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Dash Hennessy is the hottest bachelor in the country, looking for love in front of an audience of millions… He just wasn’t supposed to pick ME!
I just landed my dream summer gig: working as a production assistant on TV’s smash-hit reality show, Ever After. Two months of sun and fun at the beach? Sign me up! Until the moment I come face to face with this season’s bachelor, racing’s bad boy Dash – aka, the mysterious hottie I just hooked up with at a creepy motel off the I-80.
Can you say, awkward?
Dash is sexy, charming – and totally off-limits. But the chemistry between us is way too hot to ignore. He’s playing to win, and he’s got his sights set on the prize: me!
Soon, the action is heating up off-screen. But between ratings-hungry producers, back-stage drama, and twelve of the most cutthroat glamazon contestants known to womankind, I’m in way over my head. Can I find my happily-ever-after, or will it be lights, camera, heartbreak?
The Bachelor gets a rom-com twist in Katie McCoy’s hilarious, sexy new read!
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The guy across the aisle from me was giving me the eye. You know, the eye. It was neither subtle nor appealing. All that was missing was him doing that gross gesture of wiggling his tongue between two of his fingers which no girl in their right mind considers to be a sexy, or effective, come-on. And this rando had been staring at me for the past fifteen minutes, his gaze darting between me and the bathroom, as if he thought he could convince me to join the mile-high club with him.
Ugh. No thanks.
“Hey.” His sleazy, faux whisper was just as unappealing as his leering gaze. I tried to ignore him, but he didn’t give up. “Hey, hey, hey. You with the red hair.”
I sighed. Most of the time I loved my red hair. I didn’t love it when it became some sort of beacon for dudes who thought it meant that I was fiery or slutty like Lindsay Lohan. I looked over at him, hoping the only redhead I was reminding him of was Melisandre from Game of Thrones. When she was burning men at the stake.
“Yes?” I kept my tone light and disinterested.
“I gotta ask.” He gave me a once-over. “Do the curtains match the drapes?”
“Wow,” I said dryly. “I’ve never heard that one before.”
He grinned as if I had paid him a compliment. Great, he was gross and dumb.
“You know,” he kept going. “I think the bathroom is empty if you want to, you know.” He made an obscene gesture.
I held up my hand, wishing I could just make it stop. Make it all stop.
“No thanks,” I said firmly.
His goofy expression quickly morphed into a combination of disappointment and anger.
“Whatever, bitch,” he sneered. “Didn’t want to deal with your fire-crotch, anyways.”
“My fire-crotch thanks you,” I told him, and turned away.
Whoever first thought of using an airplane bathroom for sex had clearly been insane. The last place I wanted to bare my special bits to a dude was in a restroom fifty thousand feet in the air. Especially in a restroom as small and cramped as airplane bathrooms were. How did people even have sex in that tiny space? Were they just doing it against the door? That seemed like a recipe for disaster, as I imagined getting down and dirty with someone and the door swinging open in the middle of it, exposing both parties’ special bits to everyone on the airplane.
And even if you managed to do the deed without falling into the aisle, you still had to contend with all the passengers who would be waiting in line for you to, um, finish. There was no getting out of that situation without everyone knowing exactly what you had been doing in there. Because who the hell went into an airplane bathroom with another person?
The whole thing seemed like the worst possible sexual encounter, but apparently this flight was full of guys who thought it was the best idea ever. After getting rid of Fire-Crotch Dude, I was getting the eye from another guy a few aisles ahead. He winked at me, and this time I gave him the patented Paige Pollack brush off—the finger and a sneer. It was a carefully cultivated look that tended to keep strangers out of my way.
Resting bitch face has nothing on my “talk to me and die” face.
I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, trying to fight the nausea that was rising in my throat. It wasn’t just from those creeps, but their gross leering combined with the turbulence we had been fighting ever since we left London made me sick to my stomach.
Not exactly the triumphant return to America I was hoping for. I’d spent the summer after graduating college with an epic trip to London, working and hanging out with my BFF, Emmy. It was a blast, but I knew I’d have to return to reality eventually—I just didn’t figure on it being reality TV. But two days ago, I got a call from my college friend turned makeup artist, Lorna, offering me a gig working as a production assistant on the reality TV show Ever After.
AKA the biggest hit show in America.
AAKA my guilty pleasure obsession.
AAAKA my chance to launch a glittering career in the world of entertainment.
The only catch? I had to make it to the Hamptons before the cameras started rolling this weekend. Which gave me just enough time to throw my stuff back in a suitcase, camp out at the airport for a last-minute standby ticket, and squeeze myself into the modern torture contraption known as a coach seat on a red-eye transatlantic flight. Still, all the stale peanuts and numb butts in the world couldn’t dampen my excitement thinking about my new job.
The dating reality show was one of my guilty pleasures. I knew that it wasn’t real, that the drama and the romance on screen were manufactured, but I still couldn’t stop watching. And wishing secretly that it was real. I tended to hide my romantic side from most people—covering it up with snark and attitude—but I still got little heart flutters every time I watched the glass slipper ceremony, and the look in the suitor’s eyes when he picked his princess.