Chapter 3: Heartland Match, Secret Sparks

A week later, I flew out for the show.

The airport was a blur of rolling suitcases and Starbucks cups. Zoe texted me a dozen times, making sure I packed snacks and a neck pillow. She was more nervous than I was.

The crew hadn’t told us the filming location in advance. After landing, I got in a car they sent. Three hours later, we arrived.

I stared out the window, watching the city fade into rolling hills and, eventually, rows of sprawling mansions. The houses looked like something out of Architectural Digest.

As we passed mansion after mansion, I grew more confused. The car finally stopped in front of a three-story luxury house.

It had a circular driveway, manicured hedges, and a fountain out front. I checked the address twice, sure there was a mistake.

When I got out, the other three female celebs had arrived, too. They all looked familiar, but I couldn’t name them. See? Anyone with any real fame wouldn’t do this show.

We exchanged awkward hellos, each of us sizing up the competition. Everyone was dressed down, probably hoping to blend in. Nobody wanted to look too eager.

I looked around—was this really the countryside?

Honestly, I kept waiting for a tractor to roll by, but all I saw were luxury SUVs and gardeners trimming rose bushes.

I couldn’t help but ask the director, and the other girls nodded in agreement.

We huddled together, whispering. The director, a guy who looked barely out of film school, just shrugged.

“This is the country,” the young director said flatly. “All the towns around here look like this. I grew up here.”

We exchanged looks—this guy had probably never seen a real barn in his life.

People say rural Ohio and Pennsylvania have some serious old money, with even the most modest families sitting on fortunes. I guess it’s true.

I’d heard stories—old steel money, big farmland estates, families with more history than the town itself. It felt like we’d stumbled into a different world.

The girls relaxed and even looked happy.

We started joking about which mansion would have the best pool. The tension melted away a bit.

The female guests were all picked up by the show, but the male guests had to get there themselves, with cameras following them the whole way.

We watched the monitors in the foyer, waiting for the guys to arrive. It felt like the opening of The Bachelor, only with less glitter.

After almost an hour, the four men arrived, one by one. Three drove, but the last showed up on a John Deere tractor.

The engine sputtered, and everyone turned to stare. The director’s face was priceless. I almost choked on my water.

Talk about an entrance.

One of the girls whispered, “Is this for real?” I tried not to laugh.

The director had us pick the guy we felt an instant spark with, by standing behind him.

It was like speed dating meets musical chairs. The guys lined up, looking as nervous as we felt.

First up: the guy in the Range Rover. He got picked right away.

He flashed her a confident smile, clearly used to attention.

The other two didn’t want to compete, so they picked the remaining guys.

Nobody wanted to look desperate on day one. I couldn’t blame them.

That left the tractor guy standing alone.

He looked a little lost, but held his ground. I felt a pang of sympathy.

I looked him over—he was actually pretty handsome. Just his face alone, he’d beat most current heartthrobs in the business. He was tall and lean, probably at least 6’1”. If he were in showbiz, he’d be a total catch.

He had that “boy next door meets model” vibe. Sun-bleached hair, sharp jawline. The kind of guy you’d see on a Levi’s billboard.

But these girls were sharp—they knew better than to fall for just a pretty face. The other three guys wore designer suits or high-end casual wear. Only this one wore a white tank top, loose shorts, and flip-flops. And his clothes weren’t even new—there were yellow stains on his shirt.

He looked like he’d just come from mowing the lawn, not a reality show. I kind of admired his confidence.

He was probably the only real small-town guy here. His whole outfit couldn’t have cost more than twenty bucks.

He didn’t seem to care. That alone made him stand out.

The girls weren’t dumb—it made sense they didn’t pick him.

They were playing it safe, hedging their bets on the guys who looked like they belonged in a magazine.

But the guy didn’t look hurt at all. He held his chin up, gazing into the distance.

He looked like he was waiting for a bus, not a soulmate. Honestly, I kind of wished I could be that chill.

I felt a pang of sympathy. He must’ve been embarrassed but was trying to hide it, acting chill to cover his disappointment.

