by Anna Banks
She gave him a thoughtful look. “I’d offer to take her by her old house.”
“She hated that place, Mom.”
“Time puts everything into perspective, son. Besides, it’s just a house. She’s already home here.”
A pang of anguish lodged in Grant’s chest. “Mom, you shouldn’t get your hopes up—”
“I’m quite certain I didn’t raise an idiot, boy, so I’m not sure why you’re still standing there.”
Rochelle sucked in a breath as they pulled into the driveway of her childhood home. The drive had been silent, full of mutual contemplation. Grant wasn’t sure where to start. He didn’t want to blurt out his feelings, but he was on the verge of doing just that. If she rejected him though, it would pulverize his heart.
“It looks exactly the same,” she said as he put the truck in park. “Except—where are all the trees? Where is my treehouse?” She had never referred to it as her treehouse before. She had always felt that since the people who lived there before had built it for their daughter, it still belonged to her in some way. Especially after she’d fallen out of it years ago. She’d taken it as a sign to stay away from it.
Grant gave her a sidelong look. “Mom says a bad storm took all the trees out. The whole neighborhood helped to clear them. Treehouse and all.”
“Hmmm.”
“We don’t have to get out,” he said. “If you don’t want to.”
She opened the door. “What would be the point in that? We came all this way. And the moon is bright. We’ll be able to see all the way around the house. All my memories here weren’t bad, you know.” With a mischievous grin, she shut the door and walked up the concrete path to the worn-down house.
His pulse picked up a beat as he realized to which memories she was referring. The couch. Her bed. Even the kitchen table hadn’t been safe from them in those rare times they’d found themselves alone here.
Rochelle tried the door but found it locked. She peered in through the living room window. “Wow, it’s so…small.”
“Or it could be that you feel equal to it now,” he said quietly. “Small” was one word she had used to describe herself when she was younger. Small compared to the house, the world. Her father. But she was successful now. She’d made something of herself. And she’d left this place behind in her dust.
She nodded without looking at him. “I think you’re right. Even turning down this road used to leave my stomach a mess. Now there’s… nothing.” She turned to him. “I didn’t think such a strong hatred could ever go away.”
“Hatred is a poisonous emotion to hold onto,” he said. “Especially if it stops you from being happy.”
They seemed to realize at the same time that his words carried a different meaning. For so many years, she’d harbored a hatred for something other than this house. And though she’d been entitled to it, he fervently hoped she’d let that go.
“I’ve been thinking about that actually. Grant—”
“Rochelle,” he said, taking a step toward her. When she didn’t stop him, he pulled her into his arms. She readily accepted him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Rochelle, am I dreaming this? Are you really here with me again?” A tear slipped down her cheek, and he caught it at her chin with the crook of his finger. “I’ve never stopped loving you, Chelle. I’ve never stopped thinking about you. I was angry that you would leave me. I never dreamed you would want me to come. If I’d known, I would have up and left in a heartbeat, no questions asked. Please forgive me. I need you to forgive me. I need you.”
He lowered his mouth but only brushed her lips. He wanted her, all of her, but she had to give him permission before he could allow himself access to her again.
She opened her mouth to him, letting her tongue drizzle his bottom lip, teasing and testing and driving him mad. She was still shy at his touch, still holding back from letting go completely. He didn’t have the patience for patience, he decided. He had to show her what they still were. What they still had. But not here. Not now. He wanted—needed—to take his time with her. To bring her to the full realization that she didn’t belong anywhere but with him.
His hands slid down her waist to the back of her skirt where he cupped both cheeks and gripped her tightly to him, pressing her into his hardness. She moaned against him as he demanded she open wider. Hungrily, she complied.
Their tongues, their arms, their bodies tangled together. There wasn’t an inch of her that he didn’t cover, not a curve that he didn’t explore with his hands. It felt new yet familiar, and satisfying and yet not enough. It would never be enough, not with Rochelle. He wanted her, all of her, and all the time. It was an exquisite torture that he allowed himself, even though he knew he had to end it soon, before he led her to the truck and took her then and there. His mother’s truck would simply not do for this reunion.
