Lovebound, p.1
Lovebound, page 1
Lovebound
K.K. Day
Published by self-published, 2024.
Copyright © 2024 by K.K. Day
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
KDP Publishing, 2024
ISBN 9798872272816
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
EPILOGUE
dedication
to the witty, smart-ass girls who are secretly not as above love as they pretend to be, this one’s for us.
FROM: LOVEBOUND@SUNRISETV.COM
To: vivianna.woods@gmail.com
Subject: Congratulations!
You have been selected to be a participant in the upcoming season of Lovebound, only on Sunrise TV. We have reviewed your application and have decided that you are exactly the type of participant we’re looking for!
All competitors will meet at Sunrise TV Headquarters in Los Angeles, California. Upon arrival, you will meet with staff, coordinators and your fellow competitors. The competition will run from February 14th to April 14th.
We hope you find what you’re looking for with the Lovebound experience.
Good luck and warm regards!
Please feel free to reach out with any questions and confirm your attendance via email by February 1st.
Your hosts,
Mila and Philip Amador
CHAPTER 1
vivianna
A dress is hurtling toward my face at fifty miles an hour.
The silk wacks me straight in the face due to my pitiful reflexes and I stumble backward onto my bed, seething.
“What the hell, Reese?”
Reese McCormack. Light brown skin, freckles and a mane of black curls. I’ve had the misfortune of knowing her since we were in middle school and she’s every bit as irritating at twenty-six as she was at twelve.
“You’ve gotta bring that dress,” she shoots back, turning back to my closet and rummaging through the rest of my clothes like some sort of animal foraging through trash.
“Oh,” I reply, “so, naturally, you decided to throw it at my face.”
“Naturally,” Reese replies. A smirk slides onto her lips as she adds yet another layer of vaseline to them, facing me.
Flashing her a cold glance, I take in the dress. It’s a lavender-colored beaut that I impulsively bought a few months ago to wear to an elitist dinner for a date with my then-boyfriend, who decided to break up with me then and there.
I mean, damn, if he didn’t like the dress, he could’ve just told me.
That’s the little joke I make whenever I tell someone the story. But they tend to give me an awkward little laugh in response, eyes flicking away. Or they’ll pull a Mom and say my name with so much pity, eyes so sympathetic that I wish I never told them the story in the first place.
“I know that’s The Dress,” Reese says before I can respond. “The one you wore when that guy broke up with you.”
She doesn’t say my ex’s name anymore. He’s just “that guy” now. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, if you will.
The dinner That Guy broke up with me appears in my subconscious more often than I would like. I call it The Last Supper.
People don’t find that joke funny either.
“But?” My eyebrows rise.
Reese plows on. “But it’s your dress. Not his. And it’s a damn beautiful dress.”
“I sure hope so,” I say, “I spent a good two hundred bucks on it.”
“All the more reason why you should wear it,” Reese insists. “I’ll be watching Lovebound from my sofa soon, and if I don’t see you eating up the girls with that dress, we’ll have problems.”
Lovebound. Apparently, I’m in a reality TV show now. A way to bounce back from That Guy, move on. Lovebound is a show that promises love to its participants. Now whether it’s lasting love is a whole other story.
But I was tipsy and teary after That Guy broke up with me, impulsively called Reese, and as I was making my way to her apartment, a Lovebound ad fell to the ground right in front of me, like my life was some corny musical, and I was about to break out into song any minute.
My emotions being totally unregulated, I showed Reese the flier and she irresponsibly encouraged me to sign up for the show, because Reese McCormack is not the type of girl who dissuades you from making some of the worst decisions of your life, especially if she thinks the risk has some merit.
I applied for the new season that evening, following the ad’s instructions, and called it a night. I actually totally forgot about it until they got back to me a few weeks ago— several months after I applied— to tell me that I would be in the next season.
And then I realized how impulsive of a decision it was to sign up and nearly lost my mind until Reese calmed me down and convinced me the pros outshone the cons.
I could fall in love, and if I didn’t, I’d have a fun story to tell any future kids. Plus, it was a vacation, all expenses paid, and I haven’t been on a vacation since Reese and I went to Miami for her 21st birthday. It’s been a hot minute.
The clinic’s been busy, and I don’t hate the idea of temporarily ditching the city for a breather.
“You don’t have to convince me,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I was going to bring the dress anyway.”
I wasn’t going to bring it.
I don’t like to think I have sentimental attachment to any sort of item, or associate feelings with clothes, but I do, to some extent. I haven’t worn the sweatshirt That Guy gave me since we broke up. I keep tossing it into the washing machine, but it still smells like him.
But I did spend way too much money on this stupid dress to wear it only once. Plus, the dress needs new memories.
I fold it into my suitcase.
