Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
But as much as my father exhausts me, I can’t help but think that admiring Fizzy would be one thing we’d have in common.
“I’m going to order for us,” she says over her shoulder. “I’m going to put joy in your mouth, Sexy Lumberjack. Trust me.”
“Is trust required?”
She ignores this, stepping up to order for us, and I look down at my outfit. From Brit to DILF to Sexy Lumberjack. I can’t know for sure if this transition in nickname signals a good wardrobe decision on my part, but I changed three times before picking her up today, prompting Stevie to ask me whether I was going on a date.
It’s not a date. I mean, of course it isn’t. But there’s something about being this close to Fizzy that makes me want to impress her in the same way.
As she orders, I hear the words lengua, cabeza, buche, and tripa and am aware that I’m going to be eating some things I have never before put in my mouth. With a bulging paper bag in one hand, two drinks in a cardboard tray in the other, and a little nod for me to trust her yet again, we climb back into the car and drive a few minutes to a small road leading us to a coastal wildlife refuge.
At a weatherworn metal table overlooking an empty stretch of beach, Fizzy opens the bag and lays out an enormous selection of tacos. “Take your pick.” She points to each, describing what’s in it—from grilled beef and cactus, to pork belly, to tripe, to beef head, to tongue. And as I take my first bite of the pork belly, she watches me with anticipation, waiting for a reaction.
Letting out a low, involuntary groan, I feel my eyes drift closed. The sharp tang of fresh cotija and bright lime, with crisp bits of meat and a soft, handmade tortilla—this is easily the best taco I’ve had in my entire life.
It takes a minute for my senses to settle and I realize she’s still looking at me.
“You like?” she asks, smiling happily.
“Bloody lovely.” I wipe my mouth. “Are you just going to watch?”
She breaks her stare and blinks down at the selection in front of her, choosing what I think was the lengua. “I like seeing you like this. Outside of that office and that suit. This is a good vibe.” She motions to my clothes. “Still DILFy, but without the uptight CEO thing going on.”
“Not sure a coworker has ever called me a DILF before.”
She shrugs. “You didn’t bring me on because I lettered in propriety.”
“Fair.” I smile, taking a sip of my fountain drink. “But you seem awfully intent on pegging me.”
She barks out a laugh. “I don’t think that means what you think it means.”
“Jesus Christ.” I flick my eyes upward in mock exasperation, and then finish the small taco. “You know what I meant.”
It’s a struggle not to stare at her while she eats. She hums happily as she chews, licks a tiny bit of salsa from the side of her mouth, and studies the food in her hand with pleasure-drunk eyes. So far in only this first outing alone I’ve seen two very different sides to Fizzy: effusive and public facing, and this more intimate, quietly playful version. Both charismatic, both sexy, both mesmerizing. First, I was resentful to be assigned this, then I was resigned. Now I feel a flicker of excitement over the challenge of capturing her brand of magic on-screen.
You’re going to be setting her up with other men.
The reminder crashes into the forefront of my thoughts, and I blink away. “I had a thought about the show.”
She glances up at me and laughs. “I hope you’ve had more than one.”
“This is specifically about the title. What do you think about calling it The True Love Experiment?”
“I think I’m mad I didn’t come up with it myself.”
A sunburst of pride spreads quickly through my torso. “Brilliant.” I reach for a mystery taco. “So, to recap: We’ll cast the eight Hero archetypes. Filming will be Monday to Thursday, with Friday for crash editing, and a Saturday broadcast. Voting will take place over twenty-four hours after the episode airs, and the following Monday we’ll reveal to the cast who has made it through each round.”
She mumbles a happy sound around a bite.
“And,” I continue, “I think we should go in with the understanding that the show won’t be so heavily produced. I don’t mean from an aesthetics angle, but the actual story lines. I’ve been thinking quite a bit on this, and I really want to do something different, as much as we can. From what I gather, some of these shows are plotted out from episode one, which makes me question the sincerity of any relationship that comes out of them. Since viewers will be voting on our outcome, we want to give them the truest possible narrative we can.”