Chapter 1

Krystin isn't thinking about what she's supposed to be thinking about. To be fair, that's usually the case—but what isn't usual is her perch in the left-hand corner of the stretch limousine, precariously balancing on her tailbone so as not to touch her exposed thighs to the vinyl seat. She's sweating—a lot—and it's pooling in inconvenient places, which is raising her already spiking stress hormones, encouraging her glands to produce even more sweat. Her heel taps a syncopated rhythm into the floor; any more force, she thinks, and the stiletto will pierce right through the carpet.

The women around her are chattering nervously, trying to fill up the long space with their expectations for the night.

"I heard they make you stay up, like, all night," says Madison, the twenty-one-year-old waitress from South Florida. "That's why I brought Adderall. I had some left over from college."

"I'm surprised you have any to spare," mutters the brunette sitting next to Krystin. She hadn't caught her name in the introductions.

Krystin wants to laugh, but she also doesn't want to be a bitch, even though no one else heard.

"Do Adderall and champagne mix well?" This comes from Sarah-with-an-H, a twenty-five-year-old talent acquisition manager from Denver.

Madison thinks. "I figure champagne makes me sleepy, and Adderall wakes me up, so like, it'll even out, you know?"

Lily shakes her head, long braids swishing across her shoulders. "That is not how that works, baby girl." She laughs into her own flute.

The conversation devolves into snickers, to which Madison is either oblivious or admirably indifferent. Krystin tries to focus on the jokes, the dialogues splintering out between the women. She tries to rehearse her entrance, the lines she perfected in her bathroom mirror, in the car, on the plane.

She tries to think about anything but what she's thinking about: her best friend since seventh grade, Delia. Well, ex-best friend now, but that isn't the point. She's thinking about months ago, when she told Delia that she was doing this whole thing, how Delia choked on her burrito and spewed a wad of spit-logged beef onto the dashboard of her Corolla. Krystin had wiped it up gingerly with a brown paper napkin, dropping it into the to-go bag with the discarded foil wrappers.

"You're what?" Delia asked. Then she coughed again. There was evidently still a grain of cilantro-lime rice stuck in her esophagus.

"I'm going to find love." Krystin was resolved. She stared ahead, unblinking, hands steady on the steering wheel despite the car being in park. "I'm leaving here to find love."

"No, you're not." Delia sucked limeade out of a paper straw. "You're going on TV."

"Those two things are not mutually exclusive."

"Huh."

Then they were quiet. They were quiet for most of the burrito's life, and then for the car ride home after its death. They were quiet until they pulled into Delia's driveway and Krystin didn't want to be quiet anymore.

"It's kind of shitty for you to be acting this way."

Delia snorted. "That's rich."

"Frankly, I don't see what it has to do with you, anyway," Krystin said.

"That's multimillion!"

Krystin turned from the steering wheel for the first time since ordering their food. "Deels, I want to be happy. I'm not happy. I'm lonely."

"The difference between lonely and alone is up for debate," Delia muttered. "But you certainly won't be alone with one man and thirty-four other women, that's for sure."

"There are no more men to meet in Bozeman. I swear to God, I've run out." Okay, Krystin hadn't dated every man in Bozeman. When it came down to it, none of the guys around her made her feel anything, other than a twinge of secondhand embarrassment.

If she was being honest with herself, she hadn't tried as hard as she could have—but that had more to do with the maintenance of her Rodeo Queen Montana title than an exhaustion of Tinder.

She took a breath. "Listen, I know you never liked the show."

It was more than that—whenever they watched it together, Delia lamented the idiocy of the show's premise, and spent every commercial break combing the contestants' Twitters for past missteps. Krystin wasn't even sure why Delia kept coming over on Monday nights to watch with her in the first place, that's how mad the whole thing made her. But Krystin had always loved Hopelessly Devoted, how there were fireworks on dates, champagne in hot tubs, slow dances in the rain. It was how love was supposed to be: big and grand and luxurious. Even if she wasn't particularly fond of sparkling wine, she loved, well, the romance of it all.

And when they announced that Josh, a runner-up from Amanda's season, would be the next Hopeless Romantic, Krystin genuinely saw herself there. Josh was different from all the guys in Bozeman, and since nothing had ever worked out with them, Krystin thought maybe he was just different enough to work.

Krystin was nearing the end of her royal rodeo reign, and she needed to take a step in a new direction. Everyone was getting married—everyone except Delia, but Delia had never wanted the same things as Krystin anyway. The difference between Krystin and Delia was that Delia never needed anything, and Krystin did. She needed what her parents had, what she saw in movies, what they sing about in country songs on the radio. She needed more than a hail Mary. She needed a man.

