How to Lose a Bachelor

by Anna Banks

  Still, she felt the blood warm her cheeks and hoped the cameras made it seem as if she was simply flushed on a hot July day. It bothered her that Chris knew why she’d been acting the way she had. And if she wasn’t acting that way anymore, what was he to assume? What was she to assume?

  But didn’t I already make the decision that I’m going after Grant?

  She looked up in time to see Grant give his mother a peck on the cheek before dumping the contents of his basket into hers. He wrapped his arm around her and she laughed. Sharon had missed her son. That makes two of us.

  When he met her gaze, a fire settled in her stomach.

  “I think I’ve got enough for a good-sized cobbler,” Sharon announced. “Why don’t you two get cleaned up and rested before supper?”

  A shower. A nap. A sigh escaped her. “That sounds exquisite.”

  Rochelle was first to the back door and kicked off her shoes at the entryway just as she had done countless time before. Chris cleared his throat. Oh. I’m not supposed to know to do that.

  She wondered if not following house rules—and therefore suffering the wrath of Sharon—would be a better alternative than simply doing what she liked and letting Chris worry about editing it out later. She decided the matter with a smile as she opened the cabinet in the utility room to retrieve the clean towel she knew would be there.

  “Cut!” Chris yelled.

  She grinned at him before running up the stairs to the guest bathroom.

  The shower was hot, but Rochelle’s thoughts were hotter. As the water deluged her face, memories of sharing this shower with Grant barraged her senses. Particularly memories of what they did against this wall the last time she was here. The pink ceramic tile, the floral shower curtain, and the little porcelain boy in overalls holding up the toilet paper were not enough to make Rochelle view this room with any sort of innocence ever again. No, these walls had heard too many of her moans of pleasure.

  After a few minutes of basking in the steam, the water started to run cold. Crap. She forgot that it did that. Now Grant would have to wait another half hour for the water heater to fill up again. She slid the shower curtain away and reached for her towel—only it wasn’t there.

  Oh my God, I left it in my room.

  In fact, she’d left everything in her room. Her clothes, her makeup, her common sense. Yep, it was all sitting there on the bed.

  Paralyzed, her mind raced for a solution to this conundrum. Maybe she could wrap toilet paper around the important parts and make a run for it. After all, the bedroom was only a few steps from the bathroom door. The problem was, there was a house full of people right now. What were the chances of not running into anyone?

  And more importantly, what were the chances of not running into any cameras? They loved to follow the contestants around the mansion, eavesdropping for gossip and opinions and catfights. More than one shower had been interrupted, and she doubted any of those incidents were accidental. Would they follow her around here? Of course they would.

  If Chris shoots me naked, I will shoot him in the head.

  She stepped out of the shower and eyed the toilet paper desperately but decided against using it. It would be a pain to peel wet toilet paper off and anyway, wet toilet paper was transparent—and therefore useless.

  Then, to her horror, the door opened.

  Grant shuffled in, a towel in one arm and clothes in the other. Only after he shut the door did he notice her, standing there in a puddle of water and humiliation. “Rochelle,” he said, startled.

  His surprise was quickly overtaken by another, more familiar expression. Her first instinct was to cover herself with her hands. But her stronger instinct was to stand there and let him look his fill.

  “I seem to have forgotten my towel,” she said, feeling heat everywhere. I’m a fool.

  He stepped forward, meeting her gaze. “I seem to have forgotten my name,” he said, licking his lips. “Maybe we could both get in the shower and you could scream it for me.”

  He took another step forward, his mouth inches from hers. She wouldn’t back down. She couldn’t. Not when he looked at her that way. Not when she knew he could make her scream his name—and she’d enjoy every minute of it. No, she wanted this. And she wanted it badly.

  With a new sense of boldness, she leaned into him, her bare breasts brushing against his T-shirt, soaking his chest. Just barely, she glided her lips over his, savoring the taste that was Grant mixed with a hint of blackberry. He allowed her this slow kiss without raising his hands to touch her. It was enough to send shivers throughout her body.

