by Lauren Rowe
He snickers. “Reed already picked that song as the first single. He was furious when I told him I needed to rerecord the ‘la la’ lines to take out the part some insane megalomaniac had interpreted as her name.”
“You already told Reed about rerecording those parts? That was fast.”
Savage makes a face like it’s not a big deal. “You said you wanted it out and the album is set to drop soon, so . . .”
“I’m sorry if I freaked everyone out about changing it. Now that I’ve had a minute to get used to the idea, I don’t mind the world knowing the song is about me. In fact, I kind of like the idea of them knowing.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure it thrills you to no end that I’m now going to look like as big a liar as you.”
“Huh?”
“At the press conference, I said there are no songs on the album about you. And now, suddenly, I’m going to release an album that some people might interpret as containing the name Laila?”
I snort. “You’re never going to admit you’re singing Laila in those parts, are you?”
“I’m simply conceding there are probably lots more nutjobs in this world than you who’ll wrongly hear your name in those same parts, the way you did.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, it serves you right to look like a liar, seeing as how you are one, for denying you’re singing ‘Laila.’ Plus, it’s only fair, since I had to admit I was a liar on Sylvia. But don’t worry, people will think you only lied during the press conference to protect my privacy, which only makes you an even more swoonworthy boyfriend.”
“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.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
The bodyguard returns and says we’re all clear, that there are no paparazzi or stalkers to be found, and Laila and I exit the car, where we’re greeted by an attractive brunette in glasses.
“Hey, guys,” the woman says brightly. “I’m Rhoda, a junior producer at Sing Your Heart Out. I’m here to give you a tour of the house and get you settled in your new digs.”
Laila jumps for joy at the woman’s news and then proceeds to chatter with her excitedly as we head toward the house. Inside the front door, Laila abruptly stops chatting when she beholds the large entrance foyer. “It’s exactly like it looks on TV!” Laila gushes. “I can’t believe this is my life!”
The producer laughs. “You mentioned in a recent interview that you and your sister always watch The Engagement Experiment, so we thought we’d surprise you. As luck would have it, the timing was perfect and the house is empty.”
“That’s so lucky!” Laila exclaims. She looks at me, her blue eyes wide and sparkling. “Aren’t we lucky, Savage?”
I know Laila is looking for an exuberant reaction from me, but I can’t supply it. Not when I feel like I got hoodwinked into pimping out not one but two reality TV shows—and for half the salary I’d originally negotiated. “This might be a stupid question,” I say, walking behind the producer and Laila as they head into the living room. “But whenever Laila and I do our required ‘happy couple’ social media videos every night, won’t fans recognize this house and think our relationship is nothing but a set-up?”
“We’ve got an easy solution for that,” the producer says. “In your first video tonight, you’ll explain the producers of Sing Your Heart Out supplied t
his famous house to you because, one, you didn’t want to show your actual home on national TV, and, two, the producers heard The Engagement Experiment is one of Laila’s all-time favorite shows.”
“Perfect!” Laila squeals.
The producer continues, “With you two living here and filming your behind-the-scenes videos, we’ll get some fantastic cross-promotion between the two shows. Plus, the audience will adore seeing you two living in this famous house. It’s a win-win-win.”
More like a singular win, I think. For the network.
But Laila is thrilled. “Genius!” she exclaims, twirling around. And even though I’m annoyed with the producers, I can’t help smiling at Laila’s obvious joy. The girl is a lot of things, but jaded ain’t one of them. I’ve seen this bubbly, sunny side of Laila many times during the tour, but never with me. Always with someone else, from afar. And I must admit, finally getting to experience Laila’s happy, sweet side, up close and personal, is making me forget I’m annoyed that the show is exploiting my valuable image and name to promote a cringey-ass dating show without my consent.
“Ooooh!” Laila coos, sprinting into the next room. “I’d know this kitchen anywhere. Ha!” She addresses the producer. “Remember that time those two guys from Jenny’s season had that food fight in here?” She snaps her fingers, like she’s trying to come up with something.
“Damian and Gregory,” Rhoda replies, without missing a beat.
“Yes!”
Rhoda chuckles. “I worked on The Engagement Experiment that season. I even got mashed potatoes in my hair during that famous food fight.”
“Shut up!” Laila shrieks, clearly enthralled.
The producer nods. “True story. I worked on that show five seasons—one through five, before getting promoted to help Nadine launch a certain singing competition that turned out to be the network’s biggest hit, ever.”
Laila grabs the woman’s arm like she’s gripping a flotation device during a plane crash. “Rhoda, you have to tell me every juicy detail from your five seasons on The Engagement Experiment. I have to know everything you know!”
The producer giggles. “I can’t tell you everything. I’ve signed an NDA.”
“Okay, just tell me this: was the food fight real—or did the show tell Damian to throw that first blob of mashed potatoes?”
“I really can’t say.”
“Shoot. That means it was fake?”
“I can’t say.”
Laila pulls at her hair comically, like she’s a patient in an insane asylum. “Gah! I need to know! Please, please, Rhoda, come over here after work one night this week to hang out with me, so I can get you to spill all the tea. Thanks to my NDA, I wouldn’t be able to tell a soul anything you tell me, right?—but I have to know everything!”
The woman looks thoroughly charmed by Laila, the same way everyone is when she turns on her mesmerizing charisma to full blast. “Okay, okay,” the woman says, holding up her palms. “You make an excellent point about your NDA. I guess, since you’re bound to secrecy, I could come over to tell you a few behind the scenes tidbits.”
Laila hoots and dances and whoops from the depths of her soul, and I know, deep in my bones, this producer is now putty in Laila’s pretty palm. And there she goes again, I think. Adding to her collection of insta-friends.
