach around my chest to adjust my body microphone. Then someone shouts “Action!” and everything whirls back into motion.
Like magic, the sea of cameras parts, giving me a direct line of sight up the driveway to Roland Marchetti. Behind him, the infamous Love Shack mansion spreads like hot butter along the Malibu coast, backlit by a cotton candy sunset. At this hour, the surf is quiet, the distant waves barely audible over the whirring of cameras and constant buzzing of nerves in my head. The ocean smell sneaks up my nose like bath salts, but far from jolting me awake, it calms me down. It’s familiar, even if everything else, from the body mics to the miles of electrical cords, isn’t.
On cue, I take my first step toward Roland. I know how this goes; they drilled it into our heads for the entire fifteen-minute drive from our holding rooms at the Best Malibu Motel. Up the driveway, stop and smile, meet your husband.
Easy.
What they failed to mention was the sheer quantity of open flames.
Candles line every inch of the gravel driveway, and I shuffle forward, uncomfortably aware of just how flammable I am. From the bottom of my dress, it’s a quick trip north to my head, which, at the moment, is more hairspray than hair. You’d think that after an entire can and no luck getting my flyaways to stay down, I would have given up, but no. It was on to a second can, as if I were trying to become a bombshell in more ways than one.
“And stop,” a producer says, a second too late. My chest bumps into the camera in front of me, giving future viewers an Only Fans–level angle on my tightly squeezed chest. I stumble back and get ahold of myself, plastering on a smile that I hope doesn’t say Enjoy the view!
I’ve almost reached Roland when a producer signals for us to wait. For a few seconds, we stand facing each other in a silent limbo. Behind his manufactured smile, Roland looks tired, though I can’t blame him. Meeting twenty prospective wives in one evening is no easy feat. And it’s not like the promo video would have shown him in anything less than prime condition. On my computer screen, Roland lunged across a tennis court, sipped dark beer, hugged his mother, grilled. “And he could be yours!” the promo shrieked, like he was the newest Dyson vacuum. The final shot was Roland winking, a dark smolder in his gray eyes. The same smolder he turns on me now as a producer gives us the go-ahead.
I shoot a furtive glance at the cameras and hold out my hand to him.
“Hi, I’m Georgia.” A simple introduction: not as bold as the woman who did seminude cartwheels up the driveway or the yodeler I could hear from three limos back, but hopefully memorable all the same.
“Hi,” he echoes. My heart softens at his shy little grin. He seems as nervous as I am, but for different reasons.
“You look stunning.” His gaze travels down my turquoise sequins and snags briefly on my chest. I shift uncomfortably and pull my smile tighter. This is what you signed up for, I remind myself. This is what you expected.
“You’re tall,” he says, then, “Shit, I don’t know why I said that. You know how tall you are, and anyway…”
I laugh, even though the comment prickles. If I had a dollar for every time someone’s commented on my height, well, I certainly wouldn’t have taken this job. “It’s okay—I am tall. But you’re definitely taller.” Even in my heels, my eyes are just level with his lips. “I’m sure that helps when you’re on the court. But I’ve got to say, you look a little different tonight than you usually do on TV.”
He smiles broadly and steps back so I can get a fuller look at him.
“Oh yeah? Different how?” He holds out his arms and does a little spin.
I smirk, pretending to think about his question. “Well, usually you’re wearing a bit less, there’s a racket in your hand, cheering fans in the stands. But that movie-star smile is about the same.”
He grins. “I think the biggest difference is the beautiful woman in front of me.” The response is so perfect I couldn’t have planned it. But I know the microphones catch it—he probably has one hidden in the folds of his navy tie. The words aren’t just for me.
“I’ll see you inside, Georgia Peach,” he says. My chest swells with pride at the nickname.
“You’re not the first man to call me that,” I tell him. Then I bite my tongue. Why the hell did I say that? Everything I planned on saying—everything I carefully prepared—is oozing from my brain under the hot TV lights.
“But maybe the last?” He quirks up an eyebrow.
Relief washes through me. It’s not so much him as the fact that his words sound like they’ve been plucked from a blockbuster romance script. But this is Love Shack, after all. Millions of viewers don’t tune in for tepid conversations about the weather. They tune in for true love.
Too bad that’s not why I’m here.
New rumors have surfaced about Love Shack’s producers. Previous contestants anonymously report that they were emotionally manipulated, trapped in interview rooms, and severely underfed. Thinking of applying for the hit show? Think again.