  A knock on the door brought them back to reality—and reality TV. Cursing under her breath, Rochelle took a step back, pressing her heels against the tub. She should have taken the opportunity to get her feelings out in the open, not steal a kiss.

  Grant sighed, shaking his head. “Yes?” he called.

  He handed her his towel, visibly irritated when she wrapped it around her nakedness.

  “Grant?” one of the cameramen—Mike, she thought—said through the door. “Sorry, but Tom and I need a shower before the dinner filming, and we don’t have time to go back to the hotel. Your mother sent us up here. How long do you need?”

  “I’ll be out in ten,” Grant said.

  “Great. Thanks, man.” They heard the shuffle of feet down the hall.

  “There’s not any hot water left,” she stammered. “I…I used it all.”

  Grant laughed. “Cold water could be very useful right now.” She caught his meaning but didn’t allow herself to glance below his waist. Mike was coming back in ten minutes. It would only take one of those minutes to get Grant completely out of his clothes.

  “I should go,” she said, swallowing hard.

  He pressed himself against the wall so she could pass. At the door, she turned. “I’ll bring you a towel after I’m dressed.”

  He simply nodded and pulled his shirt off. Leaving wet footprints on Sharon’s hardwood hall floor wasn’t ideal. But neither was watching Grant undress and not being able to do anything about it. Especially if she was supposed to act natural this evening.

  Though kissing Grant did feel like the most natural thing in the world.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her sitting across the dinner table, and not just because she’d kissed him earlier. Hell, it wasn’t even because she was naked while doing it. After all, it was a small, shy kiss—but it had been a kiss. A real one. And she’d initiated it.

  In the space of an evening, Rochelle Ransom had returned to him. Her laugh, her banter, and the alluring way she used to look at him. There was no vile, sacrilegious sweatshirt. There was no clown makeup. There were no whiskey shots.

  There was only her.

  The problem was, he couldn’t figure out why she was acting so…well, normal. Was this just a show for his mother? Rochelle had always been fond of his mom, and he wouldn’t put it past her to set aside their differences for this segment of the show. Just to spare his mother’s feelings.

  But she had no idea how much hope she was giving his mom that they’d reconnected. Sharon would be destroyed if Rochelle rejected him afterward. And so would he.

  Of course, he had a little more at stake than his mother did. After all, Mother hadn’t been in the bathroom this afternoon when he’d walked in on Rochelle. She could have covered up, she could have screamed, she could have demanded that he leave immediately. But she hadn’t. She’d stood there in all her glory and watched him. Dared him with her eyes to touch her.

  God, he’d wanted to. But he needed to take it slow. If he had a chance with her at all, things had to be just right. Still, the memory of her made him uncomfortable in his chair. For the fifth time tonight, he was thankful for the tablecloth covering the evidence of his wandering mind. Suddenly, he became aware of a camera pointed directly at him.

  “Grant?” his mother said, and by the way she said it, he knew he’d dropped the ball somehow. “D
id you hear Rochelle’s question?”

  “I…I didn’t,” he sputtered. He looked at Rochelle, apologetic. “Sorry, could you repeat what you said?”

  A snort resounded from the camera crew and Grant didn’t have to turn his head to know it came from Chris. Arrogant bastard.

  “Sharon tells me you seldom visit anymore.” Rochelle took a sip of her wine. “I was just wondering why.”

  Of course she would wonder that. This house used to be her home away from home. Her safe haven when her father got abusive or she needed a wholesome meal or she wanted a listening ear. She’d been just as much a fixture here as he was. She would never have understood why he would stay away if he could come here anytime he wanted. She would never have understood that it was all her fault. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I guess it’s just not the same here without—” You. But he couldn’t say it. Not yet. Not like this. “Brutus,” he finished.