After a bit more chatter about the stupid dating show, we continue the tour. The producer opens a large, industrial-sized refrigerator, which makes Laila gasp at its neatly stocked shelves.
“As you can see,” the producer says proudly, “we’ve stocked the fridge with everything you both mentioned you like snacking on.” She looks at me. “And we got all the ingredients you requested to make tonight’s meal, too, Savage.”
“Tonight’s meal?” Laila gasps out, her blue eyes wide. “You’re cooking tonight?”
I wink. “I’m making you my grandmother’s cioppino. I figured I should replace your false memories of our first date with some real ones.”
Laila raises an eyebrow, perhaps understanding my ulterior motive here. When we talked about our fictitious first date, I told Laila our meal ended midway through with me eating her out and fucking her on her kitchen table. Surely, she knows that’s my plan for tonight.
“Oooh, make sure you two look at each other exactly like that in front of the cameras tomorrow,” the producer says. “That’s sexy, guys.”
We look away from each other, our faces flushed, and the tour continues. We head into a large living space with a glorious ocean view and a baby grand in a corner. Squealing happily, Laila makes herself at home behind the piano and plays the first few bars of one of her biggest hits. And, of course, as usual, her voice sends goosebumps skating across my skin.
When she stops playing, Laila leans forward and hugs the piano. “I love you,” she purrs, making the producer and me chuckle. She adds, “I’ve always wanted one of these. The sound is so full and rich.” She sits up and sighs happily. “I feel like Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries.” She looks at me. “Have you seen that one?”
“No.”
“Then, put it on our list! We’ll watch it after Beauty and the Beast and the high school one you mentioned.”
“I’m not watching a movie called The Princess Diaries, Laila.”
“Oh, yes, you are, or else.” She throws back her head and strikes an ominous-sounding chord on the piano, like she’s the Phantom of the Opera on the warpath, and I can’t help laughing at her goofiness.
“Your threats don’t scare me, Fitzy,” I tease. But I’m smiling like a fool.
“Well, you should be scared of me, Adrian. I’m a dangerous woman.” She strikes another ominous chord, this time even more passionately. And this time, I not only chuckle. I belly laugh from the depths of my soul.
“Oh my gosh,” the producer says. “Be sure to do this whole bit during a behind the scenes video at some point. This is pure gold.”
I bristle. Is that what she thinks Laila and I are doing here—a bit? Because I’m certainly not. I don’t think I’m even capable of laughing like that for pretend.
The tour continues upstairs. We see a home gym, an office we won’t be using, and several bedrooms, before winding up in a large master.
“You can take this one,” Laila says. “I’ll take one of the other bedrooms down the hall.”
My heart sinks. I know Laila requested separate bedrooms at Reed’s house last night, but we’ve been getting along so well, I was kind of hoping she’d want to sleep with me during our three-month stay here. “No, you can have the master,” I reply, not knowing what else to say. “I’m pretty easygoing when it comes to where I lay my head.”
“No, no,” Laila says. “You’re the big kahuna here. I’m just the opener, remember?” She smiles broadly, without a hint of malice, letting me know her comment wasn’t meant as a barb. But, rather, as self-deprecation. Clearly, Laila means to extend an olive branch for the tension we experienced during the tour, rather than starting yet another fight.
“No, no, we’re equal partners this time,” I insist. “Fifty-fifty. Honestly, I don’t mind having one of the smaller rooms. I grew up sleeping in a closet, literally. And as a teen, I slept on a couch. For me, any room with an actual bed and a door feels like a palace.”
Laila’s face contorts with sympathy—which wasn’t at all what I was going for. She says, “All the more reason for you to take this room. It’s settled.”
I shift my weight and say awkwardly, “Okay. Thanks.”
The producer smiles broadly. “You guys are too cute. Why don’t we shoot your first live video now, so I can hold the camera? We’ll restart the tour, and Laila can react excitedly to the house.”
“Great idea!” Laila says. She looks at me, her eyebrows raised. And it suddenly becomes clear I need to embrace this bullshit and give it my all, or I’m going to make Laila nothing but miserable for the next three months. Clearly, today is a thrilling day for her. Why drag her down by making her feel like she�
��s dragging me along, kicking and screaming?
“Sounds good,” I say, and Laila flashes me a smile that makes my heart skip a beat.
With the camera recording, we go back to the foyer and give our required speech about why we’re living here. We redo our entrance to the kitchen, and then to the master bedroom we’re supposedly going to share. We head into a small room we haven’t already seen, and Laila is thrilled to find the producers have brought in a pottery wheel for her, much like the one she has at her own place. And, finally, we head outside and tour the large swimming pool, fire feature, and hot tub.
“Oh, man, I know that gleam in my boyfriend’s eyes,” Laila says suggestively when we reach the hot tub. “That’s my cue to say goodbye for now, guys. We’ll say hello again tomorrow when we get on-set for our first day of shooting. Until then . . . ” She blows a kiss to the camera and slides her arm around my waist. “Say goodbye to the nice people, babe!”
I bristle. I’ve dreamed of Laila calling me babe for a very long time. But not like this. “Goodbye to the nice people, babe,” I deadpan, making Laila laugh. Or, rather, making her fake laugh.
Finally, the producer lowers her camera and whoops happily. “Brilliant, guys. Perfect.”
Laila removes her arm from my waist and exhales like she’s just finished a workout. “What time will the car come for us in the morning, Rhoda?”
“Nine.”
“Perfect.”
We accompany the producer to the front door and say our goodbyes to her. And, suddenly, Laila and I are standing alone, in the foyer of our fake love nest—the house we’re going to share for the next three months.
“So . . . are you hungry?” I ask.
“I could eat.”
“Let’s change into some comfortable clothes and meet in the kitchen in five.”