I remembered what it felt like to be the odd one out. I couldn’t let him stand there alone.

I had to help him out.

So, I walked over and stood behind him.

The other girls glanced at me, surprised. The crew perked up, sensing drama.

He glanced back at me, raising his eyebrows in surprise that anyone had picked him.

He grinned, a little lopsided. I could tell he hadn’t expected anyone to choose him.

Not wanting him to think I pitied him, I gave him a sincere wink.

I wanted him to know I was in on the joke, not just rescuing him.

“I’m a sucker for good looks.”

I said it loud enough for the cameras, hoping to ease the tension. A couple of the camera guys cracked up. Mission accomplished.

I wanted him to believe I picked him because I liked him. No pity picks here.

He looked at me, eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Good taste,” he replied, playing along.

He winked back, and the ice was broken. The director looked relieved.

The show put all eight of us in the big house to live together for ten days. Based on our initial picks, we were paired up to do tasks and build connections. On the tenth day, we’d pick again and reshuffle.

The house was massive—open kitchen, movie room, pool in the backyard. We each got our own bedroom, but most of the time was spent in common spaces, tripping over camera cables.

On the first day, we drew lots for chores. My partner—the guy I'd picked, Carter Reed—and I got lunch duty.

He stuck out his hand, grinning. “Carter Reed. Hope you like sandwiches.”

In the kitchen, after washing the veggies, Carter stared at the gas stove.

He looked at it like it was a spaceship. I tried not to laugh.

After a while, he asked, “What’s this?”

He pointed at the knobs, eyebrows furrowed.

"It’s a gas stove."

I tried to sound helpful, not patronizing.

“I know, but how do you use it?”

He looked genuinely confused, not faking it for the cameras.

I was stunned. Aren’t gas stoves everywhere by now, even in the country? How remote is his home that he’s never seen one?

I glanced at the camera crew—they were loving this.

I pointed out the microwave, coffee maker, and dishwasher. “Do you know how to use these?”

He looked at each one like I’d just pointed out alien technology. He shook his head.

I kept my tone gentle. “So how do you cook at home?”

I didn’t want to embarrass him, but I was genuinely curious.

“Uh—”

He hesitated, glancing at the camera. I could tell he was about to say something he’d regret.

“Do you use a wood stove?” I cut in, trying to show I understood. “My relatives have one, and the cornbread crust from it is amazing.”

I tried to make it sound like no big deal. Carter looked relieved.

“Wood stove?” Carter’s eyes widened, then he relaxed. “Oh, right. We use a stove at home. The cornbread crust is great—I like it too.”

He grinned, finally loosening up. I could tell he was grateful I didn’t press. He was starting to relax. About time.

I thought I saw the hint of a smile.

He tucked a stray hair behind his ear, eyes twinkling. The tension eased.

“Here, I’ll show you how to use everything.” I patiently explained each appliance.

I walked him through the buttons and dials, cracking a few jokes to keep things light. He caught on quickly.

Honestly, I’d never cooked before college either. After signing with the agency and living alone, I picked up a few simple dishes.

I told him about my first attempt at scrambled eggs—burned to a crisp. He laughed, and the mood lightened.

Turns out, he was a quick study—maybe even better than me. Together, we managed to cook a few things and finished our task.

We high-fived, grinning like idiots. The kitchen smelled amazing.

That afternoon was free time for dates.

Suddenly, I realized I hadn’t seen Carter with any luggage. The rest of us each had at least one big suitcase. He’d come empty-handed.

He shrugged when I asked, looking sheepish. “Didn’t think I’d need much.” I raised an eyebrow. Rookie mistake.

“I heard there’s a market in town. Want to check it out?” I suggested.

He perked up, nodding. “Sure, sounds fun.”

We walked about ten minutes to the local farmers’ market. It was lively, with stalls for veggies, snacks, and clothes.

The air smelled like kettle corn and fresh tomatoes. Carter looked around, wide-eyed, like a kid at a carnival. I had to laugh—he looked like he’d never seen so many vegetables in one place.

