Chapter Five
Rochelle placed her empty suitcase in the walk-in closet she now shared with Maya. She had originally been assigned to room with one of the twins, but they both pitched royalty-level fits so bedrooms were rearranged to accommodate them. No doubt an early strategic move on their part; rooming together gave them more time to scheme.
Not that I care. I don’t have to beat them. I don’t have to beat anyone. In fact, I intend to get voted off this week. And walk away with double the prize money.
She couldn’t help but smile to herself in the wardrobe mirror. It was a small feat to swindle Hollywood.
“I never saw someone so happy to be in jeans before,” Maya said from the doorway of the closet.
Rochelle laughed. “I do love my jeans.” She turned to her new friend and crossed her arms. “You don’t think our esteemed bachelor will mind, do you?”
Maya pressed her lips together. “What went down with you two today anyway? You acted like you knew each other. What did Richie say?”
Uh-oh. She should’ve cooked up a solid story with Richie before she left his office. Now she was on her own. “I thought Grant was my cousin.”
“Say what?”
Rochelle nodded emphatically. “He looks just like one of my cousins who lives in Georgia. For a second there, I thought I had signed up to date the kid who used to beat me up. It was awful. Glad that mess is over with.” Somehow she’d have to relay that little lie to Richie. God only knew what he’d already come up with to explain things. She probably should have just asked for a directive on what to say, in case anyone questioned her behavior.
But Rochelle wasn’t used to waiting around for instruction. Sometimes you’ve just got to improvise.
“Well, that was probably way creepy for you,” Maya offered. She stepped inside the closet and started skimming through her wardrobe. All her clothes were name brand. In fact, it looked like a Paris runway threw up on her side of the walk-in. “We have makeup in an hour for the dinner filming. I hope they don’t make us look like prostitutes.”
“So you’re saying my jeans are probably a no go.” Maya may have dropped the subject, but Rochelle could tell she wasn’t completely sold on the whole cousin story. It seemed as though she was just tucking the information away for a rainy day.
Rochelle could practically hear her assistant Jennifer whisper “gameplay.” Maybe if she was actually staying in this competition, it might have mattered to her. But right now she couldn’t care less. After tonight, Grant would want to send her packing.
“They said semi-formal. But don’t worry about it. I’m sure the wardrobe people will help you find something…suitable,” Maya was saying.
Rochelle gave herself a big grin in the mirror. “I’m sure they’ll try,” she muttered under her breath.
Rochelle twirled around and around in the makeup chair in front of the mirror, delighted beyond measure with herself. The wardrobe assistant, Shelley, had been no match for her; Rochelle had refused to change out of her rancid sweatshirt and no amount of coaxing on Shelley’s part could change her mind. Exasperated, Shelley had gone to get help, poor thing. But no matter who showed up—even if it was Richie himself—Rochelle would be attending dinner in stinky casual attire. And she dared Richie to try to stop her.
Beside her in the next makeup chair over, a pretty woman with copper-toned skin and large, observant green eyes watched Rochelle, arrogance upturning her nose. “Darling,” the woman said, “you do realize they’re just trying to help you? Please take note that I am one of the contestants, and as such, I expect adequate competition.”
Rochelle nearly laughed. The makeup room grew quiet. Even the makeup artists buzzed around silently tending to their charges. A lone cameraman filmed the process, probably for potential drama. He’d been focused on Rochelle ever since she’d thrown a fit when ordered to change into a gown.
“I don’t need any help,” Rochelle said. “If the bachelor can’t accept me for who I am, then I don’t want him.”
“Utter nonsense,” the woman scoffed. “A hobo wouldn’t accept you looking and smelling like that. You think you’re the only one who wants to be accepted? That is not how the world works, darling. Do you not recognize who I am?”
When Rochelle shook her head, the woman rolled her eyes, her expression full of disdain. “I’m Grace Le Fevre, heiress to the third largest fortune in this country. Do you really think anyone will ever want me for who I am, instead of for my fortune? Of course not. But I’ve learned to accept it. You should try to do the same.”
