Chapter 2

Lauren has never done anything for the right reasons.

And her whole life, nobody's really noticed. Or cared.

At school, she was always nice to everyone, even the horse girls and the greasy-haired kids who ran through the hallways pretending they were in Avatar. She told her friends off when they were rude to their hapless teachers. She always tipped at least twenty percent, even when she really didn't have the money, and even that one time she had to wait over an hour for pancakes at the Hillsdale IHOP. She organized fucking bake sales. But there was always some kind of reward.

Lauren was young when she learned she was cute and charming enough to be universally liked, but not really loved or remembered—which is still true, which is fine, which is good, actually. "Enough" is great. "Enough" is perfect. When you're pretty and smart and interesting enough, you get away with the kinds of things that the really beautiful, really talented people don't. Like her sorority sisters from Montclair State, or the stunning, supermodel-tall Southeast Asian girl from the limo (Pia, 24, from Singapore), or even that spray-tanned bottle blonde who teared up during the Hopeless Romantic's toast earlier (Madison, 21, from South Florida).

The girls here are all hot, actually, but they aren't Lauren's type. They can't be, because for the next ten weeks, she's on a quest to win the heart of Josh Rosen, a twenty-seven-year-old door salesman from Long Island. Which is to say that, for a limited stretch of time, Lauren won't be a D-list socialite who quietly hooks up with bicurious models, but rather "hopelessly devoted" to this pretty average, if nice, man best known for getting brutally rejected on national TV.

If Lauren knows anything about herself, it's that she won't win. She won't be able to compete with the Madisons and the Pias and the ensemble of Ashleys squeezed into that cocktail lounge. And frankly, no sponsorship money or follower count could make Lauren want to settle down with Josh, pop out several babies, and turn into a mommy vlogger. What she wants is to make it far enough—to the top six, maybe, or top four. Far enough to collect her followers, become a full-time influencer, and maybe travel to a few interesting cities without actually hurting anyone. Her ultimate elimination will be a reasonable and unemotional pit stop on Josh's journey to love, because twenty-five years have taught Lauren that being cute and charming and hot enough doesn't make you capable of stealing—or breaking—anyone's heart.

What she can do, though, is whisk Josh away from the fresh-faced, painfully genuine rodeo queen. So she does.

"Of course," the girl—Krystin?—says, and for just a second, something inscrutable flashes across her face, only to be replaced by a calm, serene smile.

"Hi," Lauren says, leaning toward Josh. He looks like he's making a concerted effort not to check out her cleavage. "Do you remember me?"

Lauren's entrance out of the limo had been perfectly practiced: in front of her mirror, her sister, her best friend back home. "I know you're a man who loves an open door," she'd said, grabbing both of his hands at once. "And I want you to know that my front door is always open. So is my back door. And my side door, actually."

She isn't exactly sure what she'd promised with that last comment, to be honest, but it sounded right. Josh had laughed, and one producer sent her a thumbs-up as soon as she reached the mansion.

"I do." Josh grins. "I don't know if I could forget that dress."

"My friends always told me green was my color. That it brings out my eyes, or whatever," Lauren says.

Her eyes are brown, actually, but Josh isn't even looking at them. He's still trying really, really hard not to look at her C-cups.

Everyone back home told her that this show would be so hard, as if straight men weren't the easiest thing in the world.

"So." He puts an arm around her. "Tell me about yourself, Lauren."

"Well, I should tell you up front that I'm a bit of a nerd," she jokes.

The women of Hopelessly Devoted are always calling themselves nerds, dorks, playacting at growing up unpopular and uncool—the word practically has no meaning anymore. Even Josh looks dubious. "You're a nerd. Really?"

"Like, I've only had one boyfriend, ever. He was my first kiss, my first crush, and my first best friend." She sighs, and imagines millions of women sighing alongside her while watching the show's premiere next week. She wonders if one of those women will be Sierra Ashbery, the first person she actually fucked. There are a good six to ten women out there who, right this moment, are probably reading Lauren's Hopelessly Devoted contestant bio and messaging their group texts about how fake she is.

But her ex-boyfriend isn't fake, exactly. Damian Thomas grew up next door to Lauren and they used to carpool, singing Katy Perry songs and talking shit about their classmates while Lauren's mom weakly told them to be nicer. They came out to each other after an eighth-grade dance, and faked a relationship throughout high school and early college.

The entire scheme was mutually beneficial: They already spent all their free time together, and this way, Damian got to buy time before coming out to his hyper-traditional parents. Lauren, on the other hand, got to accrue followers who loved and wanted her hot, wealthy, and extremely fashionable boyfriend. And most crucially, having a "boyfriend" over at another college—not to mention one built like a Marvel superhero—proved a very effective way to reject frat guys and explain her lack of attraction to all of Montclair State's most eligible bachelors.

"What happened?" Josh leans in.

