A cocktail of relief and revulsion washed over Rochelle. Her secret was still safe, but everyone on the show thought she was a camera hog and apparently a low-life. Gross. But she decided it would be stupid to care what the others thought. They would never see each other again after this show. These were all strangers, and none of them were worth what she’d be losing if she truly got exposed. If she gave away what was really going on, Richie wouldn’t pay her a dime and all of this would have been for nothing.
Which left Rochelle with one unsavory option. “An actress,” she choked out. The words tasted like a mouthful of vinegar. She raised her chin, even though the urge to hang her head in shame was almost overwhelming. Her pride would go down easier if she had time to chew it first. But she never saw this coming. “So everyone knows?” She could hear a crack in her voice and resented it. This was all pretend, every bit of it. She should have known better than to let this dumb competition get inside her head.
Maya huffed. “How can they not? You’ve been a drama queen from day one. The stunts you’ve pulled…” She shook her head. “It’s very obvious, Rochelle.”
“Well, then I am accomplishing my goal after all,” she said, suddenly aware of a cameraman and sound assistant standing behind Maya, filming everything. Privacy was just a pipe dream in this place. Rochelle took the time to appear disappointed, sighing heavily. She allowed her lips to form what she hoped looked like a pout instead of duckface.
“I thought I was failing at getting noticed. Hopefully, Grant doesn’t realize what I’m doing. Then he’d surely vote me off.” It stung a little, that Maya obviously held her in such low esteem. And it was nauseating to be playing the part of a shallow attention whore, especially now that she knew America would see it. Richie would make sure, of that she was certain. But I’ve already done things I’m not exactly proud of on this show. Why stop now? Keep playing the game and get what you came here for.
“Maybe I should tell him,” Maya said. “Someone should.” But she looked doubtful. She had probably never snitched on anyone in her whole life.
Rochelle wasn’t sure how to play this. If Maya did rat her out, would Grant vote her off the show? She couldn’t count on that, since his motives for keeping her there were still unclear. Would he believe I’m pursuing an acting career? Probably not. But he would believe she was up to something. Still, at least the message would get through to him that she wasn’t here for him.
But if Grant did vote her off after being informed of her acting endeavors, what should she make of that? Why would he have kept me on the show this long? Did Grant actually think they had another chance together? That they could somehow reconnect through a freaking reality show? That she would actually forgive him?
Calm down, she told herself. Grant’s feelings for you ended a long time ago, if they ever even existed in the first place. Play the game, get your money, and get out. Not even Richie could fault her for this new turn of events. She did what she had to and got him his ratings in the process. He owed it to her to uphold their agreement if she got voted off for this. And getting voted off was still the goal, no matter how repulsive she had to be.
“Do what you think is best,” Rochelle said finally, examining her nails in an attempt at appearing disinterested. “I’ve got to get ready for my one-on-one date with Grant tonight.”
“Oh, and what will you be wearing for the occasion? A clown suit? A cheerleading outfit?”
Ouch. Under the assumed circumstances, Maya had every right to dig her claws in. But it wasn’t something Rochelle expected. Truth be told, she had considered Maya a friend. Not so much anymore.
“You’re risking his feelings, and you’re leading him on,” Maya said, angrier than ever. “But I don’t suppose you’ve ever been hurt before. I don’t suppose you know how it feels to be on the wrong side of a one-sided relationship.”
Rochelle felt the blood leaving her face, pooling in her feet and hands. She could have taught classes on how it felt to be on the wrong side of a one-sided relationship. And her mentor had been none other than Grant Drake, the object of Maya’s irrational affection. Was this really happening? “I have to get ready for my date now,” she said finally, pushing past Maya. More of the camera crew and some of the contestants had collected in the hallway to watch. Apparently they had expected—no, they’d hoped for—a catfight. She longed to tell them where they could shove their hopes and expectations but decided that she’d made enough enemies for the evening, especially if Maya had finally turned against her and become their spokesperson.
So instead, she made her way to the closet to prepare for her date.
Chapter Fourteen
Grant waited in the chef-level kitchen of the mansion. Rochelle was, naturally, running late for their one-on-one date. But he didn’t care. He finally had some time with her alone. And he had a lot to say. Richie would likely have a conniption. Chris would probably cut more than he filmed. Chris had likely gotten used to this routine.
Grant leaned against the counter and watched the camera crew make some last-minute adjustments to their equipment. The ingredients spread before him on the countertop made him salivate, even though he knew they could never be combined in a palatable way if Rochelle was the one responsible for weaving this into something edible. A pile of sweet potatoes, a bowl of raw chicken, small glass bowls of carefully measured spices and a carton of sour cream all awaited their certain demise. It could have been the recipe for something wonderful—if Rochelle didn’t step foot in the kitchen.
That’s not fair. Sure, she didn’t know how to butter toast when we were together but now she could be a top-notch cook. Rochelle had changed since college after all. She used to be sweet and easygoing, up for anything. But she’d also been ambitious and no-nonsense when it came to things that mattered to her. The aggressive tendencies had gained dominance over sweet and easygoing, but he was sure that old charming Chelle was still under there somewhere. And he had to bring her back.
