Chapter 1: The Frogless Princess

Cora stood in front of the camera, unsure what to do with her hands, and questioning every life choice that had led her to this juncture. A faceless television producer addressed her through a speaker. "Tell us more about yourself, Cora. What are you looking for in a man?"

Cora pressed her lips together to swallow the nervous laugh threatening to escape. Of all the questions they could have asked her. How had she ended up in the single most absurd place on Earth in which to find herself: a 27-year-old modern-day spinster, auditioning for a TV dating show?

Life was dictated by nothing more than choices, she reminded herself sternly. Choices and their consequences, with a heavy pinch of random chance. In this case, she had chosen to say "yes" to whatever the universe sent her way. That was her choice. This was where it got her. Nothing more and nothing less.

At the moment, she was having trouble believing the universe was not a sentient being. A malevolent old crone with a warped sense of humor, who had taken Cora's vow of openness as a hilarious cosmic joke. Or perhaps an evil genie inside a lamp, awaiting yesses instead of wishes to unleash his chaos on the world.

Yes, and yes, and yes.

Three yesses. That was all it took.

The first "yes" had been uttered two hours ago, with passport in hand at the Air France check-in desk. Flight 1684 to Bora Bora was overbooked. Would she be interested in a hotel voucher and an upgrade to first class, if she was willing to let them bump her to tomorrow?

"Yes," Cora had said. "First class sounds fabulous. Why not?"

A flight delay wasn't exactly what Cora had in mind when she'd explained her new life philosophy at her bon voyage party last weekend. Maybe she should have listened to her friends. Most of them had laughed, and Lauren had made one of her usual sarcastic retorts: "OK Miss Positivity, who are you and what have you done with the real Cora Glass?" But Penny had shushed them all. "I think it's great," Penny had said with a protective arm around Cora's shoulders. "You never know what you might miss out on if you aren't willing to take a risk now and then."

So far, Cora's willingness to take a risk had landed her in front of a TV camera, talking about a non-existent man she didn't want to meet.

The speaker squawked at her again with the producer's impatient voice. "Cora? Did you hear me?"

"Yeah, sorry!" Cora called.

"You don't have to shout. Speak in a normal tone. The boom mic will pick it up."

"Right. Sorry!" This time she answered in a stage whisper. "What was the question again?"

"What are you looking for in a man?"

"Absolutely nothing," Cora muttered under her breath. A hotel reservation for one would be waiting at the end of her first class flight to Bora Bora in the morning.

With Cora's first "yes" thus bestowed upon the Air France ticketing system, she'd spent the next hour strolling the airport concourse, playing a game she called "spot the newlyweds," straight from their fairytale weddings and jetting off to their happily-ever-afters. Once upon a time, the sight would have filled Cora with envy. But she'd long since made the decision to live happily ever after on her own.

Cora's Kindle might be loaded up with old-fashioned regency romance novels, but there was only one fairytale that felt the least bit relatable to her real life: The Frog Prince. Only this princess didn't turn frogs into princes. She did the opposite. Any prince she kissed would eventually revert to amphibian form. Slimy. Gross. Ew. And any trace of love she might have felt would fade from desire to indifference, from indifference to repulsion.

That was how all her relationships had ended sooner or later. Steven, her boyfriend in grad school, had been the last in a long line of frogs. It wasn't his fault. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Steven. The problem wasn't him, or any of the princes before him. She'd even tried kissing a princess once as an experiment (Cora was nothing if not scientific), but the results had not proven any more promising. No matter whom she kissed, the story always ended the same way.

Which was why she'd turned a new page. No more princes. No more kisses, ever. Delete the dating apps. She'd rather shop for clothing than for men. For Cora, love was not a blessing but a curse. She was determined not to succumb to it again.

And so, her second "yes" that day was not uttered to some would-be suitor offering to buy her coffee in a cosmically predestined meet-cute. The second "yes" was presented along with an airline hotel voucher at the front desk of the JFK Marriott hotel. Please excuse our mess, read a sign off to the side. A TV production crew had closed down the hotel lobby lounge and booked up most of the rooms. The front desk clerk could offer her a queen room for the night, if she was willing to hang around an hour and stay out of the way?

