In a studio sat an older Black man, a pretty Indian woman, and a middle-aged blonde lady. Zane, one of the camera guys, adjusted the lights as I sat in the chair in front of them.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Chris. I am Rainbow, and these are my colleagues Priyanka and Dr. Kwame.” The older blonde woman had a hippy-dippy vibe. “We’re so happy to be with you on this life-altering journey.”
I shifted in my seat. “I’m not sure how life altering it’s really going to be, but whatever.”
“Are you ready to get married?” Priyanka asked me, her gold earrings tinkling softly.
“No.”
Gunnar made a motion with his hand. I gritted my teeth.
“Of course. I am looking for the perfect woman to spend my life with.”
“And what does the perfect woman look like?” Dr. Kwame asked.
My thoughts wandered to Grace.
Guess I blew that shot.
“She works hard,” I said, “doesn’t just sit at home and do nothing. She runs her own business. She’s witty and intelligent.”
“Any physical characteristics?”
I blew out a breath. “You’re going to make me sound shallow.”
“We’re not here to judge,” Dr. Kwame said. “Physical attraction is important.”
“Tits or ass?” Rainbow-woman asked.
Ugh.
“Both?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes?”
“You don’t sound sure.”
I thought about Grace and her curvy figure next to me in the Uber.
“Both,” I said more confidently.
Priyanka made notes. “Anal play?”
I choked on my spit.
“What kind of questions are these?”
“We’re trying to assess your sexual compatibility,” the hippy lady said.
“Maybe,” I admitted. “I’m not going to say no.”
“So open to anal,” Priyanka clarified. “Both you and her?”
“Jesus.”
I was reeling after the question session.
“I feel like I just escaped the gulag,” I complained to Eric and Josh, who had been waiting for me in the next room and laughing hysterically as they watched the replays of my interview.
“When she asked you if you would be okay if your wife dressed you up in a dog costume and walked you around, and you were like, ‘If she’s hot!’” Josh collapsed in laughter.
“I think that lady was just fucking with me,” I complained. “I don’t need a supermodel. I just need someone who’s not going to try to trap me with a pregnancy or steal all my money.”
“But the dog costume is cool?”
“Speaking of costume.” Eric wiped the tears out of his eyes. “We need to find you a wedding suit.”
“I’ll just wear one of my tuxes,” I said.
“Dude.” Josh put a hand on each of my shoulders. “We jest, but really, you need to set the tone from day one. We don’t know which of the women you’re going to get paired with. I was reading through the files, and some of them seem like real pieces of work. You want to make sure she has no illusions that this is going to be one of those crappy dime-store romance novels. She’s not a princess, and you’re not her prince.”
“I mean, obviously she won’t…”
“Poor, naive little Chris.” Eric patted me on the head. “Once this bride realizes she’s fake married to a billionaire, she’s going to do everything in her power to try to make you fall in love with her for real.”
“Fuck.” My skin went cold. “I’ll resist her.”
“Will you?” Josh raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have the best track record. Remember what happened with Addison. You barely dodged that bullet.”
“No, you need to make sure she knows from day one at the altar that you are too much for her to handle and she better run back home to Daddy as soon as the wedding is over,” Eric insisted.
“I can’t believe you roped me into this!”
“And I feel terrible!” Eric said cheerfully. “But this is why we came here to help. Because we care.”
“You came here to laugh.”
“And help. We have a five-point plan,” Josh said, waving a piece of paper around. “And number one is to show up at your fake wedding looking like a lunatic.”
The thrift store was packed for a Tuesday.
Eric and Josh rummaged around the racks of clothes while I mentally tried to prepare myself for the next six weeks. The Svenssons were right. The bride, whoever she was, was totally going to come after me for my money. I mean, what kind of lunatic even signed up for a show where she was married at first sight? She was obviously mentally deranged.
“Okay, try this on.” Eric handed me a moth-eaten kilt that smelled like wet dog, and a tartan wrap that had seen better days.