Still, he hoped the new Rochelle Ransom—the one he prayed was a spatula-wielding ninja in the kitchen—showed up to turn this mess into something delicious because he was starving. After a full stomach, maybe he could go about bringing out the old charming Chelle he loved.
But his hope for a satisfying meal only stretched so far. She had been a terrible cook in college. Even his mother hadn’t been able to teach her how to bake, and that was saying something. Not only had her cookies turned out salty for some reason, they had also looked a lot like biscuits. The memory brought a smile to his face. She’d been so upset. He’d had to choke three of them down before she could be consoled. Not that he minded consoling her of course, which usually involved holding and kissing her and distracting her from breathing in general.
It was then that he saw it. And his smile faded.
There, next to the bowl labeled “White Pepper.” He squinted; he had to be certain. It can’t be.
But it was. The label screamed at him, mocking him from across the kitchen. Chopped Walnuts.
Rochelle was very aware of his allergy to walnuts. She knew he broke out into bulbous hives which eventually overtook his body, causing him to itch more than if he’d been attacked by a swarm of mosquitos. That was if he didn’t take his daily allergy medicine—which he did now.
It was much easier to take the medication on a regular basis than risk having an attack at some random restaurant where the server didn’t know what was in the food and possibly didn’t care. Back when he and Rochelle had been together, they rarely had the money to eat out, so they cooked in their dorm rooms and ordered pizza. Avoiding walnuts had been easy, something they did as second nature. The first time they did go out to a fancy dinner, Grant’s allergy flared up in full force because of something in the sauce prepared with his salmon and Rochelle had insisted he go straight to the emergency room, even though his symptoms had subsided after he’d used his EpiPen. And now she was going to serve his allergy to him on a silver platter?
The
vindictive little brat. Nothing had changed, had it? Rochelle hadn’t learned to cook. Why would she? She lived the life of a busy, single attorney. Who was there to cook for? That meant only one thing. She intends to prepare me a horrendous meal to begin with, force me to eat it, then laugh as I humiliate myself when I break out into sudden leprosy. Either that, or she’ll make me refuse and humiliate her on national television.
He clenched his teeth. Not this time, Rochelle Ransom.
Chapter Fifteen
Grant is in an irritatingly good mood tonight, Rochelle thought to herself as she set to mashing up the baked sweet potatoes. He sat on one of the barstools across from her, swirling a glass of wine in one hand, and gesturing with another while he told his story about how he stopped traffic to save a turtle from crossing the interstate. The only thing he omitted from the tale was that she had been there with him at the time—and she was the one who’d insisted they save the poor thing.
It was yet another reason she was glad she had the option to cook him a meal. They both knew she couldn’t cook. That he was even sitting here calmly suggested he may not remember. Or maybe he thinks I’ve learned to cook after all this time. Poor him. She nearly giggled aloud. The best part was, the studio provided the recipe—so when all this reached its gruesome conclusion, and Grant took his first bite of nastiness, she could blame it on the studio and not her lack of cooking know-how. Delighted, she added the rest of the ingredients to the pot per the recipe, folding the potatoes over and over until it became one solid mixture. It was the ugliest batch of mashed sweet potatoes she’d ever seen. Even the texture was questionable, she thought happily.
She became aware of the lack of noise coming from Grant’s general direction. When she looked up, he was already grinning at her. “What?” she said, feeling instant uneasiness when his expression changed to one she was very familiar with. One with actual emotion in it.
“Rochelle… Since we’re enjoying some time alone with each other, I’d hoped it would afford us the chance to get to know each other better.”
She set the masher in the sink and pretended to check the jerk chicken in the oven. She had no idea what it was supposed to look like at this point, but she’d do anything right now to avoid looking directly at him. “Okay. What did you have in mind?”
“Well, if I can be frank with you, it seems like you have a wall built up around you. I notice that you don’t interact much with the other girls—or with me, for that matter.”
“Really? I’ve felt like we’ve bonded these past few weeks.”
His smile faltered while his eyes darted to the camera and back. “We’ve been in some intimate situations, that’s for sure. But nothing that afforded us any time to talk. So, I thought we could play Twenty Questions.”
Omigod, we have to talk? Like, really talk? So far this evening the conversation had been minimal, since she’d made the excuse that she couldn’t concentrate on cooking and talk at the same time. Grant had been very obliging, probably because he’d planned to pull this on her when she was done preparing dinner.
Rochelle looked to Chris, who stood next to one of the side cameras. Did you put him up to this? she accused with her eyes. In response he gave her an innocent shrug. Lovely. She’d be getting no assistance from the show’s host tonight. Not that she’d exactly been nice to him. Or cooperative. Or civilized…
So then, she was on her own. She could handle this. How bad could it get, anyway? She cleared her throat and looked back at Grant. He allowed her time to compose a neutral expression, though she doubted the camera missed how startled she was at the prospect of small talk.
“Sounds fun,” she gritted out.
“Great,” he said charismatically. “So, question number one. Have you ever made a mistake that changed your life?”