"Yes," Cora had said to the universe once again. The reality show being taped didn't look like the sort of thing she'd watch at home, but it might be entertaining to spectate here in person. "I'm not in any hurry," she'd told the hotel clerk. "Yes, of course."

But it was the third "yes" that cast the spell. These things always come in threes. The third "yes" issued forth from Cora's lips while leaning on her suitcase, arches aching, ankles freezing in her sunshine-yellow dress. (Like a fool, she'd dressed for the destination, a sure way to tempt fate.) There was nary a seat to be found in the unrestricted portion of the lobby, while a sea of empty chairs mocked her from behind the velvet ropes. And then, a hand at her elbow... The hand of the universe itself, perhaps, in the guise of a woman with a clipboard. Did she know she'd been standing in the walk-on line? Was she free for the next hour? Would she be willing to sign a release?

Cora had opened her mouth to say no, laughing at the absurdity of the question. But she couldn't deny the twinge of flattery at being picked out of the line of eager faces. Why her? she wanted to ask. Was it the hair?

She'd had it done the week before in anticipation of her trip. She'd splurged on an appointment with the senior stylist at a posh salon in Soho and told him she was open to experiment. Her fairy god-stylist had left her hair the color of honey when the sun hits it, cut in a long shag, with pieces that naturally curved around her face like the shape of an old-fashioned coca-cola bottle.

It suited her, and Cora knew it. All those happy honeymooners weren't the only ones with a certain glow about them.

So when the TV crew came calling, Cora tossed her hair and remembered the promise she'd made her friends before she set out on this trip. To be open. To be bold. To say yes to whatever adventures the universe saw fit to send her way.

Including ridiculous questions like the one repeated to her now. "What are you looking for in a man?"

When had she specified that she was looking for a man in the first place? At present, she was mainly wishing she'd had the foresight to wear a dress with pockets. The producer had her ditch her long wool coat and cardigan along with her suitcase, out of view of the camera. She could feel the goosebumps rising on her arms in her absurdly thin sundress.

"Warmth," Cora told the camera, rubbing her upper arms with her hands. "I'm looking for a man with an average body temperature of 98.6 degrees. Bonus points if he has a jacket, and he's enough of a gentleman to loan it to me when I dress inappropriately for the weather."

She heard a titter from off camera—a fellow victim awaiting her turn. "I hear that!"

She must have liked Cora's answer. The other woman stood to the side of the green curtain where this inquisition was taking place. Cora turned her head and laughed, in what may have unintentionally looked like a saucy hair toss.

"Cut!" The speaker announced, and the producer with her earpiece reappeared. "That was perfect."

Oh good. Did that mean she could have her sweater back? "Am I done?"

"You're doing amazing," the producer told her. "Now, we only need you to sub in on one mini-date, and you're done."

Cora sighed. "Really?" She looked wistfully toward her coat.

The producer may have misunderstood the source of her disappointment. "Sorry. Just the one date for you. We had another girl back out last minute."

A mic appeared then, pinned by a sound tech to a fold in her dress's bodice. Cora eyed it suspiciously. "I didn't realize this was going to be a speaking role."

"Probably not," the sound guy said. "Don't get your hopes up. It'll all be montaged together in the final edit." He barely looked at her as he tapped the mic to test it. "Pretend this isn't here."

The producer ushered her to a seat at a cocktail table. "Don't be nervous. We just need the two of you to go through the motions."

Don't be nervous... Go through the motions...Right.

A light shone in Cora's face, too bright, temporarily blinding her. The man on the other side of the cocktail table was nothing more than a dark silhouette.

This was how the subjects at her optical research lab must feel during their eye exams, told to look into the slit lamp without blinking. It was like staring into the sun.

Cora blinked her eyes. Once, twice, three times. These things always come in threes.

And then she saw his face.

The man on the other side of the table could have stepped off the pages of GQ magazine. He probably had, Cora realized. He had to be a model. He was the most perfect-looking human being she'd ever laid eyes on in real life.

"Cora, this is Jamie. Quiet on the set, please. Places everyone!"

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