Reese flings herself onto my bed stomach-first, eyes on me. “You’re going tomorrow. You’ll be gone for so long that I might forget what you look like.”
I snort. “It’s a month. You’ll be fine. And besides, you wanted me to go.”
“True, but that doesn’t mean I won’t miss you.”
“You’re so clingy,” I say, zipping my suitcase as she settles onto it, legs swinging. “But I’ll call.”
“You’ll video call.”
I roll my eyes and shove her off my suitcase. “I’ll video call.”
“Good,” she says, unperturbed as she leans against my suitcase. With nothing else to pack, I allow Reese to tug me down to the bed.
“Everything will be fine,” she assures me, hand circling my back.
I let out a wry laugh. “Let’s hope so.”
CHAPTER 2
vivianna
So, everything is absolutely not fine.
I woke up at the crack of dawn to find out my 6 AM flight to LA was delayed and then canceled, which Customer Service only decided to inform me of once I had arrived at the airport.
Shooting begins on the 15th, but I was hoping to arrive around a day prior to the fact to acclimatize to the city and the location. Plus, I need to be on time for the Contestant’s Dinner—the night all the contestants meet for the first time in a super elitist restaurant to get to know each other— or assess the competition.
This sudden change to my flight leaves me running around the airport like a headless chicken, trying not to scream as I attempt to explain to Customer Service that I need a new ticket ASAP. The guy at Customer Service could not give less than one shit, but when he looks up from his laptop and sees my welled-up eyes, he finally tells me that he’ll see what he can do.
The next flight to LA is three hours after my initial one and with a totally different airline, but I take it. I can’t exactly afford to be picky. With my brand new boarding pass, I march off to my terminal and have a nap.
But wouldn’t you know it? This flight is actually early by about an hour, so I sleep through the announcements when my zone is called. Luckily, loud conversations of other flyers pull me out of my sleep, and I jog up to the line half-asleep, waiting for about ten years until I can finally board the plane.
Since I missed my zone being called, I have to brush past a whole bunch of other passengers and find that the one other person in my row is already seated. And not only is he already seated, he’s seated at what’s technically my seat.
We’re in row 12. I’m 12A, which happens to be the window seat, and he has to be 12B, which is meant to be the seat closest to the row. Hence, he decided to steal the window seat instead, even though it’s very clearly marked 12A.
I’m not bitter about it, of course.
So, in my most non-bitter tone, I tell the guy who colonized my seat that “I think 12A is my seat.”
The guy’s got a head of chestnut curls, earth eyes and a ridiculous cupid’s bow with full lips. I mean, most people I know have cupid’s bows. But his cupid’s bow is pronounced, like it was drawn on a piece of rough paper. His skin’s bronzed by sun and genetics and his dark eyebrows are raised all the way high when he hears my absolutely non-passive aggressive request.
He purses those lips and then says, “I actually don't think so.”
The placating calm in his voice almost sets me off, but I decide that after this horrific morning, the last thing I need to do is lose my mind.
So, I echo his tone the best I can. “Well, I can show you my boarding pass, if you’d like.”
He nods. In fact, he nearly shrugs. I hand it to him, and his eyes peruse the paper before he hums and returns it to me.
“That’s actually funny,” he says. Frankly, I don’t find anything about this funny, but I wait for him to continue. “Because,” he plows on, handing me his own boarding pass, “Mine says 12A too.”
And he’s not lying. Sure enough, right next to the flight number and his name is SEAT 12A in bold black ink.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask aloud and he takes his boarding pass back.
“I don’t think it’s that serious,” the guy lets out a breath. “Just a dumb mistake on the airline’s part.”
Which, okay, it isn’t that serious. Not in principle, at least. But given that my initial flight was canceled, I almost missed my second, and I’ve been running around the airport like I’ve lost my goddamn mind — all in the span of this morning — mistakes like this are more irritating than they are amusing.
“Hey,” he says, and my eyes flick to him. “If you want the seat...”
I’m not about to become one of Those Passengers, so I shake my head no and settle in the aisle. And that’s certainly stupid, because I would prefer that seat, but on a technicality, it’s also his, so I don’t actually have any authority to kick him off, and I’d be a douchebag if I did.
So, I settle down on 12B, pushing my head against the back of the seat.
The guy tilts his head back too. He seems about my age. He’s got a little stubble on his jaw, like he’s freshly-shaven, and his shoulders are wide. He looks over at me. “You look like you want to throw me off this damn plane.”
Despite myself, I snort. “I don’t think your shoulders would fit through those tiny windows, even if I wanted to toss you out.”
He grabs his biceps subconsciously, his henley shirt doing nothing to hide said shoulders. “I can’t tell if I’m being hit on or if that was meant to be derogatory.”
