Chapter One
Ivy
Seal the Deal Weekend.
The banner above the hotel reception desk flicks me right between the eyes. I freeze mid-step. My rolling suitcase… not so much. It rams into my calves with a vengeance. My iPad digs into my ribs, my green smoothie lid pops off, and for one horrifying second, I see my entire powder-blue suit destroyed in a radioactive splash of spinach.
I snap the cap on just in time.
Crisis averted.
Except it’s not. There’s a career-ending sign mocking me from across the lobby, and that thing is arguably worse than death by kale smoothie.
“Shit.” The word slips out. “Shit. SHIT!”
It’s supposed to saysea lion. Not seal.
Not bark-bark, claps-for-fish, balances-a-ball-on-its-nose seal.
I stare at the display, willing it to fix itself.
Look, I get it. Seals and sea lions are both cute, flippered, water puppies that smell like a low-tide seafood buffet. But we’re not saving seals. We’re saving sea lions. The ones with ear flaps. The ones that walk. Theliteralstars of this whole event!
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “It’s fine. This is fine.”
Fine?!The banner might as well say “Ivy Ellison: Unemployed by Monday” in hot pink Comic Sans.
The conversion metrics on this slogan are going to be catastrophic. I engineered “Single. Mingle. Save the Sea Lions,” which tested at a 73% recall rate and was vetted across all age demographics. I ran it past three focus groups, two marketing consultants, and my landlord.
“Seal the Deal” sounds like the tagline for a sketchy hookup app.
I’m supposed to be crafting unforgettable content for Saltwater Saviors, the fearless, wetsuit-wearing badasses who rescue entangled sea lions in life-threatening waves and call it a Tuesday. They’re real-world environmental superheroes, and I’ve only got 72 hours to make this their biggest fundraiser yet.
Three million dollars in three days.
The marketing concept is genius: a partnership with Hotel Bellwether for their first-ever singles activism weekend. Gorgeous singles spending their days cleaning beaches together and their nights falling in love over shared passions for ocean conservation. It’s activism with a side of romance.
The company I work for, Dare4Change, was brought in to create content so irresistible that people forget they are just here to flirt and take pics. The mission: dominate feeds, drain wallets for the cause, and make sea lion rescues trend harder than Taylor Swift’s next album.
Instead, I’m watching tourists snap selfies under a banner that makes my stomach churn.
“Oh. My. God!” A woman with a bleached ponytail, swinging like a metronome, in head-to-toe lavender Lululemon bounces past me. “This place has no business being this fabulous. Find my soulmateandsave some seals? I’m obsessed!”
I smile. I nod. I die inside.
But her hotel worship? Totally justified.
Hotel Bellwether is stunning. Absolute Instagram gold with its iconic red roof and ocean views. Famous author Belle Wether built it in 1903 after her husband died, supposedly pouring her broken heart into every detail. Now it’s a legendary romance destination, complete with a wish-granting fountain that hopeless romantics throw quarters into(like me. Three quarters actually).
… okay, four. Don’t make it a thing.
The Victorian lobby wraps around you like an embrace you weren’t expecting—dark mahogany columns anchoring hand-carved balconies two stories high, built by craftsmen who knew this was their masterpiece. A crystal chandelier drips from the coffered ceiling like frozen rain, casting warm light across a regal floor that has absorbed a lifetime of whispered promises. In the middle is the iconic green velvet bench, where couples famously fall in love at first sight.
This place was designed to catfish anyone with a pulse.
Driving down from LA, I dared to daydream about allowing myself some flirtation this weekend. Finding a guy who sees my curves and thinks ‘hell yes’ instead of ‘maybe later when I’ve exhausted my other options.’ Someone who sees my take-charge attitude and analytical mind and…
I shut it down. I know where it leads. Straight into a spiral.
