America's Next Reality Star Read online

  SEEKING THE SMART ONE

  Twenty-four-year-old Jen Reid had her life in good shape: an okay job, a tiny-cute Seattle apartment, and a great boyfriend almost ready to get serious. In a flash it all came apart. Single, unemployed, and holding an eviction notice, who has time to remember trying out for a reality show? Then the call comes, and Jen sees her chance to start over—by spending her summer on national TV.

  Luckily The Fishbowl is all about puzzles and games, the kind of thing Jen would love even if she wasn’t desperate. The cast checks all the boxes: cheerful, quirky Birdie speaks in hashtags; vicious Ariana knows just how to pout for the cameras; and corn-fed “J-dawg” plays the cartoon villain of the house. Then there’s Justin, the green-eyed law student who always seems a breath away from kissing her. Is their attraction real, or a trick to get him closer to the $250,000 grand prize? Romance or showmance, suddenly Jen has a lot more to lose than a summer . . .

  Books by Laura Heffernan

  Reality Star Series

  America’s Next Reality Star

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  America’s Next Reality Star

  Reality Star Series

  Laura Heffernan

  LYRICAL SHINE

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  kensingtonbooks.com

  Lyrical Press books are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Laura Heffernan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund- raising, and educational or institutional use.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

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  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: March 2017

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0153-5

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0153-7

  VD1_1

  Table of Contents

  SEEKING THE SMART ONE

  Books by Laura Heffernan

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Sweet Reality Teaser

  To Steph

  Duh.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I’d like to thank my darling husband for his unwavering love and support, even when I locked myself away in my office for hours (days??) at a time. Thank you to Stephanie Thornton for coming into my life at exactly the right time and being the friend I needed (Then and now. You’re the best.). You also gave me a peek into an exciting new world. This book literally could not exist without you.

  A huge thank you to my amazing agent, Michelle Richter, for everything (especially your endless patience), and to Jen Karsbaek for seeing something special in my Jen’s story. Thank you to my editor, Wendy McCurdy, for helping me see what this story needed to be. Thank you to my publicist, Michelle Forde, for all your hard work (and putting up with my barrage of questions).

  A book really is written by committee. Thank you to my priceless critique partners for their help: Carey O’Connor, Kristin B. Wright, Mary Ann Marlowe, Marty Mayberry, and Kara Reynolds. A special thank you to Michelle Hauck for picking America’s Next Reality Star for her query and first page critique workshop (and the zillion other things you’ve done for me since).

  Also, thank you to Deana Anker, Kimberly Ito, Kellye Garrett, and all the PitchWars mentors for helping to keep me sane during this long and sometimes difficult journey (And Brenda, of course, for inviting me into the community). I love you all.

  Finally, I’d like to thank the good people at Cadbury for fueling this journey. Thank you for making mini-eggs available year-round in Canada, and thanks to my husband’s family for keeping me supplied. <3

  I hope you enjoy America’s Next Reality Star. Writing it was a lot of fun. The best thing for a writer is to know that readers liked their book. If you did, please consider leaving an honest review on Goodreads or referring it to friends. A recommendation is the greatest support a reader can give an author.

  CHAPTER ONE

  DO YOU WANT TO WIN $250,000? ARE YOU OUTGOING, VIVACIOUS, AND ENGAGING? DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO BE RIGHT? DO YOU LOVE PUZZLES AND TRIVIA? DO YOU USUALLY FIND YOURSELF SURROUNDED BY LESS INTELLIGENT PEOPLE? WE’RE LOOKING FOR SMART, SPUNKY 21 TO 25-YEAR-OLDS, FOR AN EXCITING NEW REALITY COMPETITION FILMING THIS SUMMER! E-MAIL STEPHANIE WITH YOUR NAME, AGE, 2-4 PICS, AND A LITTLE ABOUT YOURSELF FOR MORE INFORMATION.

  I huddled at my desk, wrapping a blanket over my hoodie. Maybe one day management would trust employees to turn the heat above sixty degrees. Until that glorious day, I held my caffeine molecule-painted mug close to my body, futilely trying to gain warmth from the steam pouring off the top. The coffee tasted like pencil shavings and feet; drinking it wasn’t an option.

  With my right hand, I scrolled through my Facebook newsfeed, scanning the jokes, cartoons, and mindless banter. It was against the rules, but everyone did it. “Marketing assistant” apparently was code for “exhausting bursts of activity punctuated with lots of sitting around.” The irony wasn't lost on me. After working insanely long days all week to include last-minute changes on a major project, I appreciated a few hours’ break while my boss reviewed it. The craziness would start again soon enough. I turned up the volume on my computer to project my music over the howling November storm. My toes tapped the linoleum floor.

