Page 3 of Love’s a Script (Hearts Collide #1)

Chapter Three

Each weekday morning, the small team of All Intents and Purposes gathered in a conference room with a standing double-sided whiteboard to plan that evening’s eighty-minute radio broadcast. It was a vital meeting that would shape the many hours they’d spend writing scripts, lining up guests, and preparing for interviews.

But on this day, Ruben Byers struggled to focus on the news story a staff writer was pitching because the show’s production director had chosen that time to clip his nails.

As director, Hugh stood inside the rack room with the audio technician, managing the progress of the show Ruben cohosted.

The almost sixty-year-old was good at his job, which allowed him to push the limits of social propriety, but when one of Hugh’s clippings landed too close to the open box of blueberry muffins, Ruben finally said, “Hey, could you hold off on that until we’re done here? ”

Hugh blinked like he found the request confusing but ceased all personal grooming thereafter.

At the end of the meeting, Ruben set a time for the group to reconvene in the afternoon.

And as the writers, editor, and line producer got up to leave, Hugh asked Ruben and his cohost, Chesa, to stay behind.

Ruben shared a look with his partner, and in the silent shorthand they’d developed over the five years working together, they agreed this couldn’t be anything good.

Once the room had cleared, Hugh began, “About last night’s broadcast and that interview with the matchmaker?—”

“I know. I was too confrontational,” Ruben said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“You were being thorough,” Chesa said, and Ruben appreciated the defense, especially since she’d been frustrated with how the interview had escalated.

There was a balance they aimed for with each episode, and he’d complicated one of the few easy stories they sprinkled in between the serious interviews and discussions.

But for better or for worse, he was beholden to truth and authenticity, so he hadn’t been able to go along with the breezy interview when it helped trivialize the scandal unfolding in the mayor’s office.

“Actually, it’s good the interview went in the direction it did,” Hugh said. “We got more calls and emails about that segment than anything before. The listeners loved the banter between you and the matchmaker.”

Ruben wouldn’t call the exchange banter.

There had been nothing friendly or good-natured about it.

He remained convinced matchmaking relied on manipulation, but he had nothing against the matchmaker…

Mary, was it? In fact, he’d been impressed with how well she’d held her own.

He was no stranger to debates, to parleys.

But rarely did someone locate him in their arguments so accurately or as smoothly as she had.

It was thrilling, like the first hit of air on a cold day.

“Happy ending then. Right?” Ruben said, still wary.

“Yes, and it’s why we’re going to give the people more of what they want and make the next feature about modern dating.” Hugh held his hands up like he was framing a lit marquee. “Sex robots, speed dating, and matchmaking, oh my!”

There was a stunned pause before Chesa said, “But we’re already doing it on labor and employment. We’re halfway through interviews, and we’re meeting with Novak next week.”

“Don’t kill it. Put it on ice for now,” Hugh said as if it didn’t take them a number of weeks to produce their quarterly features. Restarting that process with a new topic and with less time would require supreme organization.

“Oh, and I was also thinking,” Hugh continued, “that it would be cool if Ruben did an on-the-field component and hired that matchmaker from the interview.”

“Hire the matchmaker?” Ruben said.

“Yeah, some immersion reporting. Get the real scoop on matchmaking. A first-hand experience.”

“No,” Ruben replied. “Absolutely not.” It was gimmicky, and he would not subject himself to a contrived affair. And he didn’t think the matchmaker he’d offended would be happy to work with him anyway.

“Guys, you’re not flagship,” Hugh said with vibrato in his voice that might’ve been humorous in a different instance, but this was a reminder to the cohosts to ration their obstinance.

“We’ll start brainstorming,” Chesa said.

Satisfied, Hugh left, and the cohosts took time to come to terms with their situation.

Ruben had never been na?ve enough to hope this job would last forever, believing budget cuts, robots, or the nation’s fried attention span would eventually make his role obsolete.

But two years ago, when their show had a brush with cancellation, he’d learned how ill-prepared he was for the end.

It was only coincidence that had saved their show when around that same time the host of another, more popular show from their network had old message board posts resurface.

They were described in an official statement as “racially insensitive and not representative of the station’s values.

” The powers that be couldn’t very well have followed up the debacle by pulling the show with the Black and Filipina hosts, so instead, Hugh was brought in to improve operations and analytics.

“All I know is I’m not hiring a damn matchmaker,” Ruben said, but when Chesa didn’t immediately agree and kept clicking her retractable pen, he turned to her. “You can’t be serious.”

“I think it would make things interesting.”

“Jesus Chr?—”

“Hear me out. We use your experience as a framing device.” She walked to the front of the room and wrote on the whiteboard as she spoke. “We playback your take on matchmaking from the interview at the start, and at the end, we see if going through the process changed your opinion.”

“Okay. What about the middle?” he asked.

“We explore what makes people choose one method of finding love over another. Add historical context. Some academic perspectives.”

Ruben nodded, thinking. “So maybe our central question could be”—he took his own marker to the board—“is there an ideal, scientifically backed way to find authentic love?”

Chesa agreed, and they spent minutes creating an outline. When complete, they stood back to appreciate the map of weaving lines, jutting arrows, and circled words.

“You see the vision now?” Chesa asked.

He sighed. “I see it.”