The True Love Experiment
: Chapter 40

Ash reaches across the table and tugs at my collar. “You look like me today.”

I peer down to see what he means. The sweater I pulled on as I left the office is on backward, with the tab sticking up against the front of my neck. How nice that the two women who stopped me for a photo before Ash arrived didn’t bother to tell me. I tug it over my head, putting it on the right way this time. “I’m a little distracted.”

“I can imagine.” He studies me for a beat. “You’re not on set today?”

I shrug, poking at my plate. “I was headed over when Blaine found me. I just needed to get my head on straight. I’ll head over in a bit. Shooting starts around three. Rory and Brenna’ve got things handled.”

“Ah. You’re avoiding her.”

I take a bite of melon instead of answering.

“What you ought to do is go home and sleep. You look like crap.”

I grunt in response, though I know I should do better. Ash has the day off for a teacher development thing that doesn’t start until this afternoon, and instead of lounging in bed with his wife, he’s here with me at brunch, listening to me explain again how my life is in the toilet.

I know it’s a good thing I ended my relationship with Fizzy, but a part of me was hoping Ash would say what I know deep down, that I needed to give her time to work through what was probably the hardest thing for her to hear me say. Unfortunately, after hearing the entire story—the hotel drama, Fizzy’s confession, and the situation with Trent’s show—Ash agrees that I probably did the right thing.

But I’ve never, not once in my life, felt this way, never been so into a woman that I considered risking my livelihood to be with her. And I hate how last night went, hate that she now feels like she can’t be straight with me if she’s panicked, that she can’t fuck up, too. I hate most of all that none of it matters anyway after Blaine’s ultimatum this morning.

Ash ducks, trying to catch my attention. “Conn.”

Meeting his eyes, I give a small “Yeah?”

“You know what Fizzy would say right now?”

“I’m dying to hear it.”

“It’s only hot for a hero to brood for, like, three-quarters of a book.”

A real laugh bursts out of me. “That is exactly what she would say.”

He grins at the compliment. “And you’re ignoring the very obvious silver lining,” he says brightly.

“Which is?”

“That now you know you’re ready for a relationship.”

I laugh again, but it’s back to sardonic. I can’t blame him for trying. Finding Ella was the best thing to ever happen to Ash. “There’s not a solid batch of evidence, Ash. Fizzy and I had a seesaw fling for a few weeks and then it ended before it even began.”

“But you were open to it.”

I lift the spoon to my lips, murmuring, “I fell for her against my will,” before taking a bite. “But yeah. I suppose.”

“Maybe this time you try DNADuo,” he says, slicing neatly into his omelet. “There are so many more users in the system now that it sounds like people are getting lots of good matches. A Gold Match isn’t rare anymore—one of the teachers at school even got two! He can meet them both, replace the perfect fit. Can you imagine just being handed a list?” He takes a bite and stares at me with unmasked curiosity. “I’d love to see who your perfect fit is.”

I shove Fizzy’s face out of my thoughts and give a noncommittal hum. A few months ago, I would have described her as loud and unrelenting. Now I can’t imagine using those qualities as insults.

“Besides, now you’re a hot commodity, Connor.” He takes another bite and chews.

I’m still daydreaming about Fizzy’s loud mouth and what she did with it, so this takes a second to penetrate. “You mean the confessionals? Ah, that’s just a small bit.”

“That small bit is likely a huge part of the reason Blaine’s trying to put some fear in you.”

I still, looking up at him. “What are you talking about?”

Ash appears to do a mental obstacle course before he carefully puts his fork and knife down. He lifts his napkin to his lips, tapping gingerly. “Are you unaware of what’s happening online?”

“You mean our ratings?” I nod as I say it because Brenna sends them to me every morning. “They’re great.”

“No, I mean your fan base.”

“I’ve had a few people stop me, but that’s just because they recognize someone from TV.”

“A few?” he says pointedly, and I follow his gaze to a group of women in a booth across the restaurant. As soon as they see me, their eyes snap back down to the table. “I’m talking about Connor Prince stans.”

I shake my head. “It’s not like that.”

With a condescending chuckle, he pulls out his phone, mumbling to himself, “I tell him his phone is good for more than texting and reading the news, but does he listen? No.” Ash taps his screen a few times with a flourish and then turns it to face me. “First of all, your Instagram. You have almost three hundred thousand followers.”

I blink. I haven’t posted anything in years. “What?”

He gives an exasperated sigh and swipes through his phone again before setting it on the table in front of me. “There.”

I scan around, trying to orient myself. “What am I looking at?”

“It’s Twitter.” A finger comes down, pointing at a cluster of letters. “What does that hashtag say?”

“It says…” It takes me a minute to read because the words are all smushed together, no spaces. “ ‘Daddy Prince The True Love Experiment’?” I look up at him. “Who’s Daddy Prince?”

“You are. That’s what the True Love fandom calls you.”

“The—fandom—?” I break off, confusion deepening. “Daddy Prince?”

“Twitter blows up when confessionals start.”

“I’m not even on-screen that much. There are more successful, better-looking, and frankly more agreeable men for them to get excited about.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he says with a grin. “But they’re writing you in anyway. Apparently, Daddy Prince, they love your deep voice and your sexy accent, and the way you and Fizzy banter.” He glances up at the sound of my stifled mortification. “Oh, come on, stop looking so horrified. ‘Daddy Prince’ is pretty tame compared to some of the other stuff here.” As he continues to scroll, his grin turns into a frown and he muses, “I didn’t realize ‘choke me’ was such a common phrase.”