Actually, Rochelle had heard of Grace Le Fevre but was never able to put the name to a face until now. Rochelle’s law firm handled quite a few cases for the Le Fevres each year. The whole lot of them enjoyed suing people as a hobby.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Rochelle told her. “I don’t have the inconvenience of a bottomless bank account. However do you manage?”
But Grace didn’t pick up on the sarcasm. “It’s a burden, darling. It truly is. But listen. If you’ll cooperate, I’ll lend you my own makeup and wardrobe staff this evening. Oh no, no objections please. I’d consider it a favor. After all, this is a competition, and I want you looking your best when I win. I mean, what accomplishment is there in outshining something that doesn’t shine in the first place?”
This incited a few snickers from the other contestants. Rochelle smiled. “All that glitters isn’t gold, darling.”
Grace scowled. “Have it your way, Rochelle, is it? But everyone here is a witness to my charitable offer. There will be no excuses when Grant votes you off in the very first Friendship Ceremony. And no excuses when a cab won’t even pick you up to take you to the airport. They generally don’t stop for tripe do they?”
As it turned out, Grace the Heiress was wrong; the sweatshirt Rochelle wore to dinner turned more heads than any gown ever could have. It may have had something to do with the fact that it was maroon with the acronym FSU in big bold golden font across the front—and that everyone had been made aware that Grant was a die-hard Gator fan. Or it could have been the fact that the collar had a permanent sweat ring from all the times she’d worked out in it. A better selection for their debut dinner just didn’t exist.
Oh, Shelley and her supervisor Katya offered her every single dress in the wardrobe department that would fit and even offered to quickly tailor the ones that didn’t, but Rochelle was having none of it. They were either too revealing, not revealing enough, too childish, too pornstar-ish, not pornstar-ish enough, or wouldn’t go with the ratty ponytail she’d fashioned in her hair.
No, all of the sequined, tight-fitting dresses the wardrobe team had tried to fit her in seemed too…well, semi-formal.
Screw semi-formal. Grant didn’t deserve semi-formal any more than Grace deserved to be bored with life because of her inheritance.
As she made her way to her seat, Rochelle could tell the cameramen were eating it up. She even took care to pound her tennis shoes against the tiled floors, reveling in the echo the shoes made in the cavernous dining room. One of the cameramen zoomed in on her smiling face, the other on Grant’s scowling one. All the other women at the table wore dresses, which ranged from elegant to smutty (the twins), in colors from eggplant to princess pink (the twins). The one feature all the contestants shared was a shocked expression.
Except, of course, for Grace, who appeared quite annoyed.
Grant looked disgustingly handsome in his black suit and striking blue tie, both of which were accentuated by a sharply raised brow. After all these years, he had barely changed. Blond hair spiked and gelled into submission and green eyes that jumped out like a 3D movie. And obviously, Wardrobe had a difficult time finding him a suit that accommodated his broad shoulders; they strained against the fabric. Almost as much as he was straining to smile right now.
Elated with herself, Rochelle took the seat farthest from Grant, next to the Latina woman wearing a sumptuously fitted raspberry gown and creamy lipstick to match. “I’m Sonia,??
? the beauty whispered to Rochelle, batting her long lashes. “And that’s a pretty desperate attempt at attention.”
Sonia gave her the once-over, at which Rochelle shrugged. The other woman quickly transitioned to a smile once she realized the cameras were filming their interaction. “But at least we all know you’re educated,” she said sweetly. “Good for you, pet.”
Ha! Rochelle thought to herself. She wouldn’t step foot on Florida State campus—University of Florida all the way, baby—but these girls didn’t need to know that she only worked out in it to defile it with her sweat and stench. In fact, all these girls needed to know was that she was here for the cocktails. Once they realized she wasn’t a threat–that she’d be voted off first–they’d all be besties. Maybe she’d even be voted Miss Congeniality. Or maybe that was beauty pageants she was thinking of…
“Thank you, Sonia. That’s so kind of you to say. Did someone tell me you’re a makeup artist? No wonder you look so exquisite this evening.” Rochelle leaned aside so the waiter could pour her a glass of ice water. She placed a hand on his forearm and gave him what she hoped was an enticing smile. “Are you serving liquor this evening? I’m dying for a fireball whiskey.”
