Page 22 of Fan Favorite

P eter!” Jessa called from the craft services truck. “You’re late!”

“It’s seven fifteen. My call time is eight,” he replied, climbing out of the back seat of the Lincoln Navigator.

Key staff were everywhere—unloading cases from vans, hauling equipment, erecting lighting rigs around a beach volleyball court where, in just about an hour, eight gorgeous women were set to prance around in bikinis and maybe even hit a volleyball, all for the love of one complete douchebag.

What more could America want?

“I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve got a case of sabotage for you to investigate!” Jessa said wryly as she handed him a cup of coffee. “Mushroom coffee imported from Finland, one Splenda, just the way you like. Let’s go.” She pushed him toward the clubhouse.

In addition to outlining the quid pro quo with the Beach Club (at least two clear shots of the Beach Club’s signage to air prominently during the episode, one talking head with the lead describing the luxe surroundings, and first right of refusal on any Key -produced nuptials), the production notes also helpfully quoted GOOP’s review of the location, deeming it the “go-to destination for luxury beach weddings made to impress out-of-towners.” As they stepped through the clubhouse doors, Peter couldn’t help but agree with the assessment.

The Beach Club’s Malibu-rustic décor had the exact je ne sais quoi every fishtail-braided bride could ask for.

An entire wall of glass facing the ocean.

Thick farmhouse beams crossing the ceiling.

Plank floors burnished to a soft gray, as if they’d been weathered by the sea itself.

Reclaimed-wood dining tables attended by a variety of flea market chairs.

White linens, white candles, white china, various frondery, and driftwood waiting on a sideboard for a slew of unemployed actors in tuxedos to arrive and set and fill and clear for another #marriedmybestfriend jubilee.

Peter sighed. The Beach Club’s ambience was not dissimilar to the wedding he’d had at a ranch in Santa Barbara eight years ago, except Julie would’ve never allowed the driftwood. She’d spent $20K on floral alone.

Now the space was quickly converting from Martha Stewart Weddings into Key production control.

Monitors were being set up to stream feeds from the cameras on the ground.

Producers were working on laptops or pacing around, consulting iPads and calling out orders on walkie-talkies.

Typically, Peter liked to post up in the command center and own the story from a global perspective—develop characters, find plot beats, identify vulnerabilities, and radio them to the producers on the ground or the PAs logging footage in the corner.

But with Carole Steele still breathing down his neck—he was fielding texts and calls from Carole and her emissaries all day every day—Peter was more focused than ever on overseeing every single part of the show.

Today he’d be on the ground, right next to the action.

Jessa led him out a glass door and onto a large deck.

“Look,” she said, pointing toward the ocean.

Peter shielded his eyes with his hand and spotted a man surfing an impressive wave. A drone swung perilously overhead. “Is that Bennett?” he asked.

“No, it’s Taylor Swift,” Jessa said. “Of course it’s Bennett!”

“Just what can’t he do,” Peter said dryly. “They’d better not lose that drone. We’re already over on the equipment budget, and I’m not buying another.”

“Shut up, they won’t,” Jessa said. Bennett wiped out and the drone swooped higher in the sky.

“It’s gonna look great. I just came up with it this morning.

He’s going to surf some sick waves—three-hundred-and-sixty-degree drone footage—and then we’ll get him running on the beach with his surfboard under his arm, some straight-up Baywatch -type shit.

Slo-mo of him shaking out his hair. Oil up his chest. The whole thing. You’re gonna love it.”

“I already love it.”

“Good. You should love it.”

“Is this the sabotage? I don’t get it.”

“No, this is just a bonus. C’mon.” Jessa led Peter down a staircase to the beach. “I’m glad you’re finally letting Edie go on a date, by the way.”

“It’s been less than a week.” He trudged through the sand behind Jessa.

Suddenly Peter wished he wasn’t the kind of guy who walked on the beach in a button-down, jeans, and Prada loafers.

The grips and camera ops were all in T-shirts, shorts, baseball caps, sneakers, and flip-flops.

He sighed. Sometimes being a person with very little chill was a real pain in the ass.

Jessa, of course, was perfectly dressed in a tank top, cropped wide-leg jeans, and Birkenstocks, her ponytail swinging and lips bright pink.

“A week in that house is like a lifetime,” she said.

“It’s better this way. Builds tension.”

