Working with the Enemy: Marriage Material, #1

By Cassie Beebe

Marriage Material is the hottest reality dating show on air!

 

After several years as a producer on the highly acclaimed program, cynical workaholic Andrea "Andi" Starr is determined to earn a promotion that would put her in charge of the whole production. She just has one hurdle in her way: her exasperating co-worker, Max.

 

Hopeless romantic in disguise, Maxwell "Max" Bloom is desperate to prove to himself that his failed marriage doesn't have to define him. Getting promoted to showrunner would be just the confidence boost he needs.

 

The two workplace rivals are ready to fight for the coveted position, but their past spats have given the higher-ups some concerns. This season, Andi and Max must make an effort to play nice with each other if they want to prove to the hiring committee that they each have what it takes to be an effective leader. As they attempt to join forces and work as a team, frustrations rise, tempers flare, and undeniable attraction comes into frame.

 

After all, how professional can you be while Working with the Enemy?

 

***

 

Working with the Enemy is the first book in a series of standalone sweet romance novels that all take place on the set of Marriage Material. It can be read alone, or as part of the series.

 

The Marriage Material series is sweet/clean romance. There will be no sex on the page and no profanity in this series (the word "crap" is as far as foul language will go). Working with the Enemy features themes of divorce, past infidelity, and mentions of infertility. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cassie Beebe
• Release date: Jun 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215313039

Book preview

One

I’m going to let you in on a little secret: I’m basically a con artist.

My job is to convince single, lonely, beautiful—that part’s important—people that their best shot at finding a solid partner in life is to go on national television and compete against nineteen other single, lonely, beautiful people to win the affection of a person they just met and know nothing about.

The track record of Marriage Material speaks for itself. And by that, I mean that the spectacular failure of every relationship that’s come out of this show should be a giant, flashing warning sign to all who apply that they’re wasting their time. Well, every relationship except one.

Brad and Christina, our season one couple, are still going strong after ten years, which is why we plaster their happily married faces on as much promo material as we can. They’re our success story, and if we shove them in your face enough times, you might forget about the nine other seasons after theirs that ended in short-lived engagements and broken hearts.

But hey, did you hear that Christina’s pregnant again? It’s a boy this time! And to think, that little baby never would have been born if it weren’t for the magic of Marriage Material! (Now accepting applications for season twelve.)

Season eleven, however, is closed for business. Filming starts in two days, and all the contestants have been selected. As I flip through their files again, I must say, we’ve got a great bunch this year. There are some promising personalities. Casting has improved greatly since I first started here, which makes my job a heck of a lot easier. If you stick the right people in the right places—in this case, twenty men with vastly different personalities, backgrounds, and values, forced to live together in three small bedrooms while they all date the same woman—drama tends to write itself.

I’ve been in this game long enough to have a good guess, at first glance of auditions, which men will be sticking around. A handful of applicants stand out as front runners, right off the bat.

There’s Sebastian, the indie folk singer from Nashville. I’ve yet to meet a Leading Lady who doesn’t go weak in the knees at the mere sight of a man in a beanie with a guitar in his hands.

Then there’s Antony. Skimming through his audition tape for the tenth time, I swear I can feel his brooding eyes burning into my skin. That Italian accent will be sure to stoke the ever-growing flame of passion for our Leading Lady, and much jealousy from the other guys. I sense a villain edit for this one, and I jot that down next to his name in my iPad notes.

It’s always hit or miss with the younger guys. Some Leading Ladies find them immature, whereas the ones that are nearing the big three-oh tend to cling to the restored sense of youth. But Riley has an adorable boyish charm that I can foresee being a big hit with the ladies at home. If our lead doesn’t like them young, I’m sure this experience will at least do wonders for his DMs when he gets the boot.

And then, of course, we have the single dad. Morgan Johnson, widower. Devastating story. His wife died in childbirth, and he’s spent the past three years raising his daughter alone and grieving their loss. He’s ready to get back out there and find love again. He’ll stick around for a while, for sure. If not for his kind eyes and his full, bright grin, the sob story will keep him around for at least a few weeks, regardless of whether or not he and our Leading Lady have any chemistry. Dumping the single dad right off the bat tends to bring in some serious hate comments on social media. Especially when that single dad has six-pack abs and looks like a cross between Michael B. Jordan and Denzel.