She folded her hands on the counter in front of her and stared at them for long enough to make the moment awkward. Chris would appreciate the tension, she knew. “Wow. You go straight for the deep end of the pool, don’t you?”
He gave a small laugh, as if she’d told a joke. “I told you I was going to be frank.”
Her head snapped up, and she met his gaze. Heat crept up her neck and into her face. The camera wouldn’t be missing that either. “Yes, you did,” she said finally. He had no idea how blunt she could be. Grant had never had the pleasure of watching her corner a witness in the courtroom. He deserved a little taste of that, she decided. “I once dated this jackass who completely broke my heart.”
At this Grant flinched. You started this, she said with her eyes.
He nodded as if in acknowledgement, as if taking responsibility. “Okay. That’s interesting, and I’d certainly like to know more about it, but it’s your turn. Do you have a question for me?”
It sickened her to realize that she’d been hoping for more of a reaction from him. And she’d been hoping the reaction involved torment and pain and regret. But noooo. He’d started a game he wasn’t really interested in playing. Why? For Richie’s ratings? Whatever the case, she didn’t want to play, either. “What’s your favorite color?” she asked, attempting to appear bored.
Slowly he shook his head. “No. Let’s move past those kinds of questions and really get to the heart of each other. Ask me something else.”
The oven beeped then, and she offered him a half-hearted smile. “Excuse me,” she said, turning away from him. “The chicken is ready.” Get to the heart of each other? That didn’t work out so well last time. A sense of dread seeped throughout her. Would he really bring up their personal past? Would he really make her face it in front of the crew, in front of Chris, or worse, in front of America? Surely Chris would cut it or at the very least edit the conversation into an unrecognizable version of itself.
The next few minutes were filled with silence. With shaking hands, Rochelle served them both dinner. Grant allowed her time enough to take her apron off, sit at the table with him, and sip her wine. But he wouldn’t be put off any longer. Grant had never been good at being put off. “Rochelle? Your question?”
She sighed and downed the rest of the wine, setting the empty glass firmly on the table. They were really going to have this conversation, in code, on national television. Fine. But it wasn’t going to be a cakewalk for him. She would make sure of that. “My question is the same. Have you ever made a mistake that changed your—”
“Yes,” he said. “I broke up with the woman I loved. The woman I was going to marry. Or so I’d thought.”
Marry? Surely he wasn’t talking about her. He had to be some sort of serial dater, breaking hearts along whatever path life had taken him these past years. Hell, within hours of their breakup, he’d already had his hands on another woman.
Rochelle swallowed. Hard. “And why would you do that? Break up with her, I mean.”
This time Grant was the one who looked away. He shuffled the potatoes around the plate with his fork. He had yet to take a bite. “She had bigger and better things to move on to.”
He’s not talking about me. He couldn’t have been, because she never would have left him for someone else. To her, Grant had been all there was. There had been no one else. Not for her. Not then, and not since.
Grant scooped up the potatoes and shoveled them into his mouth, slamming his fork on the plate. “She’s the whole reason I’m even on this show,” he said with a full mouth. “No woman has ever lived up to her. My love life has been screwed up ever since she left.”
She stood abruptly, sending her chair flying backward. “Left? You left her the second you broke up with her!” This was getting too personal to talk in code anymore. Surely America sees what’s really happening here. Surely they know there’s something between us. “Then you had your hands and mouth all over another woman!” Oh God, had she said that out loud?
She’d promised herself she’d never think of it again, never bring those images back into her mind. The truth was, he’d kissed another girl that same night. She’d never forget watching him throug
h the pub window. She’d come back to make amends, to tell him that she simply wasn’t going to accept his breakup. Oh, how stupid she had felt when she saw Tiffany Wallace sit on his lap and kiss him senseless. How her heart and hopes and dreams had ruptured like an egg dropped on the floor.
Tiffany. Freaking. Wallace. The girl was easier than the alphabet.
“What are you talking about? I would never have left her, and never for another woman.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I mean, there were women after her, but none that I cared about. No, she left me for something better.”
“Oh yes, I keep forgetting you’re playing the ‘she-was-moving-on’ card.” Whatever that meant. Moving on to what?
“It’s true,” he said, pounding a fist on the table.
Chris cleared his throat loud enough to startle a corpse.
“You don’t know what happened, of course,” Grant reminded her softly. “You weren’t there, remember?”
Calm down, idiot. You’re about to lose everything. “Of course I wasn’t there,” she snapped. “I can only imagine. But it’s no stretch to see you after a breakup, going to a local bar and hanging all over the town whore.” Whose name was Tiffany Wallace!
Grant squared his shoulders. “The town who—” His face fell. Yes, that’s right, Grant Drake. I saw you! Now he’s remembering the events as they really happened, she can tell.
“That? You might not believe it, Rochelle, but women do flirt with me on occasion. And I’m not going to treat them disrespectfully,” Grant said.
Disrespectfully? He should have pushed her to the floor and sent her on her way! But, she admitted, that wasn’t Grant’s style. And she hadn’t stuck around to see how he’d handled it. She’d just assumed the kiss was a welcome assault.