It was almost painful to pull away, but it had to be done, even as she grasped him tighter. If he didn’t stop this now, he would have taken her on the nearest available horizontal surface. While she seemed willing at the moment, she’d have plenty of time to think about what they’d done on the plane back to the mansion, and he didn’t want her to have a single regret. Slowly, against his will, he pried her from his grip.
She pouted up at him. “You’re kidding, right?” she said, breathless.
He laughed, kissing her again. “I was thinking of a…more appropriate setting.”
“Hmm. We’ve never cared about the setting before.”
“It’s just that I can’t shake the memory of you stepping out of the shower this afternoon.” He ran his lips along her neck, nibbling here and there and reveling in the fact that she shivered in the heat of a Southern July. “Will you indulge me?”
“The camera crew will be waiting for something like that!” she hissed, as if they were already hovering somewhere in the bushes.
“We’ll throw them off. Pretend to be fighting when we get back. They’ll probably call it a night and go back to the hotel. They’ve fallen into a routine with us, don’t you think?”
“Your mother will be home.”
“Then try not to scream too loudly.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Breakfast with the Drakes was nothing less than painful. Sharon prattled on about mundane things like needing to change the seed in her birdfeeders that afternoon, but Rochelle was pretty sure she knew what had happened last night. In fact, she was pretty sure the next-door neighbors could give a play-by-play of last night’s excitement. And this morning’s. And all the time in between.
Grant moved food around his plate without looking up or even attempting conversation. He looked tired, and he very well should have been. They’d reinvented the all-nighter, after all. And boy, Christopher Schnartz-Legend was not happy about the new developments—even though he didn’t know exactly what those developments were. All he knew for sure was that they’d taken a drive out to her childhood home. And he hadn’t been happy about it. Especially since he could tell, seething from his seat in the corner nook, that the universe had shifted last night. Anyone could tell.
Rochelle tried to appreciate the quiche Sharon had made, but her thoughts kept straying to her futile attempt at showering this morning. How Grant had lifted her against the wall and made good on his promise to make her scream. Thank goodness Sharon’s bedroom was on the first floor. But more likely than not, she’d already been awake and in the kitchen preparing breakfast for everyone. Rochelle cringed inwardly.
“Mrs. Drake,” Chris said, wrapping his hands around his mug as if to keep them warm. “I think it would be best if a small crew slept here for the rest of the home visit. It’s just for one night. Could you accommodate that?”
Sharon scowled, glancing at Grant. “I have another spare room but it’ll only sleep two people who are willing to share the same bed.”
“Sounds like someone’s sleeping on the floor then,” Chris drawled.
“Or you could just let these two be for the rest of the visit and give
them some privacy.”
“Privacy makes for poor ratings, Mrs. Drake. Besides, these two already forfeited their right to privacy when they auditioned for the show.” He cut his eyes to Rochelle and Grant. “So their leaving last night without the crew could be considered a breech in—”
“Alright, alright,” Grant said waving his hand. “We get it. We stay with the crew. It won’t happen again.”
Rochelle swallowed disappointment along with her orange juice. They’d have to stay away from each other for a while to throw off any suspicion that they were back together. They had discussed how this would work, and Grant had already anticipated Chris throwing a tantrum about their field trip last night. They’d decided to keep outward appearances as they had been; Rochelle would continue her stunts and Grant would continue to be a good sport about it. Having them appear as rivals would be the only way they might be able to steal private moments when they were back on the set of Luring Love.
It seemed silly to stay on the show, because they knew what the outcome would be. It felt like a waste of time to put off starting their new life together when they had so much making up to do as it was. But they were both under obligation to see it through, and besides, they both agreed that Helping Hands needed the double prize money. What was a few more weeks in the grand scheme of the rest of their lives?