Lauren just shakes her head. They "broke up" around junior year of college when Damian was finally ready to come out, just to his parents and frat brothers. She briefly flirted with the idea of coming out too, but ultimately decided against it. By that point, she was actually making a small profit from collaborations and sponsorships on Instagram, and she wasn't sure how her increasingly sizable (and very heterosexual) audience would react to her being a lesbian. The way Lauren sees it, her sexuality is her own private business, something no one besides Damian needed to know.

Well, Damian and the handful of women she's hooked up with on the DL.

Josh is still staring at her, not unkindly, waiting for an answer. Lauren takes a breath. "We decided we were better as friends," she says. "We're still close, actually, but I'm very over him. I deserve someone—I deserve a guy who chooses me. You know?"

Josh nods. "When Amanda dumped me after my hometown visit, I thought, ‘Am I ever going to come first?'" he muses. "I've never been the biggest, toughest guy in the room. I've never been like …"

"Like Byron," Lauren gently supplies. "Or that fitness instructor who came in third place."

"They're great guys," Josh says, with so much sudden enthusiasm that Lauren assumes this must be somewhere in his contract. "But I've always just been that nice guy from Long Island."

"It's a good thing I like nice guys from Long Island," Lauren lies, and wonders why no one has come to "steal him for a sec" yet.

"And I like nerdy girls from—"

"Pinevale, New Jersey," Lauren finishes. "It's a really small town outside of the city." It was actually a midsized suburb, but that sounded decidedly less romantic.

"Nerdy girls from Pinevale, New Jersey. They're some of my favorites," he says, and before she can even digest what's happening, he's giving her a very intentional, meaningful look, and all Lauren can think is, Oh, fuck.

But she knows how this show works, and what comes out instead is, "Is it okay if I kiss you?"

He doesn't answer, just presses his mouth to hers, and the truth is, he's not a bad kisser. A little nervous, and his upper lip is sweatier than she'd expected, but she can theoretically see why some straight women might be into this man. Including the very lucky Hopeless Devotee who will win the show; get a massive, free diamond; and date Josh for approximately a year and a half before publishing a cordial, PR-friendly breakup statement on Instagram.

"Hey, girl! Do you mind if I steal a moment with Josh?"

Lauren recognizes the woman from the limo: Gabi, that white girl who clearly spent so much time at the tanning salon that she was left looking half a shade away from a scathing cancellation on Reddit. "He's all yours," Lauren says breezily. Then, as sugar-sweet as possible, she adds, "I'm so glad we got to talk, Josh."

She sashays back into the room and takes a seat next to Sara-without-an-H, a redhead who says she's from Manhattan but actually hails from San Diego. "Well? How did it go with Josh?" she whispers loudly.

"It was great. He's the perfect guy," Lauren says, and for some reason, her eyes flicker over toward Krystin. She's just so annoyingly sweet, the kind of girl about to get eaten alive on this show. But for a small, instantaneous fraction of a second earlier, she'd looked tougher, like someone actually capable of fighting Lauren for time with Josh. She is tough, Lauren reminds herself. She's a rodeo queen, whatever the hell that means.

Then she thinks, In one way or another, she's full of shit, too. All these girls are. A true scholar of the Hopelessly Devoted franchise, Lauren knows how this works: Two of these women, at most, are here because they think they'll fall in love with the lead. Maybe a few hope they'll be tapped as the next Hopeless Romantic, with a pool of thirty-five men vying for their hand in marriage. The rest of them are here for … well, the screen time. The chance to kick-start an acting career, gain some followers, or promote their shitty line of jewelry.

It's a business opportunity, really. Which is why Lauren didn't put up an argument when her sister and fellow super-fan, Rachel, nominated her for the show. Which is why she's here now.

"It's just so heartbreaking already. See that girl McKenzie, in the red?" Sara says, and Lauren realizes she'd been zoning out for the past minute or two. "She's from Buffalo, and I heard her family owns a scaffolding business. That's gotta make her a front-runner already, and it's like, what else does she have in common with Josh, you know?"

"I don't know." Lauren glances over at the bar, wishing she had another drink right now. "You seem to have a lot in common with him too."

"You think?" Sara looks touched.

I feel sorry for both of you."You're both so expressive. And really here for the right reasons," she says. "If you'll excuse me."

She makes a beeline toward the bar, which serves nothing but too-sweet champagne. Lauren takes a sip from her flute and scans the lounge. There's a game she's been playing with herself since grade school: In a room full of girls or, later, women, she always tries to identify the one hiding the biggest secret. Is it Madison? The other, lesser, blonder Lauren from Cincinnati? That girl with the vocal fry who wouldn't stop talking in the limo about her dreams of becoming an E! correspondent?

Eventually, Lauren's thoughts are interrupted by a symphony of murmurs and gasps. Josh is back in the room, and as he walks past each woman, Lauren feels a small knot in her chest (how long has that been there?) expand and loosen at once. "Lauren C.," he says, and she tries to conceal her annoyance at the nickname. Lauren H. needs to go, stat. "Can we go talk somewhere private?"