—“A Love Shack or a House of Horrors?,” LitFeed, six months ago
Chapter Two
The cameras stay outside with Roland, so I have a few feet of breathing room on my way into the mansion (or rather, gasping room, thanks to my boa constrictor of a dress).
Once I catch my breath, I lose it all over again at the sight of the palatial foyer. To my right, a winding staircase curves up to a second floor. A crystal chandelier dangles above me, fracturing the spotlights into glimmers across the stucco walls. With a glance at the line of cameras to my left, I walk across the entryway to the sitting room ahead.
Under the high ceiling is utter chaos. Potted plants and velvet beanbag chairs have been shoved into corners, and blankets are hung up over the windows to block all light except the LEDs. Long folding tables line the room, stacks of paper spilling off the ends and harassed-looking producers standing behind them.
In the middle of everything is a U-shaped couch with nineteen elegant women perched atop it and one open spot left for me.
I step forward, and something crunches under my shoe.
A producer in a beanie shouts, “Where’s the deck? Shit, I lost it!”
My dress pinches me in the stomach as I bend down to pick up the piece of paper. Headshots litter the page, twenty bright smiles sparkling at me through the wrinkled printer paper. It takes a second to find myself in the corner, given that I look more like a model for teeth whitening than myself. A few photos, including mine, are circled in red pen. Under my disembodied head are the words: “Georgia, 27, Music Journalist.”
I almost burst out laughing. It could be a child’s haiku of my life. Not inaccurate, but certainly not the full picture. When the show airs, these words will follow my face around like a mugshot placard. In a more accurate world, it would also list my crime: “Georgia, 27, Here to Topple Love Shack’s Reality TV Empire.”
This photo was taken when I still could have backed out, told Serena that I couldn’t go along with her plan, claimed there was some reason I couldn’t leave my life for six weeks—a more compelling reason, that is, than cleaning Presley’s litter box and putting out the trash on Wednesdays. Certainly she couldn’t go on the show. She had a “life” to attend to.
“Come on, Georgia,” Serena had wheedled, “you’re perfect for the show. You look like you were birthed into a Billabong ad.”
I spit out my seltzer but took the compliment and ultimately agreed to go undercover. When I was cast, I signed my life away via Love Shack’s nondisclosure contract. Though when they mentioned they weren’t liable for death, I hadn’t expected suffocation by formalwear.
“Hey, what are you doing with that?” The beanie producer snatches the paper out of my hand and lumbers away. I scowl at his retreating back, then take stock of the couch.
It seems to be divided into two distinct groups: The women on the left sit with their backs arched and drinks balanced carefully in their hands. The women on the right are laughing uncontrollably, their drinks in danger of spilling onto the tangerine carpet. A woman with curly red hair scooches over to make room for me between herself and a pretty, dimpled woman whose wheelchair is pressed up against the end of the couch.
“Hi, I’m Brooklyn. Brooklyn Levy, not that last names seem to matter around here.” She rolls her eyes as she leans against the back of her wheelchair and fluffs up her curly hair—blond to her shoulders, stylishly brown at the roots.
“I’m Georgia.” I return her smile. “Just Georgia.”
The redheaded woman on my other side looks older than the rest of us, probably in her mid-thirties. Practically geriatric by Love Shack standards, at least when the lead is a man. “Hi, Just Georgia, I’m Olie,” she says, sticking out her hand, “like ravioli.”
She has a deep voice and gives off a whiff of caricature. Her curly hair reaches up and out in all directions, and her eyes are so heavily made up I can’t tell if they’re naturally such a deep green or if it’s just the reflection of her eyeshadow.
Olie-Ravioli gulps the last of her champagne, then tosses her glass to the ground. My shock must show because she rolls her eyes and mutters, “Plastic … Like they’d give us anything breakable.”
“I guess the only thing that’ll be breaking around here is hearts,” Brooklyn says.
Olie barks a laugh, and I tune out their conversation to focus on the producers huddled at the other side of the room, watching us intently. They point, scribble on clipboards, but don’t engage: scientists examining lab rats.
There’s no sign yet of Lainey Williams, Love Shack’s executive producer and the key to the allegations I’m here to investigate. Right now, she’s probably tucked in a dark room, listening to the feeds from twenty women’s body mics. I wonder if she can hear how fast my heart is beating, if she can tell I’m here for her.
Brooklyn pokes me, trying to draw me back into their conversation. “Who do you think the host is?” she whispers, eyebrows wiggling. “I heard a rumor they got Oprah. God, imagine lounging by the pool with Oprah. I’d lose my shit. You get a husband! You get a husband!”
