by Anna Banks
Rochelle took in a galvanizing breath. This was happening. “Grant and I dated in college. It didn’t work out.” Only, she didn’t stop there. She told Maya all of it, all the dirty details. The dinner, the breakup, Tiffany Freaking Wallace, the auditions for the show, the dire state of Helping Hands, and her new opportunity to take revenge. A full hour had passed before she stopped talking.
Maya had been a good listener. But now she appeared mortified. “Oh no,” she said. “You can’t take revenge on him.”
That wasn’t what Rochelle had been expecting to hear. “Did you miss the part where he sabotaged one of the happiest moments of my life by breaking up with me and shattering my freaking heart into a million jagged pieces?”
Maya placed her hand on Rochelle’s. “But don’t you see? You still care about him. You think you hate him, but girl, there’s a fine line between love and hate. The fact that you still want revenge so badly tells me that you’re not over him.”
She blinked. Maybe confiding in Maya hadn’t been such a great idea after all, especially if she was going to come up with such ridiculous theories. But are these theories so ridiculous if I’d already considered them myself? All she could muster was, “Be serious.”
Maya shook her head, eyes full of sadness. “You’ve got a second chance here. Grant’s available and interested in sorting it out.”
“But I’m not interested.” A lie, and she knew it.
Maya sighed. “On your one-on-one date, he said he was going to propose. But that you moved on to bigger and better things.”
“Yeah, but he couldn’t have been talking about me. I never would have left Grant for someone else.”
“Not someone, something. Girl, he broke up with you because he didn’t want to hold you back from law school!”
Rochelle’s mouth gaped open. “He didn’t say that. He said he was bored with me. And anyways, I was going to ask him to come with me, remember?”
Maya shook her head emphatically. “But you never did tell him that, did you?”
She blinked. “Well. No. I went back to tell him, though. And that’s when I saw him with her.” The memory of Tiffany’s long legs flowing out of a short jean skirt as she sat on Grant’s lap had her almost hyperventilating.
“Oh geez. Haven’t you ever heard of a rebound?”
“Rebound! Who needs a rebound three hours after a breakup?”
“He thought he made sure you weren’t coming back. To him, he had nothing else to lose. He had a ring, Rochelle. You don’t think he would have gone with you?”
Rochelle felt on the verge of vomiting. He had nothing else to lose. “Oh my God. What if that’s true?”
“That’s a question only you can answer.”
Oh no. Not this. Anything but this. What if Maya was right? Had she been so stubborn that she’d just let Grant throw things away without trying to fix it herself? But I did go back. And he was with someone else. Doesn’t that answer all these questions? No, no it doesn’t. She remembered when she’d moved to her new campus, she practically became a serial dater trying to forget Grant. She’d had at least twenty first dates that never evolved into anything else. Is that what happened with Grant, too?
She swallowed hard. Could it really be this simple? “So? What are you going to do?” she said. “About the show, I mean?” As in, was she completely screwed in every aspect of her life now?
Maya stood, looking down at her thoughtfully. “I’m not going to snitch, if that’s what you’re asking. Your secret is safe with me.”
Rochelle exhaled in relief. “Thank you.”
Hopefully none of the other contestants were as perceptive as Maya. She had to stay on the show at least long enough to get this resolved once and for all. The question is: if Maya is right, what am I going to do about it?
Chapter Eighteen
This was the week Grant had been dreading. With one-on-one dates, there would be a certain expectation that Grant would sleep with one or more of the women to “test their bedroom compatibility.” Any of them would have qualified for a one-night stand in Grant’s book. They were all attractive, successful women, after all. But he hadn’t come on this show for a one-night stand.
He hadn’t even come on this show to find love. He’d come here strictly to get revenge on Rochelle. Plus, he figured it couldn’t hurt to be enticed by beautiful women, once he’d voted off the one who’d crushed his desire to ever pursue a serious relationship again.
