Out now in e-book and paperback!
What better way to escape reality than going on a reality show that combines The Amazing Race, Love Island, and Pride and Prejudice?
Naomi Richmond is hoping an ocean is far enough away from her overbearing father. She’s chosen London and built a life there with a job she only dislikes about a quarter of the time.
Nate Williams is perfectly happy where he is, and his dissatisfaction with his job is so low it can’t be quantified numerically. Unfortunately, his boss (and Naomi’s father) is asking him to do something that might make him start to hate Mondays: convince Naomi to come home.
Nate arrives in London at the same time Naomi receives an offer that intrigues her as much as Nate does: be on a reality dating show, where the contestants will pretend to be Regency aristocrats eloping to the famed Gretna Green. Nate is sure it’s his job to stop this, but instead, he ends up on the show with her. Now Naomi is trying to make a name for herself while Nate is trying to make sure she doesn’t do anything to embarrass her father, and they’re both trying to fight the attraction they feel for each other. On camera.
Tune in whenever you find this book and watch Nate and Naomi find themselves and each other, on The Road to Gretna!
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Excerpt:
Chapter One
Naomi
“I need five Red, White, and Blue Margaritas, please!” I loudly request over the music, in the dimly lit basement restaurant that has become our spot.
Bubba’s serves what English people think American food is, mostly burgers and hot dogs with small American flags stuck in them, like we conquered processed meats. The walls are covered in American license plates and pictures of American treasures like the Lincoln Memorial and Dolly Parton, and on special occasions, like today’s Fourth of July celebration, they get a real American band. Or four English guys with a banjo.
It’s become a second home for us.
I hadn’t expected this weekly meeting of Americans to turn into a regular thing. All because of a chance meeting at the American food aisle, where Zara and I almost came to blows over the last Lucky Charms, to her introducing me to her friends at a “real American diner” in the heart of Kensington (which was decidedly unreal), I clicked with these people. In two years since, they’ve become family.
“Can I have an order of the chili dogs, but can I have that with a side of sadness that you lost us in 1776?” asks Zara, a Southern Californian who works on reality shows.
James looks at her pityingly. “Oh, love. We watch the news. We’re good with that particular loss.”
“Well, you also lost our ancestral homeland of India,” I say. Well, not Lucy’s. And I guess it’s only half mine.
“I’ll get you those chili dogs.” James, our favorite server, is used to us by now and only engages with us half the time.
“Chili dogs for all, James,” orders Jaya, an Indian-American castle publicist (publicist for cultural heritage sites) who always looks glamorous. I met her through my PR agency when we worked together on an assignment, and when I found out she was from San Jose and homesick too, I invited her to our group.
“Did we miss anything?” Lucy, a white mystery writer from Los Angeles, approaches our table and then sits down across from me.
“She means did you order us drinks? And I need drinks after dealing with Madame.” Dev exaggerates a posh English accent when talking about his (least) favorite person, his boss’s daughter. Dev’s an Indian-American curator at a big, extravagant, historic house in the countryside and is originally from Southern California. He drops down next to Lucy. They both knew Zara from before I ran into her on the day that is now known as Marshmallow-gate, since they all grew up in Artesia. Zara and Dev were dragged to the same temple against their will one Saturday night a month when they were teenagers, and Zara and Lucy went to high school together. They reconnected when they found out they all lived in London, through social media.
“We have food and drinks coming and we will acknowledge signing a declaration to be independent later. But right now I want to hear Zara’s news.” I turn to Zara, refusing to engage with anyone until I hear what caused all those cryptic, maybe happy texts we’ve been getting in the group text today.
Zara, resident reality TV producer, builds the drama before she answers. “Well…”
“Out with it, or Naomi’s gonna have a small cardiac event.” Dev’s not wrong.
“It actually involves Naomi, just a little…”
“Okay. I will haunt you forever if I expire from this cardiac event before I find out the news that you have kept from me. Since eleven a.m. this morning.” I take a sip of the patriotic margarita that appeared in front of me. “Thanks, James.”
He squeezes my shoulder and leaves us to celebrate our centuries-old victory over his ancestors. No grudge present.
“I got a job on a new reality show filming here in England!” Zara finally tells us. We’re all out of our seats in a flash, crowding around her in a giant group hug.
Zara’s had a hard time since she was fired from her first job in London. She’s been looking all over the world for the next opportunity, and in the meantime doing temp jobs. And moving in with me, who very much appreciated the split rent. And living with my best friend.
She was even considering going back to the States, but she didn’t want to go back as a failure, especially because of whatever happened to make her leave Los Angeles (which she still refuses to talk to me about and I refrain from circling around her for the information like a hungry shark that smells chum in the water because I’m a great friend).
“You lot might have won your independence, but you don’t even have universal healthcare,” an Englishman drunkenly slurs at us, mistaking the reason for our happiness. Which is rich coming from someone who’s enjoying our patriotic margaritas so much.
“Way harsh! And this is unrelated to George Washington, the deeply flawed man who nevertheless kicked your collective tea-drinking asses,” Jaya yells back.
“How is this related to me, though?” I ask when we finally disband the group hug.
Zara grabs my hands, probably so I can’t escape when she gives me the news. “Well. The thing is. One of my first jobs as this show’s field producer is to fix a problem we’re having with a contestant pulling out last minute, and the showrunner now hating all the back-ups we had planned.”