It’s not that I didn’t want to take him to a real clothing store—there just wasn’t one in town. The nearest was in the next city, and we weren’t allowed to leave.

I explained the rules, and he just shrugged. “I’m easy.”

But looking at the clothes for sale, I was surprised. Who’d have thought, in a town where every family owns a mansion worth millions, people still wore simple, cheap clothes?

The racks were full of faded tees and cutoff shorts. I guess old money doesn’t always mean flashy style.

Thinking back, everyone I’d seen in the town dressed down—men in tank tops and shorts. Turns out, even wealthy small-town folks keep it simple.

Comfort over style, especially in the summer heat. It made sense.

But it was summer—comfort was king.

I wiped sweat from my brow, glad I’d worn sneakers instead of sandals.

I sometimes bought cheap tees on Amazon myself.

No shame in a good bargain. I picked up a couple for myself, too.

"Since I picked you for your looks, let me buy you a couple shirts. Don’t argue."

I looked at him earnestly. That way, I wouldn’t hurt his pride.

I made sure to sound casual, like it was just a friendly gesture.

The poor guy really only had one outfit—he’d have to wash it at night and wear it again the next day. No wonder there were stains.

I tried to keep it casual, but his eyes said thanks.

Carter paused, eyebrow raised. “You want to buy me clothes?”

He looked at me, half amused, half embarrassed. He couldn’t quite meet my eyes.

He glanced at the stalls and coughed. “Okay.”

He grinned, accepting my offer. I picked out a couple of tees and shorts that looked sturdy enough to survive a few washes.

I told him he was about to become a fashion icon. He just rolled his eyes and grinned.

Back at the house, I reminded him, “Wash the new clothes before wearing them.”

He nodded, promising to do it right after dinner. I caught him reading the care label like it was a secret code.

The next day, Carter wore the clothes I’d bought. I had to admit—with his figure, he could make anything look good. Simple white tee and black shorts, but he looked like a model.

Even the other girls noticed, whispering behind their hands. Carter just shrugged, unfazed.

As soon as he saw me, he walked over, frowning. “I want some juice, but I’ve never used a juicer. Can you show me?”

He held up a bag of oranges, looking sheepish. I grinned, happy to help.

We went downstairs, and I patiently explained the buttons.

He leaned in close, asking questions. I could smell his shampoo—smelled like mint and soap. My heart skipped a beat.

He caught my eye and grinned, clearly enjoying the moment. I felt my cheeks heat up. Great—now I was the awkward one.

Ten days flew by. This gig was a breeze—nothing like the beach shoot. Every day, we just went on dates, did tasks, played games, and even had time for naps. Easy money—everyone probably felt lucky to be here.

We lounged by the pool, played board games, and took long walks through the woods behind the house. It was the most relaxed I’d felt in years.

As I spent more time with Carter, we got closer. We were always first in the games, totally in sync.

We had the same sense of humor, the same taste in music. Sometimes I caught him looking at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. Every time, I pretended not to notice.

But our conversations were limited to the show. I still didn’t know his real background, where he went to school, or what he did for work. The show had strict rules—no personal questions. The tagline was: “Pure Love—Just Feelings.” Which, honestly, was kind of a relief. No resumes, no LinkedIn talk. Just vibes.

It was both frustrating and kind of freeing. We had to actually get to know each other, not just trade resumes.

You could ask about hobbies, but not college major or alma mater. You could ask where someone had traveled, but not where they lived. You could ask how long they’d worked, but not what their job was. You could ask about friends, but not siblings. It was pure romance, no strings attached.

The producers made sure we stuck to it, too. Every time someone slipped, they’d cut the cameras and remind us of the rules.

It was actually pretty refreshing.

No small talk about internships or family drama—just real conversations. It felt like summer camp for grown-ups.

On the last day, everyone had to pick again. No surprise, Carter and I picked each other and teamed up again. The other three pairs all mixed it up.

The director cheered, making a big deal out of our “unbreakable bond.” I tried not to roll my eyes.