But now he realized he’d always wanted a serious relationship—with Rochelle.
So there would be no testing bedroom compatibility with anyone other than her—and he had already squandered his chance with her on their one-on-one date. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to touch her that night, because she’d walked away when dinner started to go well. It pained him that he’d forfeited the chance to seduce her, to remind her of what they could be together.
Still, he knew jumping into bed with her wasn’t the immediate answer, although the tightness in his jeans just thinking about it said otherwise. Rochelle needed some gentle coaxing, some delicate care, a lot of nurturing—and to know that he was still the man she loved. He knew she’d loved him before. And somehow, he had to find a way to make her love him again.
In the meantime, he should find some more cooperative jeans…
Plus, a good excuse to keep them on tonight.
And that was why he was flagging down one of the camera crew at that very moment, a short man loading hard silver suitcases into the boat they’d be taking to the island today. “Excuse me,” Grant said. “Can I use your cell phone? I need to get in a request to Richie.”
“I can help you with that,” Chris said from behind them. At any other time, his friend’s ability to sneak up on him would have annoyed him, but this time it was a life saver.
“I’ve been craving some cookies,” Grant said, aware that the short man loading the boat was giving him a curious look.
“We’re about to leave for the island,” Chris said dryly. “We don’t have time to run to Grandma’s house for some cookies.”
“I’m certain you were in the room when Richie said that if I needed anything at all—”
“Does anyone have any cookies?” Chris yelled to the crew surrounding them. All of them shrugged, none of them willing to make eye contact with Grant.
Grant shook his head. “I don’t want just any cookies. I’m craving…a particular kind.”
“Of course you are,” Chris said, flexing his jaw. “What can we arrange for you, Grant? I want to make sure you’re as comfortable as possible.”
“I’ve been craving some Mrs. Field’s Chocolate Chip Walnut cookies.”
Chris blinked. “No, really. Be specific.”
Obviously Chris wasn’t catching on. Grant grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the spectators surrounding them. “Did you not hear me say that I need walnut cookies, jackass?”
Chris grinned. “I wondered how you were going to handle this. You’re sure this is the route you want to take? I won’t cut a second of the footage. All of America will see you as a leper.”
Grant nodded hurriedly. “Get me a huge supply of them, will you? I want to have them all week.”
“Do you at least have an EpiPen? The nearest hospital is about a hundred miles away.”
“I’ve got it taken care of.”
Chris shook his head. “At least this will make for some nice ratings.”
“Screw you.”
But Chris was already walking away.
Grant’s first one-on-one date was with Cassandra, the twin who he’d reluctantly kept on the show despite her forwardness and aggression in pursuing him. Cassandra had been very open about her intentions up until this point, both on and off camera, giving him not-so-subtle hints about what she expected out of this evening. He was glad to get this one out of the way first.
The Dream Suite was located on a small private island in the tropics, and according to Richie, boasted a setting so
romantic, he would have to beat the women off of him. Especially a woman like Cassandra.
Even now, as his boat turned in to dock at the small inlet of the island, he could see her walking along the beach and waving to him wildly. He fixed a smile on his face and inhaled slowly. Two minutes max, and he’d be at her mercy. He waited until well after the boat was securely tied to the pier before he disembarked; the cameraman next to him nudged him, motioning for him to get out of the boat so he could get the shot.
Cassandra’s tiny yellow bikini barely kept everything in place as she ran down the dock and hurled herself at Grant. “Finally, we’re alone!” she squealed.
“Finally,” he breathed.
This is going to be a long night—and where are my cookies?
He’d warded off her kisses underneath the waterfall in the pool by asking about her work as a dolphin trainer. When she sat on his lap in the paddleboat, he’d pretended the weight imbalance would flip them over. And when she’d placed a hand on his leg and caressed her way up to his crotch at dinner, he’d faked a choking. A choking that required a member of the camera crew to administer the Heimlich. He was sure his ribs would be bruised for weeks, but the pain was well worth it.