"I think he might really be—" Krystin started. "I think he might be the one to change things for me."

Delia spun her entire body toward Krystin and said, "You're going to look stupid."

Krystin sat there, quiet again, while Delia climbed out of the car and up the stairs to her porch. She left her limeade sweating in Krystin's cup holder.

She wasn't going to look stupid. She was going to look like herself, and she was going to win over Josh Rosen, and they were going to fall in love and have two houses: one on Long Island and one in Big Sky.

And by the way, today she really doesn't look stupid. She looks hot. She knows that because the saleswoman at Dress Barn told her so when she bought this dress.

The limo rounds a corner, and Krystin feels a warm droplet of champagne splatter onto her thigh. The brunette smiles at her apologetically with crimson lips. "My bad."

Krystin smiles back, not wanting the other girl to feel bad, despite her thigh now being sticky in both sweat- and champagne-related ways. "Not your fault," she says, even though it kind of is.

"Okay, ladies!" A producer, a young Black woman named Penny, claps her hands together. "We're pulling up to the chateau now. Let's get some screams for the editing team, all right?"

They scream.

"Let's get a ‘JOSH' in unison, huh?"

"JOOOOOOSSSHHHHH!"

The limo pulls onto the property. The women twist against the seats, trying to catch a glimpse of their future soulmate, who is standing at the end of the glistening driveway, cameras in position. Just wait your turn, Krystin wants to say.

"He's sooooooooooo cute," Madison gushes. "I just can't get over his hair. It's so curly."

Hilarie cocks her head to the side, her coppery bob sweeping against her shoulder. "He seems shorter in person."

"He's five ten," Madison replies. "That's one entire inch taller than average."

Krystin feels a little sick to her stomach. But then, that always happens when she meets a guy for the first time. Those are called butterflies, she reminds herself.

Penny says something into a walkie. It chirps back in response.

"Okay, showtime."

Only Krystin and the brunette are left in the limo by the time Penny gives Krystin a two-minute warning.

"Get ready," Penny instructs her, her eyes glittering with the excitement Krystin thought she would only see from the Devotees. She turns to the brunette. "Lauren, you'll be going after her."

Lauren, Krystin repeats silently, as Penny faces her again.

"You have your prop?"

She does. Krystin slides a hobby horse from underneath the seat and holds the stick between her knees. The mane got a little matted during the car ride. She fluffs the synthetic hair, and plucks a stray fake eyelash from its nose.

Lauren gestures at the prop. "Classy."

"I do rodeo," Krystin explains, ignoring the brunette's snark. She smooths out her sash, which proclaims her Rodeo Queen Montana.

"Looks like you more than ‘do' it."

"I'm a rodeo champion," she amends. "A queen."

Lauren smirks. "No crown?"

"Ten-gallon hat," she corrects. "Left that at home."

In a few minutes, Krystin thinks, Lauren will probably regret having nothing to distinguish herself from the herd of women that each expect Josh to remember her name. Though, looking at this woman—the left corner of her lips curled up derisively, her eyes wide and brown and framed by a spray of curled lashes—Krystin can't imagine anyone forgetting her.

Penny snaps. "Horse. Go."

Krystin looks at her. "Oh! Yeah. Going." She slides across the seats toward the door. "Going, gone."

The brunette gives her a finger flutter wave. Krystin tips her head before remembering she's not wearing the hat.

Outside the car, the lights are white against the night sky. It feels like the state fair, except it's completely silent aside from the clopping of her rhinestone-cloaked platform heels on the pavement. She sticks the hobby horse between her thighs until it hits the hem of her dress, and begins to half-gallop toward a tuxedoed Josh Rosen. He watches her, amused, as she gives up galloping halfway and just waddles, holding the stick in place.

She approaches him, and the script falls out smoothly. "I wanted to show you that"—she pauses just long enough—"I know how to ride 'em, cowboy."

She stands there for a moment, smiling and waiting. The seconds stretch out, the way they do when she finishes a barrel race and waits for her time. She imagines Delia watching her, shaking her head in disappointment—but no, without Krystin there, she had no reason to watch the show at all. Maybe she is embarrassing herself. Maybe she's going to end this night on a flight back to the Treasure State. But just like her mother always told her, she keeps smiling.

Then Josh laughs.

The chateau is large, and would feel that way too, if not for the hallways and rooms cordoned off like the forbidden wings of a castle. Producers stand with camera operators, their PAs hovering meekly a safe distance away.

By the time Krystin enters the room, the rest of the limo occupants have settled comfortably into the overstuffed L-shaped couch. They all look up at her from their champagne flutes, then at the hobby horse, then back. It reminds Krystin of rushing Alpha Omicron Pi at Montana State. (She got a bid.)