The waiter, who was actually a looker himself, grinned. “I can make that happen.”
Rochelle allowed herself a glance at Grant, whose jaw had grown tight. She gave him a beauty pageant wave—or her version of one. “Sorry to interrupt, Grant. You were saying something?”
“Actually, no,” he said, eyes afire. “Not out loud, anyway.”
A few giggles sprinkled from the other side of the table.
“Oh, do tell,” said one of the twins. “You know, with all the time we’ll be spending together, you won’t be able to keep any secrets from us for long.”
Grant gave her his signature Prince Charming smile, the one that used to make Rochelle swoon. Now it made her grind her teeth. He took Stephanie’s hand—at least, Rochelle thought that twin was Stephanie—and placed a gentle kiss on it, lingering for a scandalous second. “There’s a time and place for everything,” he said adoringly.
Where in God’s name is my whiskey? Is he really going to play this shallow game? With nine tramps, who only want him for his body and possibly money and the fame of being on the show to begin with?
Moron.
And where in God’s name is my whiskey ?
“So Grant, tell us about yourself,” said Sakiya, the magnificent Asian woman who sat across the table. She’d had her hair entwined into a braided masterpiece atop her hair and Rochelle couldn’t help being impressed. “Where did you go to college? What interests you? These are need-to-know things for us,” Sakiya said. “How else are we expected to seduce you?”
Grant’s smile didn’t falter. “I graduated from the University of Florida. Any other Gators fans here?” He looked pointedly at Rochelle. And so did everyone else. Right then, the server presented her with two shots of whiskey. She took the opportunity to down the first, then the second, trying to look as unfeminine as possible. She wiped the excess from her mouth with the back of her hand, and then slammed the glass down on the table. A few gasps could be heard down the row of seats.
This could be all sorts of fun.
“And I’m a tactical training consultant,” Grant continued, letting his gaze rest back on Sakiya. “Meaning, I can flip you on your back in seconds.”
A tactical training consultant? That’s what he’d been doing with his life? Whatever happened to his dream of becoming an aeronautical engineer? What exactly was a tactical training consultant, anyway?
And what do I care?
“Ohhh,” said Grace. Why she was on a show like this was beyond Rochelle. Surely she couldn’t be looking for true love. Might as well be hunting Bigfoot.
“Do you give private lessons?” Grace was saying.
“If you like.” Then he smiled at her.
Rochelle allowed the waiter to pour her a glass of wine, but she swirled it untouched and impotent, watching the contents almost reach the rim, willing it to actually spill so she could be excused. But it didn’t. Deep within, the whiskey began to infuse heat throughout her body.
Grace gave Grant a demure smile. “When do we start?”
“Very soon, actually,” he said. “But first, we have a contest.”
“Like bingo?” the other twin—whose name might have been Cassie or Cassandra or something—said. She looked genuinely terrified. “I’m terrible at bingo.”
Rochelle almost choked at the thought of anyone actually being terrible at bingo while Grant chuckled. “I’m going to give you a tour of the estate’s gardens. And then we’ll have a contest.”
“But no bingo? Promise?”
Oh geez, Rochelle thought to herself. She was whiny and unadventurous. Definitely not Grant’s type. After he votes me off this week, she’ll probably be next.
Sonia didn’t miss a beat. “Count me in.”
Could someone’s voice actually sound so naturally sultry? Ew.
All the others chortled at the mention of a contest. Rochelle could have upchucked onto the table. If only these girls knew what exactly they were competing for, what they were making fools of themselves for.
Then a smile spread across her face. Speaking of acting foolish… She dispatched with the wine in three big gulps. This earned her more appalled glances all around. If only she could bottle up arrogance and sell it to those faint of heart, she’d have been rich from harvesting this room alone.