  His mother nearly choked on her water. “Brutus? You hated that dog!”

  He gave her a mild warning look. “Of course I didn’t hate him. He was my favorite.”

  But Rochelle knew how much he’d loathed that ankle-biting Chihuahua. He hoped she could answer the question for herself, while he danced around it for the sake of the camera.

  If she did understand, Rochelle didn’t let on. She simply proceeded to pepper him with more questions. Where is your sister? Does she have children? How big was her wedding? What about your brothers? Did they actually mature into men? He tried to answer her with as much detail as possible without giving away their deception.

  When the doorbell rang, a silent awkwardness filled the room. Grant’s mother set down her napkin. “I don’t know who that could be,” she said. “I’m not expecting anyone.” But the way the pitch of her voice changed at the end told Grant that she was expecting someone—and that someone had just arrived. He had a good idea of who it was—his mother had always been fond of reunions.

  Chris looked as though he might swallow his own watch. “Is it imperative that we answer?” he whispered to her pointedly. How many times would Chris butt heads with his mother before he gave up? He knew how stubborn she could be. And Grant knew Chris would never disrespect the woman who practically raised him.

  As expected, his mother straightened, lifting her chin. “Of course it is, young man. I’ll not stray from my manners just because of your preposterous show.”

  Rochelle snorted into her napkin, and Grant gave her a wide grin. He’d never heard his mother curse before until earlier today, when she’d referred to Chris as an “uppity ass”. Well, maybe he had heard her curse before, but not since she’d chased him around their entire property with a switch and an ultimatum.

  “Cut,” Chris said placidly.

  His mother insisted he and Rochelle come to the door to greet the visitor—another sure sign she knew exactly who had dropped by. Both of them were visibly surprised to see Colby Jackson at the threshold. He wore a sport coat and wielded a bouquet of bright blue daisies, which he promptly handed to Grant’s mother.

  But no one appeared more surprised than Colby. In fact, he could only stare at Rochelle with his mouth gaping open for the next several moments. Chris and the crew had gathered behind them—no telling whether or not they were filming the entrance despite Chris’s instructions not to. Colby must have sensed the need for formality because he said, “Rochelle, right?” He extended his hand to her, shaking it gently. “Sharon invited me over to meet you. You must have met with her approval, you see. She won’t stop going on about you.” So, Colby knew the drill. Then why had he acted so surprised? He looked as though he’d seen an apparition.

  Rochelle relaxed instantly, offering a toothy smile. “Colby,” she said warmly. “It’s…it’s so nice to meet you. From what Sharon has said about you, I feel like I’ve known you all my life.”

  “Jesus,” Chris muttered from behind them. “Let’s get on with this. We’re rolling in five.”

  He expressed a desire to only stay for dessert, which Chris reluctantly decided to film for the sake of extra footage, since Colby seemed to be onboard with keeping up the charade. He made it a point to appear fascinated with the process of auditioning as a contestant for the show—something he’d known all about, since he’d been the one to explain it in full detail to Grant.

  “So…they pick women who they think will be a good match for the bachelor?” Colby said. “And this is based on some sort of psychological evaluation or something?”

  “Yep,” Grant replied. “That’s how you convinced me to go on the show, remember? All that scientific evidence?” But nothing had convinced him more than Chris telling him that Rochelle was going to be a contestant. Colby had hoped he’d actually find love on this ridiculous show after he voted Rochelle off.

  Colby dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “I didn’t realize how accurate they could be.”

  Rochelle raised a brow. “You and me both.”

  Grant took a big bite of cobbler while trying to digest what she was saying in code. Did she believe she was the one for him? That they were still compatible? He hoped so.

  “So, Rochelle,” Colby said. “Why did you audition for the show?”

  Rochelle didn’t miss a beat. “You could say that I haven’t been very lucky in love. I was hoping the show would change that.”

