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“Crap, right. Will you have the best time for me?”

“That I can do.” I smile.

“Will you steal me a souvenir?”

“On it.”

“Something expensive?”

“Probably not.”

“Make me proud.”

“Of the souvenir?”

“No,of you. And tell Jordy if he earns himself a strike, he’s answering to me after filming.”

“I’m sure he’ll be terrified.”

“Oh, he should be.”

My backpack—a sixty-five-liter monstrosity with lime green straps—rolls into view. I dart forward to collect it, and my neighbor—who still hasn’t received his—shoots me a bitter glance. With a sweet smile, I say goodbye to Chloe forthe last time in a long time, and head off to meet the person assigned to collect me.

My flight from Zurich, Switzerland, to Loreux, Chalonne, took off at 11:05 this morning and landed at 11:58. This, according to the producer organizing my trip, is not at all an exorbitant waste of money that could be better spent in a hundred other ways.

At least they didn’t send a helicopter to collect me, like the producer initially suggested when he found out how close I was, I suppose. Although itispossible he was being sarcastic. It’s quite hard to tell by email.

Leaving the ugly carpet of the luggage collection behind, I cross onto glossy black tiles among a crowd of suit-clad business commuters and head toward the escalator. Just as I reach it, however, my phone begins to buzz in my pocket, so I pull over to one side to answer the call.

“Hey, you.” Jordy’s voice is warm and bright, and I can’t resist the smile that touches my lips when I hear it. “Welcome to Chalonne. You’ve landed, right?”

“All of twenty minutes ago,” I say, leaning my backpack against the barrier to relieve myself of its weight for a few moments. “I’m just about to leave the airport.”

“I can’t believe you’re really here.” Jordy lets out a breathless, exhilarated chuckle. “It’s starting to feel real.”

“Isn’t it, though? Are you nervous?”

“Uhh. More excited than nervous. I’m excited to see you.”

A fluttering in the pit of my stomach reminds me that, unlike Jordy, I amquitenervous. A feeling that’s increased exponentially at the idea of him sitting in a hotel room, counting down the minutes until we see each other again.

“But, uhh, there’s a reason I’m calling,” Jordy says. “Other than to hear your voice, I mean.”

I frown and shift my backpack higher. “And what might that be?”

“Actually, I wanted to give you a heads-up about something. A warning, I guess.”

“You want to warn me about something the second I step off the plane in a foreign country?” I ask. If my voice is somewhat shrill, I suppose it’s because I feel somewhat shrill.

“Do you remember my ex-girlfriend Maya?”

“I guess. I remember her name?”

“Cool, well, she’s going to be there.”

“As it happens, this doesn’t come as a shock to me, Jordy. I do know the show I signed up for.”

“Right… but I’m not sure you signed up for Maya Bailey.”