I get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, guessing at where this is going, and assuming the worst, most embarrassing outcome of this conversation.
“And I started describing you to my boss, and he sort of loved the idea of adding an American, specifically you, and wants to know if you can join the cast?” Zara gets the request out in a rush, so fast it takes a second to process it.
“Wait. What? Me? Why?”
“I described you because this can be good for you. I know you’re thinking about starting your own business as a publicist, and this could be great exposure for you. You can get your name out there. Manage your own post-reality show buzz, or a fellow contestant’s, and show everyone how great you are at the job. And then famous people from everywhere will want to work with you.”
It would be an amazing opportunity. I’ve been working at the PR firm for two years, getting promoted from intern to assistant, and I love it. But there’s not many opportunities since the company is so small right now.
And my dad keeps badgering me to come home. He’s that Harrison Richmond, of the New York Richmonds (ew, I know, but an accurate portrayal of how he sees himself) and he has very firm opinions on how I should live my life.
At his company. Living at home. Becoming a mini-him. A terrifying prospect.
He thinks if I’m just getting coffee and arranging schedules for very little money, I should be doing it for the family business. He’s even offered to put me in the marketing department. But I can’t work with him. He treats me like a spoiled princess, like any actual work might break me. Anything from doing my laundry or getting my own groceries.
And I let him. Because it’s easier to give in than fight over chores. And I hate doing laundry.
Every time I get geographically close to my parents, I let them take over, and I regress to an entitled teenager. But I don’t want to be that person. I want to earn my accomplishments. I won’t say I’m doing it by myself, because I didn’t refuse the financial help for school and some living expenses. I may have pride, but I also need to eat, despite how unfair that is to people who don’t have my safety net.
But here, unlike in New York, at least no one knows who I am. I even go by my mother’s maiden name, Patel. Every success I have, I’m confident I earned.
Unlike the time in sixth grade, when Dad saw I got a C on an essay, and he went down to the school, yelling and badgering teachers and administration until I got a B on it. And I know I deserved the C. I completely forgot about the assignment until the last minute, when I word vomited something onto the page so I wouldn’t get an F.
I worked harder after that, because I didn’t want to be known as the person whose father comes and saves her all the time.
But the clamoring from Mom and Dad to come home has gotten louder, and since I’m now in possession of two shiny degrees, undergraduate and graduate, it’s harder to push them off. Dad sweetens the job offer every time I see him, and it’s getting harder to resist, because I can be weak.
I’ve talked to Zara about the issue. And about the fact that if I started my own business as a publicist, a successful one, then my parents would see that I can and should be on my own. Bonus: I would be able to afford to live on whichever continent I damn well please.
But still. A reality show?
I love the genre. But they edit those for maximum drama, so I’m sure it’s going to lead to some embarrassment. And I don’t want to think about what my parents would say if they found out. Which is why I wouldn’t tell them till after filming, like the mature adult I am.
“C’mon, leprechaun. I need this, but I think it’ll be really good for you too,” Zara says, unfairly using the nickname she gave me when we first met, arguing over that box of Lucky Charms.
“I am only seven inches shorter than you, giant,” I say without heat, a regular argument for us.
“Do it!” Lucy says. “I wanna be famous adjacent.”
“You’re the famous author. We’re already famous adjacent. To you,” Jaya says.
“I’m not famous. But if you want to mention my books on the show, that would probably be really helpful for me paying rent in the future.” Lucy wags her eyebrows at me.
“I haven’t agreed to do this.” I remind the table. “What’s the show even about?”
“I can’t actually tell you that. It’s sort of a dating show, mixed with a little bit of competition. A cash prize at the end.” Zara is hedging. “You could use the money to start your company.”
“A dating competition show? Do you want me to be on Love Island?” I’m both terrified and excited about that prospect.
“You wish. No. But it’s similar.”
“You did say you wanted to get out there and meet more men,” Dev, usually quiet during our conversations, says.
I glare at him. “How dare you remind me of my own words? At the most inopportune moment?” It’s true, though. I have been avoiding hooking up with the many attractive, accented men I meet on this island. But I’ve been busy.
And no one quite matches up to a certain man. Who is now an ocean away from me and probably doesn’t care about the distance, because he definitely doesn’t think about me as much as I think about him.
Dev looks at me neutrally, like he always does when we overwhelm him with our combined personalities. Just like I imagine a little brother would if we were all his big sisters. But he got dragged into this circle of friendship years ago and we’re not letting him go.
“To clarify, you want me to sign on to a show where I don’t know any of the details, and give an anonymous corporation the rights to portray me however they want on TV with no privacy restrictions?”
“Yes. But if you come in tomorrow to sign a non-disclosure and do some light interviews, they’ll give you more details before you have to sign on for good. And there’ll be scones.” Zara looks so hopeful.
This has the potential to help us both. Or, you know, ruin my PR career before it even starts, forcing me home to an Upper East Side mansion with my tail tucked in between my legs in failure.
I take a sip of American freedom juice and answer, “Fine. But if I look like anything other than an intelligent, professional woman, you have to buy me unlimited Lucky Charms for the rest of my life.”
Suleena Bibra 