Love in Reality: A Contemporary Romance (The Blackjack Quartet) by Magdalen Braden

snippy young woman with a clipboard.
    “You’re sequestered until the show starts. I need you to sign these confidentiality agreements, then I’ll go over the rules of the game. A photographer will be here in the morning to take publicity stills. You won’t meet the other contestants until the show starts. They’re staying in other hotels, so don’t even look for them. And you’re not to tell anyone in the hotel about the show. On Saturday morning, pack all your clothes and wait in the hotel lobby for a car.”
    Libby wanted to ask if it was okay for her to breathe, but something about this officious woman suggested no sense of humor.
    When she arrived on Saturday at what must be the soundstage, she was told her luggage would be searched for contraband such as books, MP3 players, phones, etc. A staffer then showed Libby to a small room that looked like a little-used office. Nerves warred with disappointment that she hadn’t seen Rand during the orientation, or whatever this was called.
    A young woman came in to fit Libby with a lavalier microphone and transmitter pack. She didn’t introduce herself, just launched into a rushed explanation about the “lav mike” and what Libby should and shouldn’t do with it and the transmitter pack. Libby lost her when she started rattling off information about cardioid mikes and how the house was wired everywhere. The key thing was that she must never take off the mike. The woman repeated this several times. Libby nodded politely.
    Twenty minutes later, she was collected by a crew member, this one wearing a headset he spoke into while ignoring Libby. She was shepherded through the studio to a stage she recognized as the Kiss-and-Cry area where the departing Fish got to snivel while the host, Jeremy Andrews, made soothing noises. There were several other people similarly miked and ready—her fellow contestants. Two more of the crew, also wearing headsets, were close by, poised to keep the Fish from talking to each other and starting the game too soon.
    The group intrigued her. Everyone was good-looking, even the token older man. Libby figured she represented the “average”-looking person, even dressed as Lissa. One woman around her age was looking very bored and a bit arrogant. There was a cute blond guy who was either from some tiny town in Oklahoma or was the gay-guy-with-a-heart-of-gold and pecs of steel. And some tall, dark and handsome type who was eying her kind of intensely. A jock. Libby shifted her gaze away from him without making it too obvious.
    The most beautiful contestant was a stunning woman with hair like polished ebony and golden bronze skin—evidence of Native American heritage, perhaps. She wasn’t smiling, but her eyes were bright and she looked like she was about to laugh. Libby instinctively liked her, whoever she was. Libby was about to scope out the rest of the Fish when a phalanx of people arrived. Their presence commanded everyone’s attention.
    “Hello, Fish,” the woman at the front of the wedge greeted them. “I’m Marcy Edelstein, Executive Producer of The Fishbowl . Welcome to you all. We’re excited about this season’s show. Just a couple things I want to mention before we begin taping.”
    As Marcy delivered her little speech—part stern warning, part pep talk—Libby checked out her entourage. Rand was behind Marcy and a bit to the left. Libby guessed there was a rough pecking order among the producing staff and Rand was the production equivalent of middle management. He was checking his hand-held, and barely looked up while Marcy talked.
    Eventually, Marcy wished them good luck and took off with most of her staff trailing behind her like ducklings. Nothing happened. Nobody said anything, but the tension among the Fish was rising. It felt like a harbinger of the stupid endurance contest that decided the winner, which Lissa had characterized as “the one where you have to stand on the head of a pin.” Luckily bartending had