Still, it would be difficult to stay away from Grant now that she’d had him at her fingertips all night. There was so much more of him she wanted to explore—and not just underneath his clothes. She’d missed out on a decade of Grant and she was determined to get it back, one way or the other.
If behaving herself now would gain her the ability to sneak around the set for the duration of the show, then she could show some patience.
At least, she hoped she could.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Grant shut the door to Richie’s office and took a seat in front of his desk. It had been nice to get away from the producer’s prying eyes for a while. But he never completely escaped while he’d been away on home visits. Chris had seen to that. His childhood friend took his job very seriously. But he couldn’t be too upset about it. After all, Chris was partly responsible for his winning Rochelle back. If it weren’t for him, Grant would have never been considered for the show, and Rochelle might have actually pursued another man.
Just the thought made him clench his jaw.
“You wanted to see me?” Grant said, gruffer than he’d intended.
Richie didn’t pretend to hide his irritation. “Chris tells me you and Rochelle went off together. Alone. Do explain.”
He had to handle this delicately; Richie was no fool. It was Rochelle who’d suggested they play the game until the end. And when she’d explained why, he’d agreed whole-heartedly. Now he had to convince Richie that there was nothing between them—and that there never would be. “It had to happen eventually, and we couldn’t very well do it on camera,” Grant said, trying to sound defeated.
“Please tell me you’re not referring to sleeping with each other, because that very well could have been done on—”
Grant balled his fists until his knuckles strained against his skin. He imagined tightening Richie’s necktie until he turned as purple as the tacky violet suit he wore. “We had the talk,” Grant said instead.
This seemed to startle the producer. “The talk? And what did she say?”
“That’s not your business.”
Richie pouted. “Now that hurts, Grant. You know I’ve grown fond of you two. It’s only natural that I ask. I wonder if Rochelle would tell me?”
They’d foreseen this. And Rochelle had already practiced what she would say if Richie asked her the same questions. Grant shrugged. “Doubtful. She’s not an idiot. We both know you only care to know whether or not she’s staying on the show.”
The older man stiffened. “It’s a valid question at this point, I think. And regardless of how you two feel about each other, I do have a job to do. Our high ratings this season have a lot to do with the chemistry between you two. I do hope that’s not going to change.”
“She’s staying.” Grant sighed. “Though she doesn’t want to. We talked about it briefly at the airport. There’s a lot more that needs to be worked out between us than can be accomplished on this show. Just so you know, she told me about Helping Hands. I won’t vote her off, so you can stop asking me about it.” Giving Richie some inside information would throw him off their trail for a while.
As planned, Richie seemed pleased to be let in on a secret. “Well. I knew you were a gentleman, Grant. And of course, it’s excellent news that she’s staying, one way or the other. I do hope you won’t give up in winning her over though.”
“I’m a fool to keep trying.” They still had to make it look like they were at odds. The only way Grant could envision that happening was to play the pathetic, lovesick sucker. It was an easy part to perform; all he had to do was imagine that Rochelle had rejected him at her parents’ old house. Then he really would be a groveling idiot right now.
“Gentlemen usually are.” Richie leaned forward. “So, she’s not ready to forgive you yet?”
He shook his head. “But it’s my fault, so what can I really say?”
Richie smiled, more to himself than at Grant. It was the kind of smile a canary-swallowing cat would give his oblivious owner. What was Richie up to? “Chris tells me you had a visitor at your mother’s house. Colby, was it? Why on earth would a mother name her son after cheese?”
“What do you care about Colby?”
Richie shrugged. “Chris said he brought up some points that he was sure would sway Rochelle in your favor. I suppose Chris was wrong.”
“He was wrong. I saw him talking to Colby privately. I hope he didn’t say anything too incriminating about me.” Because if Colby had snitched on their business phone calls, he’d make sure his friend never lived it down. He was fairly certain Colby and Chris had just been catching up on old times. And probably gossiping like old women about what had been going on between himself and Rochelle.