  A message popped up at the bottom of my screen, informing me of a new e-mail. I hit alt-tab to switch programs, expecting the feedback I needed before starting my workday.

  No such luck.

  It was Seattle General Hospital’s billing department. “Dear Ms. Reid, Thank you for your payment. . .”

  Silently, I cursed them for the reminder.

  If only the debt could be erased with the same easy click that sent the message to trash. I’d been in perfect health during my high school and college years. So, naturally, my ankle broke a week before my insurance with McCain & Webster kicked in while showing off my impression of Miley Cyrus’s latest MTV Music Awards perfor
mance. When I slipped on the wet grass and fell, they’d laughed until my tears started. No one realized the fall wasn’t part of the act.

  Despite my efforts to tough it out (“Unless the bone sticks through the skin, it’s fine!”), my boyfriend had dragged me to an Urgent Care facility. Dominic swore it would be affordable. He was half-right: urgent care might have been cheaper than an ER, but the necessary surgery to reset the bone cost a lot. My eyes crossed at the first bill. With my salary, this stupid thing would haunt me until my unborn kids graduated high school. To add insult to (literal) injury, I couldn’t figure out how to turn off the automatic e-mails they sent every month.

  I peeked at the empty desk behind me. My officemate would’ve told me to pretend to work until I got my next assignment. However, he’d left to bond with his newborn daughter. For the next eleven weeks, three days, our tiny office belonged solely to me. I’d been freed from Pete’s obnoxious laughter, disapproving looks, and fried fish lunches. With my hall monitor gone and nothing work-related to do for the moment, I checked the bankruptcy qualifications—again—before clicking back to Facebook.

  Wait a minute. What was that?

  An old college drama professor posted an ad that caught my eye.

  A reality show designed for smart people? How intriguing.

  Voices buzzed outside my closed door. I glanced nervously over one shoulder. Being located next to the kitchen had its perks, but sometimes I couldn’t tell if people were about to burst in on me or just picked an unfortunate spot to gossip.

  After deciding my coworkers had gathered to make an early lunch, I read the description again.

  DO YOU WANT TO WIN $250,000?

  It sure beat filing for bankruptcy. There would probably be enough left to go back to school and get a degree in something more interesting. Or maybe put a down payment on a place bigger than a shoebox.

  ARE YOU OUTGOING, VIVACIOUS, AND ENGAGING?

  Well, I liked to think so. All through grade school, I took it upon myself to reach out to new students and make them feel welcome. Now, I hosted parties to celebrate big and small holidays. And I had no problem striking up conversations with random people on the Metro.

  DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO BE RIGHT?

  Hmm. I didn’t have to be right, but I frequently was. I happened to have a good memory. Being able to repeat anything I’d heard came in handy during trivia, mostly. And basement bar debates. Maybe I’d found another use for it.

  DO YOU LOVE PUZZLES AND TRIVIA?

  Did owning four themed copies of Trivial Pursuit or spending Metro rides playing Pic-a-Pix and Hashi on my phone count?

  DO YOU USUALLY FIND YOURSELF SURROUNDED BY LESS INTELLIGENT PEOPLE?

  I didn’t judge other people. But, I competed on the math and science teams in high school. Some people (those who’d met me) would’ve said I was kind of a geek. I hoped the show considered that a bonus, since it did nothing for my social life. I didn’t go on a single date until my junior year of college.

  WE'RE LOOKING FOR SMART, SPUNKY 21 TO 25-YEAR-OLDS.

  I was a twenty-one to twenty-five-year-old. Twenty-three, to be exact, turning twenty-four in a few weeks.

  As I read through the ad yet again, the little voice in the back of my head piped up. You should do this, it said. E-mail them.

  What? That was silly. I wasn’t an actress—marketing and academics were my bag.

  The little voice spoke again. I did love puzzles. I was good at them. The money would be extremely useful. Plus, I couldn’t remember my last vacation.

  My boyfriend worked as a traveling nurse, which made him less-than-enthusiastic about taking trips with me when he wasn’t away on an assignment. I understood. Still, it would be nice to get away, even on my own. What was the time commitment for something like this?

  I needed more information before making a decision.

  Before I could chicken out, my fingers opened a new e-mail and began to type as if of their own accord.

  Dear Stephanie,

  My name is Jennifer Reid, and I’m writing to request more information about your puzzle-based reality show. It sounds like something right up my alley. I’m 23 years old. I live in beautiful Seattle, Washington. It’s important to me to live life to the fullest and to grab opportunities when they present themselves.