Still, it had been an embarrassing, exhausting, unmanly day.
And none of it got him out of convening with Cassandra in the Dream Suite. Even now, he waited with the camera crew, standing there in his pajama pants like a little boy waiting for Santa. And for his walnut-infested cookies. Chris Asshat Legend had all but disappeared. Things did not bode well.
With nothing else to do but stand around, Grant and the camera crew watched the bathroom door, waiting for Cassandra to emerge from it. Richie had told Grant—and smiled while doing it—that the crew would film her entrance and his reaction to her, and then leave for the night so they could have privacy.
And Cassandra was more than prepared for the occasion. When she finally exited the bathroom, she wore a black leather-and-lace corset, a skimpier-than-most thong and the tallest platform sandals Grant had ever seen. In her hands, she cradled a leather whip, caressing it as though it were her firstborn. Someone in the crew behind him whistled, bringing a devious smile to Cassandra’s face. “Are you ready for me, Grant?”
She strode across the room as if on the runway and took his face into her hands. Without warning, she pulled his mouth down on hers, pressing her body into him. Cassandra knew exactly what she was doing. It was a kiss meant to seduce—a kiss he would have appreciated about three months ago before Rochelle was ushered back into his life. But now it was no use. He had a very singular craving, and Cassandra was not it. Gently, he took her shoulders and pushed her back, offering her what he hoped looked like a pleased grin.
“We have all night,” he said. “No need to rush.” He took her hand and brushed a kiss on it for reassurance, but she pursed her lips.
“You’re right,” she said. “But we can go slow later. Right now I want those lips anywhere but my hand.”
Jesus, he needed to put a stop to this—and now. Desperately, he skimmed the room, looking for the food and drink cart Chris had told him would be in there. It was nowhere to be found. How difficult could it possibly have been to find walnut cookies? Every convenience store with a snack aisle had them. Surely the people of the tropics enjoyed the decadence of cookies now again?
Grant jerked his head away as Cassandra dove in again. He held her at arms’ length, contemplating his next move. “Before we do this, I need to tell you something,” he said, forcing himself to look into her eyes. But he had nothing. What could he possibly say to this woman that would turn her off? What could be better than bulbous welts sprouting all over his face and body?
Chris Schnartz-Legend was a dead man. He’d had one job, to fetch some cookies, and he’d utterly failed at it.
One.
Job.
“Yes, Grant?” Cassandra’s smile was filled with confidence, as though she expected him to confess his undying love, or at the very least, his unquenchable desire for her.
“I tried to find a way to tell you all day, but there never seemed to be a good time.” Maybe he could tell her that he’s a virgin. Or that he was saving himself for marriage. But a woman like Cassandra would likely find his innocence a thrilling conquest. She’d brought a leather whip to the Dream Suite, for God’s sake.
“I thought you were acting shy,” she laughed seductively. “But don’t worry. By the end of the night, neither of us will have anything to be shy about anymore.”
“Cassandra—”
“Now’s not the time for talking, Grant.” She slapped the whip against her palm, then pulled him in for another kiss, which he was barely able to dodge. The camera rolled as Grant nearly threw himself across the room, away from her and her flailing weapon. He picked up a frilly pillow from the bed and tucked it into folded arms in front of him. As if that would protect him.
Why isn’t the camera crew leaving? Can’t they just do me this one favor? But no, frame by frame, they continued to film his humiliation.
“You’ve filmed the entrance and reaction,” Grant said quietly to them. “Cassandra and I are at least entitled to some privacy, aren’t we?” That’s when he noticed that Chris had arrived. He exchanged glances with his friend. Chris stepped forward, an amused look on his face. I’m going to strangle that bastard.
“We’re going to keep the cameras rolling a while,” Chris said. “It can be edited later. Everything can be edited later.”