Richie gave him an amused look. This made Grant nervous. Maybe Colby had snitched after all. Was Richie about to ask him to forfeit his cell phone? That would throw a wrench in his plans with Rochelle; before they left his home, he’d smuggled her his mother’s cell phone to use.
Richie leaned back in his chair, the leather squeaking beneath his weight. “Well,” Richie said, suddenly appearing bored. “All the girls are settled back into the mansion and everything is all set for the Double Elimination Ceremony. You have major interviews for the next two weeks that you’d do well not to screw up, so go get some rest. You’re already a celebrity—this could be good opportunity for your business.” He paused, pressing his fingertips together. “You probably already know who you’re going to vote off.” But he held up his hand abruptly. “Do not tell me, Grant Drake. Even I like surprises.”
“Since when?”
“Run along now. You’re distracting me.”
Chris was waiting for Grant outside Richie’s office. No cameras, no crew. Just Chris. “Did you sort everything out with Rochelle the other night?” he asked.
Grant wanted to brush him off. But Chris’s concern seemed genuine. He felt guilty about it, but he had to throw his friend off their scent too. Chris was entirely too committed to his new job to trust him with any information about him and Rochelle. “Yes. If by sorting everything out, you mean making an idiot out of myself and hurting her more.”
Chris grimaced. “I knew where you had gone, you know. It wasn’t too difficult to figure out, though your mother would rather have bitten off her own tongue than tell me. If she ever needs a job with the FBI, I know a guy. That nut cannot be cracked.”
Grant chuckled. “So why didn’t you come after us?”
Chris scratched the back of his neck. “Because not everything belongs on camera. Even I know that.”
“Do you?”
His friend sighed. “I know I’ve been a
dick lately and I’m sorry. But this job is important to me, man. It’s a stepping stone to bigger and better things. If I don’t please Richie, then I don’t please the network. If I don’t please the network, my career in television is practically over.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that whatever happens, I don’t want it to affect our friendship.”
“You’ve got a job to do, and I get that.” It was all Grant could afford to say. Chris had all but said he would do what it took to keep his boss happy. That meant he couldn’t be trusted until after the publicity from the show died down. It meant that he and Rochelle could expect zero privacy from then on. It was a friendly warning, and Grant appreciated it.
“Goodnight, Chris.”
“Goodnight.”
It had been a long time since Grant had snuck into a woman’s bedroom—ten years, in fact. Rochelle’s dorm room had been on the first floor though—nothing like climbing to the second floor of the bachelorette mansion. Grant was a bit disappointed with the security of the place, truth be told. No one should have been able to successfully scale the wall and land on the balcony of her room without being detected—not even him. The mansion needed about a dozen upgrades on their security system, at the very least.
Not that he could mention that to Richie without sounding suspicious.
Grant nearly tripped over a dying potted plant as he made his way in the dark to the door of the balcony, where light splayed from sheer curtains. He peered in, spotting Maya and Rochelle sitting on their beds. Tapping lightly on the glass, he alerted them to his presence.
Maya rose and let him in. “You’re early,” she whispered unnecessarily. The pathetic security guard probably didn’t even patrol this side of the mansion. Grant hadn’t seen him in at least half an hour.
“Sorry. I didn’t anticipate being able to get in so easily.”
She rolled her eyes. “Show off.”
Grant chuckled as he crossed the threshold into the bedroom. Maya had been an invaluable resource these past two weeks. Whenever he could steal some time with Rochelle between interviews and promotions, Maya made it her job to distract the camera crew. She’d become quite the drama queen, to Richie’s delight. She’d started a small fire in the kitchen last week by microwaving tin foil, and two days ago, she’d started a catfight with Cassandra over the use of a treadmill in the mansion’s gym. She still had a scratch running down the length of her cheek to show for it. She’d called it a worthy war wound.