“One of you gets a husband!” The shout comes from the doorway, making us all jump. A Viking-esque producer with a deep Scottish brogue and thick rust-red facial hair walks in. I have to tip my head to see his face—he must be at least six-five. “Or at least, that’s the idea. Now Roland’s going to walk through that door, right there”—he points dramatically to the entryway—“and it’ll be the best thing you’ve ever seen. The anticipation has been mounting since you met him outside, tensions are running high, hearts are pounding!” he bellows, then looks down at us and softens his voice. “I’m Norbert, by the way. Does anyone need a refill?”
I glance around. My plastic glass is almost full while everyone else’s is empty. I fake a sip, but don’t let any liquid past my lips. I can’t afford to get wasted tonight.
Norbert holds a hand to his earpiece and motions for silence.
“This is it, ladies. Good luck!” He retreats to the hallway, leaving us with a few camera operators and our pooling sweat.
We hear the footsteps of our future husband before we see him. The tapping of his shoes on the polished wood floors quiets when he gets to the carpet. He rounds the corner, and the hushed gasps turn to laughter as we see that it’s not Roland, but someone else.
Red-brown hair, tan skin, adjusting his cuff links like he just stepped out of a motorcycle photo shoot in the desert. Cowboy boots instead of Oxfords like Roland was wearing.
My eyes zero in on his face and something flickers in my stomach.
He is certainly not Oprah.
“Ladies,” he says smoothly, the faintest hint of a Southern drawl swirling in the dregs of the word. “Nice to meet y’all.”
He looks around the room, taking us all in. His eyes land on me, and when he blinks, I feel it as deep as a bass drum pounding through a crowded room.
“I’m Rhett,” he says quietly, eyes locked with mine. The flicker in my stomach turns into a pulsing knot. “Rhett Auburn. And I’ll be your host this season.”
“He was the lead two years ago!” Brooklyn whispers as someone else gasps, “Have you heard his new album?”
Rhett’s eyes move on, passing over Brooklyn and Olie, and he gives the cameras a wink.
The other women melt, but I’m still sitting up straight as the memory hits me with full force.
A dark club, bodies pressed in on all sides, and the band dared everyone to kiss a stranger. It was a blur. The club, the music, the moment in the early, early morning when we fell into my bed.
Now, my eyes find his beneath the too-hot TV lights. The green flecks in his irises sparkle and my stomach somersaults. He clasps his hands together and smiles at the sea of women hanging onto his every word, but he directs the next line right to me.
“Welcome to the Love Shack.”
* * *
Rhett’s speech might be metaphor-stuffed clichés about everlasting love, or maybe he’s telling us that Love Shack has adopted an elimination-by-death policy. I have no clue. My head is buzzing too fast, my heart slamming against my ribs, and all I can think is He shouldn’t be here.
Roland finally enters the sitting room, looking far too shiny to be legal, but I can’t focus on anything he says. It’s nothing that hasn’t been said on previous seasons: He wants a wife, someone to share his life with, family is everything to him, and … I think I’m going to die in this overheated room.
When the cameras finally cut, I allow myself a single glance at the spot in the corner where Rhett had been standing, but he’s vanished.
Brooklyn pokes my arm, peering carefully at me. “You okay? Want some?” She holds out her champagne glass, and I take it, slosh the entire thing back, then clutch my stomach.
“Oh no,” I mutter.
“What—what’s wrong?” she asks.
“She’s probably just lovestruck,” Olie says sagely. She reaches around Brooklyn and thumps me so hard on the back that my teeth smash together. I stumble to my feet, the room spinning around me.
“I think I’m going to be sick.” I run from the room as fast as my heels will allow. Once I’m in the hall, I careen into the nearest bathroom, bolt the door behind me, then sink to the floor, my eyes straying to the ceiling corners to see if my breakdown is being filmed.
No cameras, but for some reason, a defibrillator next to the door. Do hearts often stop in this mansion? Or do they simply break, like Brooklyn said?
I’m so lightheaded from the alcohol and the smell of fresh paint on the walls that I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire mansion had suddenly turned into a Tilt-A-Whirl.
When I close my eyes, I’m back at the Pink Iguana club last year, Rhett’s hands on my waist as we swayed to the indie music beating from the speakers. His voice in my ear, sweet and smoky, as if whiskey had a sound.