There are a few more guys that spark my interest. Some because of entertainment value, like Patrick, the Korean man who did his entire audition in a dinosaur suit, completely straight-faced, never mentioning it at all. Others for their drama potential, like Kale, the British sales representative who was the first to utter the ever-so-infamous phrase I’m not here to make friends.

But after hours of studying application answers and re-watching tape after tape of cringy auditions, the rest of the men all seem to blur into one giant amalgamation of nice, handsome, eligible bachelor who’s had some bad luck in the world of love and is finally ready to put themselves out there again. Because of course, when you’re just moving past the sting of rejection or a rough break-up and you’re at your most vulnerable, the best thing to do is air out all your deepest insecurities on national television for the entire country to judge and scrutinize.

Someone gives a quick rap on the wall of my cubicle. My shoulders seem to know who it is before I do, as they tighten to a rigid stance.

You ready for this, Andrew? Max asks as he leans against my desk, shoving files aside with his stupid, perfectly-toned butt in the process.

I sigh. It’s too early for nickname banter. I need at least two cups of coffee before I can handle Max-energy.

Yep, I answer him, my voice betraying my annoyance at his caffeine-fueled fidgeting. He grabs a Kirby stress ball from my desk and starts tossing it between his palms. I snatch it back from him between tosses and shove it in a drawer he can’t reach from where he sits.

He smirks. You pick your guys yet?

I jot down three names on a sticky note and rip it off the pad. Yep.

He leans to peek at the list, but I hide it from his view. He tries to grab it from my hand, so I slip it into my bra for safekeeping.

Playing dirty already, huh?

I shrug. Just keeping my cards close to the vest, Maxine.

Literally. His eyes settle on my chest for a beat longer than I appreciate. I’m poised to smack him, but he meets my gaze again and nods toward the showrunner’s office. Rachel said she wants to see us before the meeting.

What for? I ask, checking the clock on my phone. The meeting’s supposed to start in less than ten minutes.

Max shrugs. Don’t know. She just told me to grab you and meet her in her office.

Huh. I bite my lip, hoping Rachel isn’t about to yell at us about our attitudes before we’ve even had a chance to fight over which guys we get to shadow this season.

I shove Max off my desk and smooth out the papers he’s wrinkled before we head to Rachel’s office together.

So, what are we betting on this time? Max asks, strolling down the office hallway with his hands in his pockets. Because I have a strong feeling my guy is going to win.

You don’t even know who your guys are yet, I point out.

All of us producers are assigned three shadows every season. We each choose the three contestants we want to represent and present our choices in our group meeting the morning before filming. If nobody else wants the same ones, we get them, but if someone else is vying for the same contestant, we roll a die to see who wins him.

We’re supposed to choose to represent the men we feel the strongest connection to. The idea is that the more we can relate to them, the more likely they are to feel comfortable with us, open up to us, and listen to our advice when we subtly suggest confronting another contestant or opening up to the lead about something they’re worried could be a deal breaker in the relationship.

But those of us who understand the real game being played here know that the way to guarantee the most opportunity for influence in the show, and thereby secure more opportunities to show your skills and make a name for yourself in the industry, is to have shadows that will last until the final cut.

Max and I get this. Which is why every season, without fail, our top three picks for shadows are always the same. We’ve been in this game long enough to tell who is going to last, who the Leading Lady is likely to gravitate toward, and who will get us the biggest influence on the season. I have no doubt our lists will be the same this year, which means we’ll have to roll a die to see who gets who.

We haven’t rolled yet, I say.

Max smirks. I’m feeling lucky today.

I shake my head at him. How can he be so nonchalant? We could be walking into a firing squad right now, for all he knows. Now’s not the time to be thinking about stupid bets.

I don’t care, I tell him. Whatever you want.

He raises his eyebrows at me. Really? Sure you won’t regret that?

Oh, I most definitely will regret letting Max decide what we bet on this season. But if it’ll get him to shut up and let me focus on panicking about this meeting with Rachel, I’ll agree to anything.

The door to Rachel’s office is slightly ajar, so Max gives it a firm knock as he steps inside.