I ignore this. “What does that mean, ‘write in’? Can’t they only vote for the contestants?”

“You wouldn’t know this because you’re a social media troglodyte, but no. The way your team has set it up, if the show is tagged, a tracking program considers it a vote and keeps a tally. It could be ‘#GiantAnacondaCock_TheTrueLoveExperiment’ and Giant Anaconda Cock gets a vote.”

I stare at Ash. “What?”

“Don’t worry. Most people use it the way you intended. They hashtag Colby or Isaac or whoever. It’s quite smart, really; lots of the big music award shows do it. I think the Oscars even started doing it for fan favorite and favorite movie moment. It’s a great way to get engagement because the tags are visible to everyone, you can tweet—aka vote—as many times as you want, which means tweeting and retweeting puts it in everyone’s feed. You can’t buy exposure like that. It’s all there on your pocket computer if you care to look.”

This entire conversation has thrown me off-kilter now that it’s sinking in what Ash is telling me. Viewers are voting for me? Blaine doesn’t know as much as he’d like everyone to believe, and I have to assume that if he did know something about this—or, worse, about me and Fizzy—he would have mentioned it, right? Either way, I’ll need to be very, very careful over the next few weeks.

“Of course, there are people writing in all kinds of names,” Ash says. “Lots of Your Mom and other random things. I think Captain America had a pretty decent number one week.”

“Great,” I say dryly. “A flawless system.”

“There will always be idiots,” Ash says, dismissing this as he pushes his plate aside and leans in. “So far, Isaac has the most votes every week. But you’re definitely gaining.”

I lean back with a soft gusting exhale, feeling Ash’s attention on me while I process this. “For sure Brenna sees this. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Maybe they’re trying to ignore it.” He picks up his water glass and takes a sip. “I mean, it’s not like you can win this thing.”

These words bounce around in my head.

It’s not like you can win this thing.

He’s right, of course. I’m not even a contestant. Still, there’s a faint echo of pity party, too. I can’t win.

I’m stuck in that tight mental squeeze where I have too many things on my mind and not enough time to devote to them. I could spend an entire week thinking about how it felt to have Fizzy on my arm at her brother’s wedding, let alone everything that happened later that night. But add Fizzy’s confession, Blaine’s visit to my office, and everything that Ash told me about the votes… my mind is a blur.

All of that gets pushed aside, however, because there’s a job to do. And somehow, Fizzy and I both manage to treat it like one. After the weekend votes have been tallied, we’re down to four Heroes: Isaac, Nick, Dax, and Evan. I’m not sure if it’s a reprieve or torture that the crew is rolling smoothly and I’m not necessary at Fizzy’s cozy dinners with the Heroes, following them on their long walks on the beach, their dates bowling and apple picking and taking surfing lessons, but I take advantage of the space anyway, because we probably both need it. The only time I see her all week is for an awkward and forced confessional. Otherwise, I hole up in the editing room and piece together a narrative for each possible couple, blasting music through headphones in every moment of downtime I have so I can’t hear the echo of her telling me she’s in love with me. I create the most compelling episode yet, earning the top ratings for the network that week. But it is a truly hollow victory.

After a much-needed weekend with Stevie, I’m back on set the following week. I’d hoped it would be easier to see Fizzy, but it isn’t. Monday brings the elimination of Dax and Nick, and the appearance of a Fizzy who spent her own weekend doing God knows what with God knows who. I don’t imagine she’s running around sleeping with blokes left and right—primarily because I know that her feelings for me are sincere, and also because she’s contractually forbidden—but the rational part of my brain doesn’t speak up when I see her walk into the restaurant for filming on Monday afternoon. I’m hotly possessive at the sight of her in tiny denim shorts and a thin white tank top. I want to put my hands on her body and my mouth on her skin and press her into a wall, coaxing a confession of love out of her again.

But I keep the mask firmly in place. These final two dates are the ones viewers will use to choose a winner, and tonight, Isaac is having dinner on camera with Fizzy and her parents. I was beside her with them only a week ago, pride heating my blood. Now I’m behind a camera, watching Liz dust powder on Mrs. Chen’s forehead, watching Mr. Chen joke with Rory about his good angles, knowing Fizzy’s parents are going to meet the handsome, accomplished, and deserving man who will likely win. If I know Fizzy—and I feel like I truly do—she will accept my rejection at face value and do everything she can to move on. She will embark on the trip with Isaac and do her very best to enjoy both of them to the fullest. When they’re together in Fiji, will she forget what it felt like to be in my arms? Will she sleep with him simply because he’s there? Or will their connection deepen, grow stronger than what she and I had?

I hate both scenarios, but honestly can’t imagine what stronger than what we had looks like. I see Fizzy with these men and must continually repress the possessive instinct to claim her in small and large ways. And that instinct is back now, shaped differently but undeniable, as I watch the two people I realize I want to be my in-laws prepare to meet another man.

“You good?” Rory asks, walking back to the cameras.

The no is already forming on my lips when I pull myself back into awareness, blinking hard. “Yes. I’m great.”

I stand from the table just as Fizzy steps from the makeshift dressing room in the back and into the dining area. Her hair is in two buns, tendrils escaping and framing her face. Eyes slashed with dark liner, a shredded T-shirt and ripped jeans capped with shit-stomping boots. Tonight, Fizzy has come prepared for battle. For a split second, a feverish pulse, I have never wanted anything the way I want her. And the feeling doesn’t dissolve, not even when I step outside for a long, deep breath of fresh air.