  Since I was a little girl, I’ve loved puzzles. I chose a career in marketing because I like figuring out what the consumer wants and how to give it to them.

  Can you send me more information about the show and when you’re looking for someone? Thank you for your time.

  Best,

  Jennifer Reid

  Next step, pictures. Which ones to attach? Something showing my face, obviously. But also something fun.

  Thanks to the Internet, essentially every picture of me taken over the past six years sat at my fingertips. Thanks to my older brother, Adam, some older and more embarrassing pictures were also there. I bypassed those. The casting director didn’t need to see me, at ten, with chocolate cake smeared across my face or four-year-old me waving a cape as I pranced around in Wonder Woman panties, a pink tiara atop blond hair that hadn’t yet darkened with age. Thanks, Adam. Twelve-year-old Jen’s first attempts at wearing makeup also didn't need to be shared with the world. What had made me think purple eye shadow smeared up to my forehead brought out my blue eyes?

  Thanks, Adam, for posting my diving meet pictures where anyone can see them.

  It only took a few minutes to find what I wanted. A few years ago, my friends and I went bungee jumping. Someone under the bridge snapped each of us as we took the plunge. My picture showed me falling through the air, head tilted back, arms spread, pure joy on my face.

  I had no idea how they caught that expression. I’d been terrified, thought I was going to pee my pants. My breakfast had climbed into my throat, and I’d tamped it down using sheer willpower.

  There must be a split second of bliss a person experiences between “Oh, please God, I don’t want to die!” and “Why am I doing this?” They happened to click the picture at exactly the right time.

  Another great one showed the mess I created trying to cook Dominic dinner for his twenty-fifth birthday (before ordering birthday takeout), but the image focused on the burnt paella, not me. Then I found the perfect shot. While on a trip to New York City, I’d found a sign reading, “This is a library. Quite, please!” My head tilted toward the sign, mouth twisted into a grimace. One hand underlined the word “quite.”

  I attached it to the e-mail, along with the bungee picture and a regular close-up. Before stopping to consider any potential consequences of my actions, I took a deep breath and hit “send.”

  * * *

  A few hours later, my keys jingled as I struggled to unlock my front door. Rainwater dripped from shopping bags balanced on one raised knee. My purse dug into my armpit as I pushed against my apartment door. It stuck. Again. I braced myself against the jamb. One good shove usually did the trick.

  My phone, cradled between my chin and shoulder, beeped, startling me. Bags, purse, and umbrella crashed to the floor. An orange rolled out of one bag and down the hall.

  Ugh.

  As I scrambled to pick everything up, the door swung open. I tensed for a second before my boyfriend’s voice sounded from the doorway.

  “Oops. So. . .you got my text?” He crouched beside me and gathered bags.

  “Only if it said, ‘Hey! Drop everything!’”

  As always, seeing Dominic brought a smile to my face. Although we still crouched in the hallway, I leaned over and kissed him.

  When we separated, garlic and basil scents wafted by my nose.

  Dominic stood and pushed his wavy black hair out of his face with one hand. “Actually, it said, ‘When are you going to be home? I have a surprise for you.’”

  A grin stretched across my face. He knew how I loved surprises. “You know, you’re not supposed to use your key to jump out and scare
me.”

  “What? That’s half the fun.” His hands now full of my stuff, Dominic stepped through the door, holding it open as he nodded toward the interior. “After you, gorgeous.”

  As soon as I entered my four-hundred-square-foot apartment, I spotted the surprise. Freshly baked garlic bread steamed on the two-person wooden table, next to a tossed Caesar salad and spaghetti with homemade meatballs. My mouth watered.

  I popped on to my toes and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You are the best boyfriend ever.”

  “I know. I’m having a T-shirt made.”

  Dominic’s lips hovered over mine. My arms wrapped around his neck, and I rose up to meet him before allowing myself to sink into the kiss. After a moment, he picked me up and spun me on to the kitchen counter. My legs wrapped around his waist as his hands cupped my face.

  God, I loved him.

  We’d met my last year in college, when he was a graduate student. I’d been attracted to his rugged good looks and liked that he wasn’t clingy or demanding. We had fun together, but he didn’t complain when I worked overtime or spent time with my girlfriends. A year later, I’d already caught myself looking at engagement rings.

  Er. . .just the one time, though. We had plenty of time for that later.

  Dominic’s hand found the clasp to my bra—we hadn’t seen each other in more than a week. However, my body interrupted the kiss by emitting a sound that was less a growl of hunger and more the howl of a wild animal being murdered. Dominic pulled back, gave me one last kiss, then set me on to the floor.