One of the biggest cruise ships in the world, the Gemstone is an adults-only monstrosity—a floating city that was built specifically forLove at First Sail,with an entire deck dedicated to filming—and comes complete with a private, contestants-only pool, bar, pickleball court, and gaudy lounge area furnished with cheap vinyl sectionals and loveseats (for easy wipe down at the end of the day, gross).
When Sailor Productions announced the construction of the Gemstone, the industry was shocked. The concept of building a set that could still work as a consumer model after production wrapped was not unusual for TV—but building an entire cruise ship for a show? And with the public using the space at the same time? Unheard of.
The publicity the series garnered from that news alone helped launch the first season’s ratings sky-high. Everyone wanted to see what it would look like.
And even more, everyone wanted to seethemselvesthere.
Now, with eight complete seasons under its belt, the Gemstone is always fully booked—attracting couples who want a luxurious getaway as well as superfans who want to catch a glimpse of filming, or even be invited on as a contestant.
Because that’s another thing that makesLove at First Saildifferent from other reality dating shows: if someone can’t find love with another contestant, producers may allow them to pick someone from the passenger manifest. They’re usually plants, of course—people who applied to be on the show but didn’t make the cut. Perhaps they weren’tquitethe perfect fit when it came to the final casting, but they’ve already been vetted with background checks and psychological testing, so that if a contestant needs to resort to searching the ship for their saving grace, the producers can still have some control over the story. Those little details aren’t generally shared with the audience, however…so it makes for a fun little plot twist once or twice per season.
As I approach the ship, a sense of familiarity falls over me. I vaguely know my way around thanks to my gig during their first season. Still, the sheer size of the ship is intimidating, even seeing it again all these years later, and I can’t help but stare up at it in awe as I approach.
Which is exactly how I find myself walking directly into the broad chest of a man wearing a crisp white jacket and holding two giant melons—a honeydew, and a cantaloupe.
“Oof!” The air whooshes out of me as we collide, and his grip on the honeydew wavers. I try to catch it as it slips from his hand, my fingers fumbling and sliding against its smooth, waxy rind. But as I work to grasp the fruit, I underestimate my reach and manage to push it even farther away, sending it sailing to the ground…where it cracks wide open with a nauseatingsplat.
The man and I both pause, blinking down at the bright green carnage at our feet.
“Fuuuck,” is all I can manage after a beat, drawing out the syllables and cringing at my clumsiness.
I steal a glance up at the owner of the melons—well, singular melon, now—and am struck by how handsome he is. A crop of curly black hair skims his tan skin, and his eyes sparkle with a laugh that I can tell he’s working hard to contain. His full lips, framed by a dark beard, twitch and turn up into a smile.
“My melon,” he gasps, mock despair lacing his gravelly voice. “Youmurderedmy melon.”
His eyes are on me now—dark and warm, but with a slight edge, like he’s challenging me to engage. My stomach bottoms out, and for a moment I can only blink as I take in the rest of him. He’s tall and lean with broad shoulders. I notice his jacket is actually the top half of a set of chef’s whites, the black buttons undone to midway down his torso, revealing a tight black T-shirt. The sleeves of his jacket are pushed up, exposing strong, corded forearms covered in faded tattoos that I can’t quite make out.
I snap my gaze back up to his and open my mouth to say something witty, but stop short as a squat man with little tufts of gray hair ringing the sides of his head screams at us from across the dock to move.
The man with the now lone cantaloupe grabs my arm and quickly pulls me out of the way just as a speeding forklift zooms around us, nearly clipping my foot. I whip around toface the driver, who is waving erratically at me and yelling, “Togliti di mezzo,idiota!”
I don’t speak Italian, but I can at least guess what that last word means.
“I’m not anidiota. I was here first!” I shout back, my blood instantly boiling—then just as quickly dissipating into embarrassment, as I hear the echo of my shout reverberate around us.
It’s not exactly “staying under the radar” to yell at ship staff. But I’m cranky, and hot, and I couldn’t help it.
Anyway, he started it.
Of course, it’s too late to make a difference now; the driver is long gone and I’m left standing next to Melon Man, his hand still wrapped gingerly around my arm as he snickers at my expense. Heat begins to bloom up my neck and across my cheeks.
Am I seriouslyblushing?
Now, not only am I a sweaty mess, but I probably look like an overripe tomato, too.
What a way to meet a man.
“Sorry…I’m not usually this unhinged…I promise,” I say, attempting to sound calm as I turn back to the man who just saved my ass from becoming forklift roadkill even after I decimated his fruit.
“It’s okay,” he says, dropping his hand from my arm. “Melon massacre is stressful—I can understand your reaction after a situation like that.”
I notice he has a slight Australian accent. Ialsonotice that the teasing glint of laughter in his eyes is back, and I groan.
“I didn’t murder your melon, I was trying tocatchit,” I counter, shifting awkwardly on my feet and suddenly far too aware of my frizzy hair and sweaty palms.
“Oh, really? Tell that to the fruit salad at my feet,” he smirks, and I roll my eyes. “Well, if your intention wasn’t malicious,then it would be manslaughter, wouldn’t it? Or melonslaughter, I suppose.”
“Oh myGod.” I drag my hand down my face in exasperation. “You’re so funny and mature. Thankyou…”