Have a seat. Rachel gestures to the two chairs on the other side of her desk.

Max claims the closest one, plopping down and slinking back in the chair like we’re all just here to hang out. I take the other chair, sitting up straight with my iPad in my lap.

I can feel Max looking at me, but I ignore him. He leans toward me, reaching for something on the ground by my chair, putting his head practically in my lap.

What are you doing? I demand, leaning away from him.

He sits back up with a smile, shoving his hands in his pockets. Nothing. Sorry.

I’m momentarily flustered by the word sorry coming out of Max’s mouth, but I shake it off and turn my attention to Rachel.

She leans back, her office chair creaking beneath the weight of her round, pregnant belly. She winces, rubbing a knuckle into a muscle of her lower back as she tries to settle in. With a sigh, she gives up on comfort and sits up straight again.

I try to keep the cringe from my face. She looks miserable. I mean, I know some people actually want children, and heck, the craziest ones even claim to be excited about the whole pregnancy part, too. But all I see is huffing breath and sweaty, stringy bangs clinging to your forehead.

As you two know, I’ve been planning to take my maternity leave as soon as we’ve wrapped on this season, Rachel says.

I nod. I don’t know what Max does. His constant fidgeting in meetings drives me crazy, so I try to ignore him as much as possible.

But plans have changed in that regard, Rachel continues. I won’t be taking maternity leave.

What? Has pregnancy brain made her lose her mind? She’s been talking about her maternity leave non-stop pretty much since she found out she was pregnant. It seemed to be the only ray of hope that was getting her through these past several months of vomiting in the women’s bathroom and begging everyone to keep their smelly lunches far away from her office. And now she wants to give it up?

"My husband and I have discussed it, and we’ve decided that it’s time I move on from Marriage Material and focus on our family," Rachel says.

My heart sinks. She’s leaving? She’s been running this show for ten years, and now that she’s popping out a baby, she’s just going to throw that all away?

Max sits up in his seat. His unusual stillness catches my eye. He’s looking at Rachel with interest now. Excitement, almost.

I don’t understand his reaction until he glances at me, and I recognize that look in his light green eyes. Competition. My brain catches up just as Rachel drops the news.

Once I’m gone, we’ll be needing a new showrunner, and I’ve submitted both of your names as potential candidates for the job.

Showrunner. Me. Showrunner.

I never even considered that a possibility. Rachel’s been here so long, I never imagined the show without her. But if she’s leaving, she’s right; Max and I are the next best people for the job. Me, especially. Max might have seniority, but I’ve got passion. Ever since his wife left him in the middle of last season, he’s been grumpy and cynical. The contestants can feel that kind of energy, and it’s the opposite of what they want when they’re about to embark on the magical journey of finding their one true love.

And sure, I’m not exactly what you would call a believer in this whole process, but at least I know how to fake it. Max has never been good at hiding his true feelings. I, on the other hand, am an expert at showing people what they want to see, regardless of how I really feel. Growing up with three overly sensitive sisters will do that to you.

Now, before you two pull out your gloves and start throwing punches, I must inform you that some of the members of the committee that will be deciding on my replacement have some concerns about both of you, Rachel says.

Concerns? I ask. Like what?

I mean, I get why they would be concerned about Mr. Grumpy Pants bringing everyone’s spirits down, but what concerns would they have about me?

Rachel leans forward, looking both of us in the eye. The committee is concerned that if one of you were to get this job, the other would be . . . difficult about it.

Oh. That.

I glance at Max, but his eyes are trained on Rachel.

I can assure you that won’t be a problem on my part, he says. I think we both know I’m mature enough to handle this with class.

Hey, I have class, too! I interject, insulted by his implication.

A hint of a smirk twitches on Max’s lips, and my face heats.

Okay, maybe yelling about how much class you have isn’t exactly the classiest move.

One point: Maxwell.

Rachel holds up a hand to halt whatever bickering she expects is coming. I’m confident that both of you are capable of being good sports about this, and I’d like for my replacement to come from among our current team, rather than an outside hire. But this decision isn’t entirely up to me. So, I’ve come up with a plan that I think will allow this season to run as smoothly as possible, while also proving to the committee that you two can play nice and work together without incident.