Lauren blinks, hoping she doesn't look visibly surprised. It's been fifteen minutes since they shared a lackluster kiss and some perfunctory small talk—did she really create that much of an impression? Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Krystin, who's now staring at her heels with an uneasy smile; she can also sense Gabi's wrath, somehow. Lauren forces herself to stay focused on Josh. "Of course," she replies. "Let's go."

Apparently, "private" means no fewer than eight cameramen and producers trailing the couple as Josh leads them down the hallway. "How's your night going?" he asks.

"It's been perfect." Lauren knows that any small talk—especially any made before they get to the gazebo—will likely be left on the cutting room floor. She could comment on how cheap the champagne is; she could ask Josh if he's been a longtime fan of the show too. She could make a joke about her ridiculous, unnecessarily sexual opening line, or compliment Josh's podcast, which she's actually listened to more than once.

Basically, she can say whatever she wants. But there's nothing she wants to say.

At the most, only twenty minutes have passed since Lauren was last out here, but the sky feels darker. A bug lands on Josh's arm, and a wet, completely unromantic sense of humidity washes over Lauren. Despite herself, she shivers.

"Are you cold?" Josh asks.

She shrugs. "Only a little bit."

But he's already pulling off his jacket. "Here, take this."

"Thank you." She sits down and threads her fingers into his. "So, Josh. How's the first night going?"

"It's been terrifying, but incredible. I mean, I may have met my wife tonight," he says. He shoots a look at a producer, like he isn't sure how much he should divulge before the first string-cutting ceremony, and then reaches for a gold ribbon which sits on the bench, surrounded by rose petals.

Lauren knows what it is: the first impression ribbon. Contestants who receive a coveted ribbon each week—on night one, or later during a solo date or group date—are granted immunity at the next string-cutting ceremony. She's so focused on it, she only hears the end of Josh's spiel, which closes with "really, really loved talking to you."

Oh no, she thinks. He said really twice. "It sounds corny, but I just feel like I've known you for a long time," she replies, her voice smooth as ever.

He visibly relaxes. "Exactly," he says. "I won't lie, I've been nervous tonight. And you're so … confident and comfortable with yourself. It really made me feel at home here."

"Well. I don't know if I'm that confident," Lauren says. "I mean, I'm just a girl from Jersey, remember?"

"Maybe this will help you feel a little more confident," he responds. He unlaces their fingers and looks down at the ribbon, like it holds all the answers to life's most dire questions. "At tonight's ceremony, I'll be giving all the women strings to symbolize our connections. Then, each week, I'll snip some of those strings. If you have a ribbon that week, however, your string can't be cut." He frowns. "Of course, if you lose your string in the laundry or something, production can get you a new one. That happened to Chris D., like, three times last season."

Lauren nods, as if she hasn't spent half her life watching this show.

Josh shakes his head. "In any case, Lauren, I'd like to give you this first impression ribbon. Will you accept it?"

"I would love to," she gushes, and Josh ties it around her wrist.

This time, when he kisses her, it feels different. His tongue slips into her mouth and she thinks of the time she and Halley Finch, her ex-hookup from college, fucked in the library and didn't get caught. His arm loops around her waist and she's seven years old, breaking her grandmother's favorite vase and blaming her yappy, beloved poodle. She's fifteen years old, running a seven-minute mile after stealing her sister's Adderall. She's sixteen, tricking her nerdy, acne-prone chem partner into writing their entire lab report by promising him a dance at homecoming—and then hiding from him all night. She's twenty-five, racking up thousands of followers and partnership deals and DMs from exclusive club promoters, finally moving out of her small Newark apartment and into a loft in Chelsea. That's what kissing Josh feels like: getting away with something.

When they get back to the lounge, a few girls eye her wrist with envy; others look outright hurt, or mad. She sits down next to Ashley F., who immediately blurts out, "You're wearing his jacket already? Should the rest of us be, like, concerned?" She laughs, but doesn't sound amused.

Lauren smiles. She feels buoyant, giddy, as if her Instagram inbox is already full of surface-level compliments and brand partnership opportunities. It might as well be—along with immunity during the next string-cutting ceremony, the first impression ribbon comes with a lot of airtime. "Josh could tell I was cold, that's all. He's such a good guy."

"It's seventy degrees," Ashley responds, her voice light and friendly—but also half an octave higher.

"I have anemia," Lauren lies. "It's mild."

"I think it's so sweet he's looking out for us," McKenzie, the Buffalo scaffolding scion, interjects. "I mean, did you even tell him you were cold? It's like he's an empath."

The conversation segues into Josh's best attributes, from his empathy to his sense of humor to his bone structure, but all Lauren can think about is the way her skin feels under his jacket: hot, almost prickly. She blames it on the champagne.