“It’s about logistics,” I say. “So, neither.”
Hopefully, he takes the hint and stops talking. He does neither of those things, and a minute later, the guy actually says, “I think you’d fit. Through the window, I mean.” My eyes fly open as he mimes throwing a me-sized object out of the window, which feels vaguely threatening.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s about logistics,” he pokes a tongue in his cheek. I raise my eyebrows once in some sort of response before tilting my head into the back of my seat.
When the plane starts, I close my eyes and wait for liftoff. The last time I was on a plane was for that Miami trip five years ago. And then, I had Reese there to talk me through liftoff and grab my hand during turbulence.
I have a feeling this stranger has no plans to do either of those things, so the best I can do for myself is shut my eyes and ignore the growing discomfort in my stomach once the plane rises.
As soon as we’re in the air and the seatbelt sign is off, my eyes fly open.
The stranger’s eyes are on me, head cocked to the side.
“You’re scared of flying?” He looks like he’s about to laugh, so I don’t dignify him with a response.
“Why didn’t you ask me to hold your hand or something?” He’s got the charm that some men have mastered with ease, the type of charm that gets the listener all caught up in their spell until it finally registers that they’re making fun of you.
On a good day, I have little desire to speak to anyone before ten in the morning. Talk less of a day like this where Murphy’s Law was proved exactly right, repeatedly. Quite honestly, the last thing I need is to be clowned by a guy I met five minutes ago.
“Stealing my dignity, stealing my seat. Charismatic.”
His hands fly upward. “I offered.”
He’s right, and I imagine that my silence is proof enough. I turn over in my seat, so I’m looking outside of the window rather than at him, and to his credit, he stops talking long enough for me to catch up on sleep.
CHAPTER 3
griffin
The first thing I noticed about the girl next to me was her hair — full dark curls that framed her face. Then I noticed her expression, dark eyes confused, lips pursed, eyebrows drawn into a frustrated line.
This is going to be good, I thought, watching her inhale wearily and open her mouth to speak.
And it was even better, once the airline’s mistake became very clear to the both of us. I’d almost laughed out loud, because I could tell she was trying to act unbothered, trying to hold back a frustrated scream—and I’ll you right now, that was easily the highlight of the flight.
She settled down next to me, all slender brown limbs and floral-embroidered jorts and white tank, which she managed to pull off with ease. And I decided, pretty and frustrated as the woman might be, it seemed to be my sworn obligation to piss her off, just a little bit more. Screw around a bit, see her eyes twitch.
Sue me, I grew up the middle brother, and since everyone loves to forget the middle child, I basically made it my goal to be as insufferable as I possibly could be without getting in trouble. And damn right, no one in my family forgot me as a result. So I took it with me everywhere in life.
And I mean that.
When my older brother decided to be an electrician and my younger brother later decided to follow in his footsteps, I decided to be a firefighter, and argue that it’s better because it’s way more fun than “digging in toilets or whatever it is you electricians do”.
I was the kid that smart-assed my bully until he punched me and got detention, having to watch me traipse by his classroom every day with a shit-eating grin on my face.
Women are kind of half-half about it. Some of them like the challenge, but fail to keep up, others try and “see past the act” and psychoanalyze my behavior, when it really just comes down to the fact that teasing is the default mode for me, especially when my victim appears to be seconds away from throttling me.
Enter, Miss 12A, who fits that category up to a T, and ends up ignoring me and falling asleep before she can choke me out, which I can’t necessarily say would be an unpleasant experience for me. I know I’m a degenerate. Lock me up, if you have to.
I don’t fall asleep because seat 12A is not any more comfortable than any other economy seat and I can’t stretch my legs at all.
I’m pretty sure all the blood has pooled at my feet by now, but I’m not planning on waking up the lady who is in deep, lip-smacking, drool-potential sleep right now, even as the turbulence gets rougher. Because as much as I love pushing buttons when I can, I’m not a villain, just a man.
They bring out food, butter chicken, and I have the air hostess place one down for Sleeping Beauty.
I’m mildly concerned about her food getting cold and gross, but her nap is short, and she wakes up with long, slow blinks, straightening up in her seat before her eyes land on the dish placed on her tray table.
“I ordered for you,” I say at her blank gaze, raising both eyebrows in some sort of peace offering in the wake of our seating issues and my relentless teasing. “You were knocked out cold. This is me handing you a white flag.”
“Thank you,” She takes the white flag, lucky for me.
I decide to introduce myself, ignoring the sleepy rasp to her sweet voice, my brain blanking out any potential teases.
Her hand slides in mine, fingers decorated with a couple pretty rings, her ring finger bare. I look back up at her face, lift my gaze from her lips to her eyes.