“Except you risk him getting caught up. He’s really into Bailey right now.”

“He’s into everyone. He’s a pig in shit. How’s she seem today?”

“You’re about to find out.”

“How ominous,” Peter said with a raised brow. “By the way, I read through the notes in the car. The storylines look weak. Carole’s pushing for fully developed plot lines—do we even have a real feud between the girls yet?”

“I knew you’d say that,” Jessa said, glancing over her shoulder with a smirk. “Which is why I spiced things up.”

They arrived at a row of thatched-roof changing huts. Jessa rapped on the door of the middle one.

“Edie?” she called.

“Yeah?” came a shaky voice from inside the hut.

“I brought Peter so we can get to the bottom of this. Can we see your suit?”

The door opened and a hand poked out, clutching a wad of fabric. Jessa took it and held it up for inspection. Shredded strips of Lycra blew in the breeze like miniature car wash ribbons.

“Jesus,” he said. “What the fuck happened?”

“From what we’ve pieced together, sometime between breakfast and when the girls started changing, someone got into her bag and Freddy Kruegered Edie’s tankini.”

Jessa winked, and Peter closed his eyes for a moment, reminding himself not to yell. Clearly, Jessa had no intention of clearing her hijinks with him this season.

“Hey, guys?” called the voice from inside the hut. “You know, I’m not really the kind of girl who runs around in a swimsuit on national television. Maybe this is a sign? Maybe I should just go on the next date instead? Is there, like, a spelling bee? Or a hot-wing-eating contest?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’re that kind of girl!” Jessa yelled toward the hut. “And you cannot miss out on this time with Bennett. Trust me—things move fast around here. Outta sight, outta mind.”

“Agreed!” Peter yelled toward the hut. He decided he might as well give Jessa exactly what she wanted, a no-nonsense showrunner investigating the case. “Do we know who did it?”

“Parker reported that Zo and Aspen missed breakfast. So right now, they’re our prime suspects.”

“Who’s producing them? Have they been notified?” he said, pulling at his collar. It was hot already.

“Working on it.” Jessa lassoed the shredded tankini through the air. “I thought you might want to talk to them. The girls. We can’t have contestants damaging other people’s property.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “Edie,” he yelled at the hut, “I want you to know we take this sort of thing very seriously. Guerrilla warfare is against the ethos of The Key .”

Jessa gave him a thumbs-up. “Not to mention the code of conduct.”

“Not to mention to code of conduct,” he yelled toward the hut.

“I appreciate you saying that, Peter, but, you know, the girls really seem to hate me—”

“They don’t hate you,” Jessa interjected. “They feel threatened and they’re lashing out. That’s what girls do.”

“I mean, is it?” Edie yelled from the hut. “Because I would never do this shit!”

Jessa opened her mouth, but Peter held up a hand.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he said. “Because you’re an adult.

So, look, let me apologize on behalf of The Key , and you can trust that I’m going to take this seriously.

I’ll circle back when I have more information, okay?

” Peter made some notes in his phone and shot a couple photos of the shredded swimsuit.

“In the meantime, what about the date?” he asked Jessa.

“Two steps ahead of you, Captain,” Jessa said.

“I already got her a new swimsuit from lost and found. I washed it—by hand, I might add—and dried it under the hand dryer, the whole time thinking, This is so hip. Reduce, reuse, recycle, zero plastic, zero waste —Edie’s like our very own no-fast-fashion upcycle warrior.

It’s so zeitgeist I’m literally dead over it.

Edie, come out, let us see how it looks! ”

“Never!” Edie yelled from the hut. “Literally no one has ever looked worse in a swimsuit than I do right this second.”

“Oh, stop,” Jessa said. “No one likes how they look in a swimsuit. Let us see!”

“Gigi Hadid. That other Hadid. Any Kardashian. The Jenners, too. Cardi B. Jennifer Aniston. Jennifer Lopez. Lizzo. There are all sorts of people who like how they look in a swimsuit. But I am not one of them!”

“A swimsuit body is just a body with a swimsuit on it,” Peter added helpfully.

Jessa rolled her eyes. “Edie, you don’t need to look like Gigi Hadid. You just need to look like yourself. That’s the only person Bennett wants to see.”

“Lies!” Edie yelled from the hut. “Do you promise not to laugh?”

“Of course we promise,” Peter said. “You’re our number one girl.”