When we said goodbye, Carter leaned down to meet my eyes, a smile on his lips.

His voice was low, just for me. “Looking forward to next time.”

I blushed, ducking my head. The crew caught it all, of course.

Back at the agency, I ran into Madison. She stormed over.

Her heels clicked on the tile, echoing down the hall. I braced myself for another round of drama.

“You held out on that sunscreen list, didn’t you?”

She glared at me, her skin a shade darker than usual. I tried not to smirk.

I tried not to laugh at how tan she was and shook my head.

I kept my face straight, but inside, I was dying.

“Then how come you didn’t get tanned, but I did?” she gritted out.

She crossed her arms, waiting for an answer. I shrugged, playing it cool.

“Natural beauty. I don’t tan,” I replied seriously.

It wasn’t a brag—I’d always had fair skin that never tanned, even after sunburns.

My grandma always said I was “allergic to the sun.” Madison rolled her eyes, not buying it.

“Just you wait!” she glared.

She stormed off, muttering threats under her breath. Zoe peeked around the corner, giving me a thumbs-up.

A few steps later, she turned back, smirking. “Guess what? Ms. Park just told me about a new opportunity—Director Lee’s next film is about to cast, and Ms. Park signed me up for martial arts training to prep me for the third female lead.”

She tossed her hair, clearly expecting me to be jealous. I just nodded, uninterested.

I was starting to get why Madison never made it big, no matter how hard she tried. Her sponsor treated her well and spent a lot, but she just couldn’t break through—probably because of her personality. So arrogant and overbearing—no one likes that.

She didn’t realize the only thing standing in her way was herself. People can spot fake from a mile away.

But Director Lee’s film, with a martial arts heroine… why did that sound familiar?

I racked my brain, trying to remember where I’d heard about it.

Then I remembered—yesterday, my editor called to say the novel I’d sold the rights to was about to be adapted, and the director wanted me as the on-set writer. I was shocked Director Lee had picked my book. And there was a martial-arts “saint”—the third female lead.

The pieces clicked into place. I tried not to laugh.

What a coincidence.

Life had a sense of humor, apparently.

Was Madison gunning for that film?

If so, she was in for a surprise. I’d be on set, watching every move.

The beach reality show only filmed on weekends. As I was about to head out for the next dating show shoot, Madison’s episode aired.

Zoe texted me the minute it went live: “You have to see this.”

There were no previews and the switch was last-minute, so nobody knew until it aired.

Fans were confused, flooding the show’s Instagram with questions. The producers stayed silent.

After a brief silence, the comment section exploded:

“Where’s my Brooke? Who’s this chick?”

“Give me back my Brooke!”

“They just swapped her out—what’s wrong with the producers?”

“Director, come out and explain!”

“So fake—she wears a mask to hang laundry? If you’re that scared of the sun, don’t come!”

“She weighs ninety-seven pounds and says she’s fat and needs to diet—so fake!”

“I’m done watching!”

“I saw more ads in this episode. Did Madison buy her way in? Poor Brooke.”

...

The comments were brutal.

People were relentless, posting memes, even starting a hashtag: #JusticeForBrooke. I couldn’t help but laugh.

The show had always had a great reputation and rising ratings, but with the cast change, the ratings tanked. By the second half, viewers bailed en masse. It became the lowest-rated episode since launch.

The network scrambled, but it was too late. Once fans turn, there’s no going back.

I watched the whole episode—Madison really did deserve the criticism. She barely did any chores, argued with other guests about helping on the farm, and whenever she went outside, she covered up completely, terrified of the sun. But with her face covered, she refused to go out, so she just stayed inside.

The editing didn’t do her any favors, either. She came off as spoiled and entitled. Even her fans jumped ship.

Seeing her get dragged online, I felt relieved. She couldn’t even make use of the opportunities she stole—no point worrying about her. People like that never last in this business.

I poured myself a glass of wine and toasted to karma. For once, things worked out the way they should.

I decided not to waste any more energy being upset about the past.

I closed the laptop, took a deep breath, and let it go. The future was waiting.