Son of a—
“Is this a game?” Cassandra asked, undeterred. She backed Grant up to the space of wall beside the bed. “I like games. Am I the hunter, or the prey?” She traced a finger down his bare chest, then tried to tug the pillow from his grasp.
Definitely the hunter. He adjusted the pillow back in place, pushing her away—this time less gently. “Cassandra, I’m serious. We need to talk.”
She gave him the poutiest of faces. “You’re going to make me beg?”
“No,” he said, clearing his throat. Again, he gave the crew a warning glance. Get out! he wanted to scream. Flustered, he ran a hand through his hair.
Cassandra had already made her way back to him. She reached out and placed a hand on his bicep, giving it a gentle squeeze. He’d never felt so dirty in his whole life. He tried to push past her, but she grabbed his wrist. “I love role play,” she murmured.
She wouldn’t be stopped.
The camera crew wouldn’t leave.
Chris wouldn’t forfeit the cookies.
He had no choice. “Cassandra—” he said. But as he took another step back, he bumped into something. Something that had a familiar laugh. He whirled around to face Chris, who stood there grinning like an idiot.
“I believe you requested dessert, before uh, dessert,” he said. He offered Grant a plastic bag with a bow on it. A plastic bag filled with cookies. “Sorry it took so long. We had to bake them fresh.”
Grant’s exhale could be heard in the next room as he snatched the bag from his friend and tore it open like a man who hadn’t eaten for days. “We should have some cookies,” he told Cassandra, who eyed him like a man who hadn’t bathed in days. He pulled out the largest one and shoved it in his mouth.
Cassandra gave him a venomous look. “Cookies? That couldn’t have waited?”
“Cookies are sort of my fetish,” Grant said, his insides unfurling with relief. “They really get me in the mood.” Behind him, Chris snorted. “I’d love to see what you look like wearing only these cookies.”
She gave him a mischievous smile. “You won’t have an appetite for cookies once I get out of these clothes.”
“I’ll bet,” he said shoving another one in his mouth. He tasted the glorious bits of walnut straightaway, willing the little life-saving and life-threatening tidbits into his bloodstream.
Cassandra turned a glare on Chris. “You can go now. I’m going to make sure none of this is suitable for family television.”
To get th
ings moving faster, Grant scratched at his neck and face, trying to disturb the skin there. His skin didn’t disappoint him but responded almost instantly; he felt the scratches raising up, turning into bumps that would soon become inflamed ridges all over him. His bottom lip swelled, and heat filled his cheeks. Even the lobes of his ears began to itch. Not a moment too soon, either.
Cassandra’s smiled faded to a scowl. “Grant, your face. You’ve got bumps all over it.”
He held up his arms and hands for her to see the rash there, as well. Repulsed, she stepped away from him. Grant heard Chris smother a laugh.
There would be no sex tonight, of that Grant was positive. Reveling in the prickly feel of new blisters developing on his skin, he offered the plastic bag to Cassandra. “You sure you don’t want some?” He took care to chew with his mouth open. More than a few crumbs escaped his lips. It was a gross display, and he was proud of it.
Cassandra sat on the bed and sighed. “I’m not hungry. Maybe we could just…talk.”
Success.
Chapter Nineteen
Rochelle let herself into Richie’s office unannounced. She strode to his desk and pressed her palms into the edge of it. His chair was turned away from her, facing the bookshelf.
“I’m not going,” she said to the back of Richie’s desk chair.
“Oh, but you are,” he answered cheerfully without turning around.
“The rules state that the bachelor comes home with me to meet my family. I don’t have a family. Unless we’re supposed to visit the penitentiary?” She shouldn’t have offered that. Knowing Richie, he’d take her up on it, and they’d have a picnic in the yard with her worthless father, surrounded by guards with big guns and little patience.
He swirled around, mirth in his eyes. “Now that’s a thought, isn’t it?”
Rochelle nearly snarled. “I should be disqualified during home visits.”