Lauren, the brunette from Krystin's limo, walks (saunters) in after her, flaring her sequined mermaid gown behind her before unfurling herself in an armchair. Krystin tugs at her dress hem.

It takes a while, but eventually the next limo pulls up, and more women stream in. Krystin watches each woman—she really can't help it—how they walk and what they're wearing. Her dress starts to feel shorter by the minute, and the minutes themselves start to feel shorter too.

And now Krystin is making conversation with Sara-without-an-H, the fashion intern to her right. She kind of has to pee (all the champagne), but the succession of women stopped a few minutes ago, which means that Josh could enter at any second, and she doesn't want to be awkwardly standing when he does. She's thought about it, and she wants to be sitting with her ankles crossed to the side like Julie Andrews teaches Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries.

She crosses her right foot over her left, then left over right. She tries to listen to Sara brag about her semester with Lilly Pulitzer in New York, but she's all fuzzy and can feel her blood rushing in her toes.

"It was just so rewarding, you know? To like, see what goes on behind the scenes, like all these people work together to make the perfect print. And, I mean, New York. To die for."

The alcohol seems to be hitting Sara, because Krystin can see a pink flush begin to color her fair skin.

"Totally," Krystin says, and feels guilty that she doesn't know what she just agreed with. She actually really has to pee.

"Have you ever been to New York?"

Krystin shakes her head. "I've never been much of anywhere, actually. This is my first time in California, too." She hates telling people this. It makes her sound like a bumpkin.

Sara gasps theatrically, French manicure covering her O-shaped mouth. "Oh em gee. That is, like, so cute." She places her hand on Krystin's knee and gives it a squeeze. "You know, we're gonna travel, like, all over the world for this. This is totally a new chapter for you."

"Yeah," Krystin says, and actually means it this time. "It is."

Around her, high-pitched cheers spill from glossy lips. When Krystin raises her head, Josh is standing in front of them, holding his own flute and smiling sheepishly.

Josh Rosen, billed as Hopelessly Devoted's first Ashkenazi Hopeless Romantic, is of middling height and stature. But he has those smiley eyes that crinkle in the corners—the kind that make him look like you could tell him any kind of joke and he'd laugh, and really mean it. After his departure from Amanda's season, he started recording and producing a podcast—When One Door Closes—about love and relationships. Krystin listened to an episode on the plane ride over; the guest was a past Romantic, administering advice to Josh about the process.

"You know, I'm starting to feel the pressure already," Josh told Danny from season eighteen. "I really want this to work for me. I mean, it almost did last season."

"Ah, yeah," Danny said, commiserating. "It was hard for me too when Casey cut my string."

That's another thing they do—during the elimination ceremony at the end of each week, each Devotee is given a piece of red string to tie around their wrist. When a Romantic sends someone home, they cut the string with these special gold scissors that look like a smaller version of what Krystin used at her first ribbon-cutting ceremony as Rodeo Queen Montana.

"I was sad, you know?" Danny went on. "It took me a while to get over her. But time heals, and any lingering feelings I might have had for her disappeared the second I stepped onto the set as season eighteen's Hopeless Romantic and saw those first few girls, you know what I mean?" He laughed.

"Yeah. I fell for Amanda, I really did." Josh seemed wistful. Krystin remembers the scene exactly—outside the Rosens' Jericho house, the couple shivering in the early spring chill. Amanda didn't even wait until the string-cutting ceremony—she just broke it off right then and there after an excruciatingly awkward dinner with Josh's family. "I wish her and Byron the best, though."

Amanda and Byron broke off their engagement last week.

"Listen," Danny said, sounding like the human embodiment of a clap on the back. "The best advice I can give you is to follow your heart, dude. Like, you'll feel it when it happens. That's how it was with Diana."

"That's my goal, man." Josh sighed. "I just hope the women think I'm cute in person."

Josh is definitely cuter in person—at least, that seems to be the consensus.

He grins, waiting for the squeals to dissipate. "Hi, ladies!"

"HI, JOSH!"

He's already blushing. "I wanted to start off by saying how lucky I feel to be joined by such a phenomenal—and not to mention gorgeous—group of women."

"Awww," they chorus.

"I'm serious! This is the biggest group of pretty girls I've seen since my bar mitzvah!"

They laugh.

"Words can't describe how excited I am to get to know each and every one of you. I'm sure you all saw how heartbroken I was when Amanda sent me home—"

He's interrupted by a harmony of boos. "No, no, it's all for the best. You know, as I say on my podcast, when one door closes, another opens." He winks. "So with all that said, here's to all of you." He raises his glass toward the women, and they mirror him. "To season twenty-two of Hopelessly Devoted!"