Dinner, unfortunately, carried on smoothly. For the other contestants, anyway. For Rochelle, it proved to be an excellent opportunity to stuff her face, neglect her napkin and belch at every chance. Not to mention, ask for shots more often than was strictly ladylike. God, but this sweatshirt is hot and stinky.
And the new marinara stain on the S might retire it altogether. So sad.
After the dessert plates were removed—Rochelle had asked for seconds so everyone was waiting for her to finish—Grant stood. “So, ladies, it’s been a pleasure dining with you. But now, onto the contest. Will you follow me, please?”
Rochelle remembered a time when Grant despised the spotlight, when he loathed being the center of attention. Which was unfortunate for him, because he turned female heads wherever he went. Now he seemed to languish in the spotlight like a fly on a pile of crap.
The twin Barbies flanked him on each side, latching onto his arms as if they were in danger of falling without his help, and accompanied him out the back French doors. Grudgingly, Rochelle followed the rest of the girls to the veranda. She was delighted to find that her gait was more of a stagger than anything else—and she was sure the shots of whiskey hadn’t even caught up to her yet.
She felt a bit floaty as she accidentally glided into Maya, who had already stopped to listen to what Grant was babbling about at the head of the group. They walked off the veranda and into the grass. Maya, lovely as she was, gave Rochelle a disapproving look. “You’re drunk,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” Rochelle giggled.
Under normal circumstances, she would have taken the time to appreciate the massive garden Grant showed them. There were benches, giant sculpted fountains, rows and beds of flowers everywhere. It was the type of place in which one could have taken up residence in a hammock, nurtured a good book, and hidden from the world. But in the dark, and under the influence, Rochelle decided to appreciate it another time. Another time when the cobblestone walkways didn’t seem quite as uneven or the pathways quite so winding. And when Grant wasn’t jabbering on and on about a stupid contest.
“Behind me, as you can see, ladies, is a maze made of hedges,” Grant said. Rochelle definitely saw six-foot rows of hedges. A maze, though? He’s got to be kidding. “There are a lot of dead ends. I hope you were paying attention to what I said at dinner, because I gave you clues about how to find your way out.”
Oh crap. Maybe I shouldn’t have hummed to myself every time he opened his mouth. Or called for more shots?
??
“What’s the prize? A kiss maybe?” asked a perked-up Amber—that much Rochelle remembered from dinner, simply because she was a cookie-cutter big-breasted blonde. She looked like an Amber. Typical nightclub fare, as far as Rochelle was concerned. Completely not Grant’s type.
But then again, Grant was being way more flirtatious than he ever had been ten years ago. And were his muscles bigger? She was pretty sure he hadn’t been that shredded in college. Now that he’d taken off his suit jacket, it was obvious that his biceps and chest were threatening the seams of his shirt—and he wasn’t even flexing.
Rochelle made a mental note to Google what a tactical training consultant actually was. It sounded violent and potentially brainless. Maybe Grant’s total transformation into a dick was finalized during the time they’d spent apart.
“Better than a kiss,” Grant said, grinning. Maybe he was always a dick and I just didn’t realize it. That scenario sounded more legit. “Whoever finds their way out in the least amount of time gets to pick what we do on our first group date.”
A rush of excited chatter circulated through the group. It cut off abruptly when Grant said, “Without further ado, I’ve selected Rochelle to go first.”
Of course he has. This was probably payback for the nod to FSU. Or for dinner, in general.
Rochelle stumbled forward, thankful that she was wearing tennis shoes instead of the ground-piercing stilettos the other girls wore. And this sweatshirt? Perfect maze-maneuvering attire. Still, it was a bit stuffy, since they were in southern California in May, after all.
Oops. Did the ground just swerve or did I?
Grant reached out a hand just in time, catching Rochelle around the waist before she became better acquainted with the lawn. His grip felt strong, confident. He looked amused. Also, he smelled nice.
But why does he have four eyes? And why did he have to talk so fast? His words raced around her mind, her brain trying to grasp one or two of them, willing them to form actual sentences, but none of it made any sense. He said words like “attitude” and “agility” and “perseverance”.