  “Talk about luck with odds,” Colby said. His eyes cut to Chris, who scowled at him. “You know, since you’re one of the few left and all,” he added quickly. “Speaking of odds, you know our Grant here doesn’t have such a great track record, either. Has he told you about that?”

  Under the table Grant delivered a stout kick to Colby’s shin. Colby took it in stride, pretending to have a sudden cough attack. “Excuse me,” he said politely. “Cobbler tried to go down the wrong way. You were saying, Rochelle?”

  Why is Colby doing this to me?

  Rochelle pulled her napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. Grant half expected her to get up and walk away during filming. But she didn’t. She picked up her mug and absently stared at the swirling coffee inside. Taking a sip, she finally looked up at Colby again. “He did mention something about it, Colby. He said he broke up with the woman he was going to marry because she was moving on to bigger and better things.” Rochelle let her gaze settle on Grant. “You know, Grant, you never told me what those bigger and better things were. I couldn’t possibly imagine what would be bigger and better than you.”

  He sucked in a breath. Was she serious? Or was she just toying with him? First the kiss, now this. “Law school,” he said softly. “She was accepted to law school, and I didn’t want to hold her back.”

  “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “Did she say you were holding her back?”

  “No. But I knew I would. She had to move across the country. I knew a long-distance relationship would never work.”

  “That’s interesting. What if she had wanted you to come with her? Would you have gone?”

  His heart began to hammer in his chest. She’d really wanted him to go with her? Could that be true? “I would have absolutely gone with her. All she had to do was ask.” But then, he’d never given her the chance, had he? He’d broken up with her, then and there. Yes, it was partly out of anger because she’d gone behind his back and applied for that particular school without his knowledge. Their whole plan had been for her to attend Florida State University so they could be together. He’d never dreamed she meant to take him with her. He’d just assumed she wanted to end it, so he did it first.

  “Good to know,” she said quietly, taking a sip from her mug.

  It was good, good for both of them to know. To get it out in the open, even if it wasn’t really the open. He tried to squash the longing rising in him, but he couldn’t. Was Rochelle admitting she still wanted him? If so, it was a huge step. One that gave him so much hope, his heart ached.

  A sniffle came from the direction of his mother. She had apparently read the same thing
into the conversation. He even thought he saw tears welling Rochelle’s eyes. He had to change the subject before both of the women in his life sobbed on television for all of America to see.

  He looked to Colby, helpless. Do something, he said with his eyes. After all, Colby had opened this door. It was his duty to close it again. Luckily, Colby seemed to get the gist. He cleared his throat. “So, Rochelle, Sharon here tells me you’re very big into charity work. What cause do you fight for, if I may ask?”

  And suddenly Rochelle lit up. Colby didn’t talk much the rest of the night—Rochelle hardly let him get a word in after he’d gotten her on the subject of Helping Hands. Grant enjoyed hearing her speak about something so passionately. He’d missed her passion and her love for helping others. He’d missed everything about her.

  After Colby’s departure, Grant’s mother revealed that she made not one blackberry cobbler, but two, and she invited the crew to sit and have some. Delighted, they bashfully took their seats at the table—even Chris, who had seemed self-absorbed since returning from the interview.

  Grant’s mom set clean plates on the table and gathered up the dirty ones. “Won’t you help your mother with the dishes?”

  “Of course,” he said at the same time Rochelle said, “I’ll help.”

  His mother waved a hand at her. “You go sit on the front porch swing, darling. After the crew has their dessert, they can film you and Grant having some one-on-one time.”

  Even Chris seemed pleased at this prospect. But with Sharon Drake, Grant knew nothing was ever so simple. When they reached the kitchen, she whirled on him. “Go retrieve Rochelle from the porch. Here are the keys to the truck.”

  What? “What?”

  She huffed in frustration. “I’ve got the crew distracted. Now you two can escape and actually talk for once.”

  His mother was brilliant. “Where will we go?”