Chapter One
Vivian Michaels was halfway through a lukewarm glass of champagne at twelve thousand feet in the air before she finally decided to open the production packet on her iPad. The notes had been sitting in her inbox for a week now, untouched but definitely not forgotten.
When her manager, Steve, had first broken the news that the next season ofThe Sapphic Matchwas going to take place in the African bushveld, she’d immediately pictured herself melting under a khaki sun hat, wiping dust off her lip gloss and quite possibly—but hopefully not—be devoured by something with a mane. And if death wasn’t by a lion, it would probably be by a cloud of mosquitoes.
Wasn’t Africa famous for malaria? It seemed she’d read article after article about outbreaks and travelers collapsing mid-safari. Or was that related to something else?
Anyway, Steve had assured her the incidence of malaria was extremely low, and the travel doctor, Maurine, had practically given her an entire pharmacy’s worth of preventatives.
But still. She was only thirty-eight. “I don’t think so,” she’d told production.
They’d laughed, thinking she was joking. But she wasn’t.
Now wedged into a butter-soft leather seat while the small charter plane she’d boarded at O.R. Tambo International Airport shuddered beneath her, she figured she might as well face it. She tapped her deep red nails against the screen, and Welcome to Season Seven ofThe Sapphic Matchin big bold letters popped up. Bullet points followed: contestants’ arrival schedule, b-roll plans, ceremony nights, talking points for thehost (as if she didn’t have her lines memorized by now), and a disclaimer reminding her they’d be filming in Sabi Sand Game Reserve, one of the most exclusive private reserves in South Africa.
Just like last season, there were only ten contestants. They were set to film for three weeks in the middle of the bush. There would be a small army of producers, sound techs, and makeup artists, all stationed fifteen minutes away at a neighboring lodge when they weren’t filming.
She swiped to the next slide. The screen was filled with golden grasslands dotted with umbrella-shaped acacia trees. A mirror-like pool stretched toward a watering hole where a herd of elephants grazed lazily, and in the distance, zebras moved slowly, their black-and-white stripes blurring in the shimmer of heat. Beneath it,Ndloveni Bush Lodgeglowed in gold serif font against a hunter green background.
Vivian tilted her head. Okay, fine, even she had to admit the place looked stunning. Which is why it wasn’t surprising that the lump in her throat, which she had tried but failed to wash down with champagne, was shrinking.
Another swipe. This photo slide showed ten tented suites along a riverbank. Each tent was so chic it made glamping sound insulting. Aerial shots showed an infinity pool, the main lodge, and a cluster of glass-front villas, which apparently were reserved for romantic one-on-one dates.
At least she’d been assigned to one of the villas herself. With her own plunge pool, floor-to-ceiling windows, an AC unit, and a minibar, a woman could survive almost anything. Thank goodness for vodka.
Still, Vivian wasn’t entirely convinced. The word bushveld sounded itchy. And hot. She’d packed two tubes of SPF 50 but now wondered if that would be enough.
She took another sip of her champagne. The bubbles were practically nonexistent, and she scrolled to the second to last slide. It was a photo of this season’s bachelorette. Sienna McKenzie.
The photo was a professional headshot; the kind taken by someone who knew exactly how to make a woman look unattainable. Sienna’s thick, espresso-brown hair framed cheekbones that were high and almost unfairly perfect. Her eyes were green, but not the color of grass or leaves. More like sea glass caught in sunlight. She wore a delicate gold chain with a tiny compass charm, and if Vivian squinted hard enough, she could just make out a faint scar on her chin.
She zoomed in. Then, she zoomed out, annoyed at herself.
Sienna was thirty-one, a former travel blogger turned social media darling known for her ‘authentic heart’ and her ‘unfiltered journey to self-love’ according to her bio. But the truth was, Sienna didn’t look like someone in search of anything. In fact, she looked like the type of woman who already had the world’s attention and knew how to keep it.
The pilot’s voice came on over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen.” The only gentleman was Cypress, the show’s photographer, sitting two chairs down from Vivian. She’d overheard him talking earlier about a potential sunrise photoshoot among the elephants. Vivian had shuddered so hard that her golden hoop earrings had rattled. “We’ll be starting our descent into Sabi Sand Game Reserve in approximately five minutes. Outside, the temperature is a mild thirty-four degrees Celsius. And for those who can’t do the mental calculation, that’s about ninety-three degrees Fahrenheit.”
There wasnothingmild about ninety-three degrees.
Vivian leaned back against the leather seat. She closed her eyes. She could already feel the heat pressing against the glass, and smell the dry, dusty air waiting for her below. Then,against her better judgment, she opened her eyes again and glanced out the window.
The champagne must’ve gone straight to her head, because suddenly, the view wasn’t that bad. Clusters of thorn trees were scattered across a wilderness that stretched wide and wild. There was a snaking river that caught the light like spilled mercury, and everywhere she looked there were animals grazing.
But then the landing strip came up, which was basically nothing more than a slender ribbon of dirt, and her entire body seized. When the wheels touched down, Vivian braced herself with both hands on the armrests, clinging for dear life.
A blast of hot air met her the second she stepped down the narrow stairwell. It was the type of heat that wrapped around a person and refused to let go. There was no way in hell it was only ninety-three degrees. Try a hundred and three.
“Welcome to Sabi Sand, Ms. Michaels,” a khaki-clad man with mirrored sunglasses said when she reached the open-air 4x4. It was a glossy dark green Land Cruiser with the Ndloveni logo stenciled on the side of the door. “My name is Themba, and I’ll be taking you to the Ndloveni Lodge.” He pointed toward Cypress, who was pulling a glitter-covered carry-on, the two makeup artists named Cindy and Fi, along with Gloria, the stylist who was fanning herself with a brochure. “The others will be going with Jim to the crew lodge.”
“Lovely,” Vivian said, sliding her sunglasses into place. She pointed to the truck that looked like it could crush a small building and asked, “Does that come with air conditioning?” She knew the answer was no, but still, a girl could dream.
Themba’s grin widened. “Better than air-con,” he said. “Bush air.”
Vivian smiled tightly and climbed in. Somewhere in the distance, something roared. She chose to believe it was a truck.
The ride took about fifteen minutes along a dirt road that shimmered with heat mirages. Occasionally, Themba would spot an animal print pressed into the sand, but he never stopped long enough for the suffocating heat to set in. Vivian couldn’t thank him enough. They passed an impala herd grazing in the shade. A few warthogs trotted briskly with their tails pointed sky-high. And when they turned a bend, a giraffe came up right next to them. It was so close Vivian actually shouted, which had Themba in stitches.
By the time the Land Cruiser crested the last hill and Ndloveni Lodge came into view, Vivian was ready to get out. Motion sickness was not part of her contract. Neither was heatstroke.