What do you have in mind? I ask, pulling up my notes app on my iPad to jot down her expectations of us.

Have you each chosen the shadows you want?

Yes, Max and I answer in unison.

She nods. Let me see.

Max takes his note card from his shirt pocket. I slip my fingertips beneath my bra, but they meet nothing but skin. I try to covertly push them deeper inside, but I still can’t find the sticky note.

Rachel and Max are both watching me, Max with a smirk and Rachel with a furrowed brow.

Sorry. One second, I say, standing up and turning around for privacy. I shove my fingers deep beneath the cup of my bra, but there’s nothing there. I try the other cup, just in case, although I’m certain I put it in the left side. Still nothing.

What the heck?

As a last-ditch effort, I slide my fingers beneath the underwire of my bra and give it a little shake, hoping the note will drop from the bottom.

Is there a problem, Andi? Rachel asks.

I straighten my bra back into place and whip around. My face feels as red as my fire-engine hair.

No, ma’am, I say. I think I misplaced my list. But I remember who I chose.

Oh, is that what that was? Max says. He pulls a small, folded piece of yellow paper from his pocket and hands it to me with a grin. It was on the ground by your chair. You must have dropped it.

Turned away from Rachel, he gives me a wink. I bite my tongue, putting on my best team-player smile as I take the note from him.

Thank you, Maxwell.

His grin slips into a smirk briefly before he composes himself. You’re welcome, Andrea.

I return to my seat and unfold the sticky note. It’s sweaty from my bra and Max’s pocket, but the names are still legible. I pass it to Rachel.

She looks unsurprised when she reads our lists, and I assume I was right about them being the same.

Well, I know Tyler’s name has been thrown around by just about everyone, so you’ll have to roll for that one in the group meeting, she says.

I was afraid of that. Our lead, Katie, is a self-proclaimed Instagram Fitness Guru. Tyler is a personal trainer. He’s a clear front-runner, and it doesn’t take much to see it. Naturally, everyone’s going to want to shadow him.

But I’ll give you Antony and Sebastian, Rachel adds.

Max and I exchange a look.

You’ll give them to . . . whom? Max asks.

Rachel looks up from the lists. To both of you, she says. I want you two to work together this season. You’ll have the same shadows, and you’ll manage them together, as a team.

My mouth opens automatically, ready to protest this decision. But I close it. If getting this job means I have to prove to the higher-ups that I can work with Max, then that’s what I’ll do.

Max’s jaw is tight, like he’s suppressing his own urge to object to working with me. But he’s smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut.

I have high expectations for the two of you this season, Rachel says, giving us each a stern but encouraging look. I trust you will live up to those expectations, so I can leave knowing the show will be in good hands.

I’m not sure whose good hands she’s talking about, mine or Max’s, but I give her a smile and a nod anyway. Whatever Max does is up to him, but I have no intention of letting Rachel down.

Good, Rachel says, rocking back in her chair, gaining the momentum to hoist herself up. She grabs a file from her desk and heads for the door. Meeting in two. Don’t be late.

With that, she’s out the door, leaving Max and me alone in her office.

Max rises from his chair and offers me a hand.

I stare at it skeptically.

He laughs. Relax, Anderson. You heard the lady. You’ve got to play nice with me, or I won’t get my promotion.

I roll my eyes, ignoring his hand as I stand up and follow Rachel through the door.

This is going to be a long season.

Two

So, what’s new with the wedding plans? Emily, my oldest sister, says around a mouthful of almond croissant. It’s only two months away now, right?

Saturday mornings are reserved for breakfast with the sisters. We like to try out different local cafés each week. This morning it’s a little French place with the best fresh-baked pastries I’ve ever had in my life. According to my calorie tracker, Saturday mornings exist in an alternate reality and, therefore, do not need to be counted.

This place is a little fancier than our usual spots, but I’m still the most over-dressed for the occasion. Once my two hours of free time are over, I’m headed straight back to the mansion to meet up with the crew for the first night of filming, so I’m wearing my usual work attire—my favorite black, leather skirt and a light green, silk tank top.

My older sisters, Emily and Grace, fit in perfectly with the other patrons