I scrape my nails over the tiled floor and ball up my fists, sinking deeper into that night, seconds ticking by until we reached midnight, one AM, two AM, stumbling into my apartment. The way his eyes widened when he listened to me, like he really cared where in Reno I’d gotten my vintage LPs. The way he studied me. Carefully, gently. Like we both wanted to savor the eventual, delicious tumble into my bed.
That night, I’d told him things I’d never spoken aloud—how freelancing barely covered my rent, how I missed home and was lonely in LA. Secrets that spill faster when they’re spoken to a stranger. When he asked my name, I whispered in his ear like a debutante telling her suitor she’s not wearing panties.
“I’m Gracie Hart,” I said. A secret and a lie. The pseudonym I’d concocted to publish my investigative work under—the name only Serena and I knew.
That morning, waking up and finding him gone, as if I’d imagined him. Staring at myself in the dirty bathroom mirror, eyes zeroing in on the mark his lips left on my throat. Wondering if I’d done something wrong, or if this was the inevitable outcome of spending the night with someone whose boots cost more than my car.
He’s a celebrity, I told myself. And celebrities don’t want women like me. Not for more than one night.
When Serena was helping me prep for this assignment, asking me everything from my sixth-grade teacher’s name to my first boy band crush, I was supposed to tell her the whole truth. She already knew most of it, but there were little things that had slipped through the cracks of our friendship. Since I started writing freelance for Vivid, the lifestyle magazine where she’s the pop culture editor, and my writing really started to take off, she’d become more of a boss and less of a friend. Our weekly coffee meet-ups turned into monthly pitch sessions for new articles, and somewhere between her interrogation about my workout routine and the deep dive into the time I accidentally attended a Mosquitoes Aren’t Real convention, I decided she didn’t need to know about my night with Rhett. The job she was promising if I did this was too good to risk.
But now? Now it could ruin everything.
“Hello?” bellows a voice.
“Shit.” I pull myself up and check my face in the mirror.
“Is there a woman in there?” It’s Norbert, banging on the door. When I don’t answer right away, he shouts, “I’m breaking down the door!”
I lunge across the bathroom and open the door before Norbert can do any damage.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just freshening up.”
Norbert looks skeptical but nods and walks away, leaving me in peace.
“Georgia?”
I whirl around, expecting another producer, or even Roland. But Rhett is standing at the end of the hall, looking at me.
I stare at him for a few seconds, registering that he’s said my name. That he even knows my real name.
He glances up into the camera-free hallway corners and steps forward, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his microphone battery pack. Flicking it off, he runs a hand over his perfectly manicured topiary of stubble.
I want to speak first, but I don’t know what to say. What do you say to someone who gave you the steamiest night of your life and then evaporated with the dawn?
“Or Gracie?” he says, more softly. My heart drops. The only other time he’s spoken my pseudonym was when we were pressed up against the sticky muraled wall of the concert, his breath sliding down my neck as sweat slicked my back and heat thickened my tongue.
He opens his mouth to speak but I back away, frantically ripping at the cord running down my back.
“My microphone.” I try to unzip the back of my dress, but Rhett steps forward and tucks a finger under my neckline. Heat races up my chest as my back hits the wall. “What are you—”
Deftly, he tugs up the tiny microphone, squints at it, then pinches it hard between his fingers. “Listen to me,” he says. “We don’t have much time.” We don’t have much space is more like it. At most, there’s a few inches between us, and those inches are doing nothing to stem the tide rising in my chest. “You can’t let them know,” he whispers. “It would jeopardize both of our positions here.”
My mouth drops open, all the resentment I’ve held for the past year on the tip of my tongue. But he’s right, we don’t have time. At any moment a producer could scuttle around the corner, canceling out whatever safety this camera blind spot is providing.
I set my jaw and nod. “Wasn’t planning on it, but thanks for the reminder.”
He glances over his shoulder and steps, if possible, closer. So close that when I take a breath, my sequin-covered nipples brush his lapels and he inhales sharply.
“What should I call you?” he asks, eyebrow cocked.
I meet his eyes. “Georgia. If you—”
“Don’t worry,” he mutters. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Good.” I try to sound confident, but my voice is a bundle of nerves. I pull away from him, grab my microphone, and pinch it between my own fingers. “We should get back now. Wouldn’t want them to think you’ve pulled a four AM walkout on your host duties, would you?”
He jerks his head back like I’ve slapped him, but his face remains impassive.
I spin on my heel and stalk away before he can see how badly I’m shaking. He can promise anything he wants, but that doesn’t mean I believe him.
After all, the last promise he made me vanished with the morning.
MOST ELIGIBLE. Copyright © 2025 by Isabelle Giuttari. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.