They all rush to clink their flutes with his, and Krystin sees a camera swing above them for the aerial shot.

She can hardly see Josh through all the glasses, so many reflections of beautiful women whose makeup, unlike her own, looks professionally done, eyes and lips distorted and magnified like Instagram filters. And then Josh is all she can see, because the glasses disperse and he's looking at her, only at her, across the buzzing nucleus of women.

"Krystin." He smiles. "Mind if I grab you first?"

She can feel the Fenty-lined eyes liquefying her, lasers beaming from their doll-like faces. She feels sick to her stomach. "Absolutely."

The women scatter as they adjust to the state of affairs, and Josh moves toward Krystin, elbow extended like an eager prom date's. She accepts it, wrapping her hand around his bicep, which is surprisingly firm.

"Where are we going?" she asks, trying not to look back at the swarm of WASPs flashing their stingers behind her.

"I have a favorite place in the chateau." He smiles sheepishly. "I'm hoping it hasn't lost its magic after last season."

He leads her through the French doors out to the courtyard behind the mansion, down the cobblestone curves looping around the Versailles-inspired garden. The whole property is an America-fied chateau, smaller than its architectural muse; next to the McMansion, the shrunken garden looks like an underdeveloped appendage. Not that Krystin would know—the most she's seen of France is Emily in Paris. And besides, the only tenet of Bozeman interior design is a taxidermied stag on the wall.

"So," Josh says as they approach an ivy-covered gazebo, "you're a pageant queen."

"Rodeo," Krystin corrects, trying not to get a heel stuck between the bricks. "Less world peace, more barrel racing."

"My mistake." They stop in front of the gazebo, and he holds his hand out to steady her as she climbs the steps. "We don't have a lot of those where I come from. Actually, I don't think we have any."

Krystin smooths her dress under her butt as she sits. She's still holding the hobby horse, which is starting to feel less funny and more embarrassing the more places she has to carry it. "That's because all the riding y'all do out there is prim and proper. We get down and dirty in the boondocks."

Josh chuckles, which Krystin is beginning to realize he does a lot. She feels the swirling in her stomach start to settle a bit.

"Is that so?" He gestures to the hobby horse, which she's propped up next to her. "Care to demonstrate?"

Krystin feels her cheeks get hot. She picks up the toy horse and strokes the smooth wood. "Well," she drawls, flicking her eyes up to Josh's like she read to do in Cosmo when she was fourteen, "a lot of the riding we do is bareback."

Now Josh is blushing, and he seems genuinely flustered.

Delia's face in the car flashes in Krystin's memory, and she tries to ignore the shame nipping at her. Delia is wrong. She is going to prove Delia wrong.

But what if she can't? What if she's proving Delia's point right now, insinuating things she doesn't even mean in ways she's never spoken before? She isn't lying, is she? She's just trying to be a bubblier, sexier version of herself, the version she's switched on and off as far back as she can remember—the version that made three guys in high school ask her to senior prom.

She isn't sure how much time has passed, but it feels like eons, and Josh still isn't saying anything. He's just looking at her in this way that she knows she's supposed to want, but it just makes her feel like crawling inside herself. She starts to feel the cameras on her, watching her make a fool of herself.

"I'm sorry," she blurts, and Josh shakes from his horny stupor. "I'm not like this. I don't—"

"Ride bareback?" he supplies, eyebrows raised.

"No—I mean, yes, I do. Like, I know how—" She pauses, looking at Josh, who's smiling at her. She exhales a laugh. "I'm sorry," she says again.

"Don't be." When he says it, she really believes it. "Listen, I don't want you to put on a show for me. I already like you."

She didn't expect that. "Really?"

"Really." He takes her hand in his. "So, Krystin, rodeo queen from the boondocks. What are you really like?"

She tells him—a little bit. How she grew up in a small town in western Montana and rode her first horse when she was three (on her dad's lap), how she started competing in rodeos when she was twelve, how it was the best thing that had ever happened to her because of the community (and college scholarships), how she moved to Bozeman for Montana State and stayed after graduation.

What she doesn't tell him: that she's never had a serious boyfriend, that she hasn't spoken to her best friend since that day in the Corolla, that she doesn't know what she's going to do once she officially outgrows rodeo.

He seems happy with what she provides, though. "That's so cool," he says after she's done explaining barrel racing. "So it's kind of like Fast Furious, but on a horse."

"Yeah, kind of." Krystin laughs, even though she can't imagine a worse analogy. She's still laughing when Lauren, the brunette from the limo, taps her on the shoulder and looks at her, unblinking, red lips spread into a perfectly sultry smile.

"Hey," she purrs, only to Krystin. "Mind if I steal him for a sec?"