How To Lose A Bachelor (9 page)

Chapter Fourteen

G
rant 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

G
rant 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 through 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.

He ran a hand through his hair. “I would have done anything to save the relationship. But by that point, it was over and I knew it.”

“Save the relationship? When you were so bent on ending it? I mean, that’s the impression I get, anyway.” America was going to think she was a psychic if she kept throwing out tidbits of information like that. So, she was forced to rein in her temper yet again. She retrieved her chair and pulled it back to the table, sitting down carefully. Sometimes composure could be a slippery slope. “So, I think it’s your turn to ask a question.”

He speared the chicken with his fork. He seemed taken aback and confused.
What, he didn’t even remember what had happened that night? Give me a break.
Still, though, something was bothering him, she could tell. Other than the one bite, he hadn’t touched his food. Obviously he recalled how well she couldn’t cook. “Tell me about your family,” he said.

Rochelle straightened in her chair, trying not to visibly bristle. “My father is in jail, actually.” But he already knew that. Grant was the one who put him there. He made the phone call she had always been too scared to place. The Sheriff’s department had come. Her mother had been taken away by ambulance. Grant had made the call. He’d been strong enough for the both of them.

“And your mother?”

“She died two years ago. Complications of pneumonia.” Though in spirit, her mother had died long before that. Rochelle had moved her into her apartment in the city to look after her. Her mother’s health had kept fading and fading, until she was a mere wisp of the person she used to be before her husband decided to use her as a punching bag.

Tears welled in Rochelle’s eyes. Should she have called Grant when her mother died? What would she have said? And what if he’d acted callously again?

Grant wiped a hand down his face, pausing to pinch the bridge of his nose. “God, Rochelle, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t,” she said, looking at the napkin in her lap. “How could you?” A fat tear spilled over but she wiped it away quickly. Grant had liked her mom, and she’d liked him. Grant had saved her mom’s life.

Damn him for acting like an emotional nitwit and damn him for turning her into one.

“Was it…did she…?” he said, clearly flustered by the limitations governing their exchange.

“I’d rather talk about something else, if you don’t mind.”

He sighed, nodding. A few moments passed that felt like centuries. Absently, he took another bite of his potatoes. “I believe it’s your turn to ask me a question.”

Find a question, find a question, find a question
.
Any question but the one you’re thinking of right now
. But it came out anyway. “You said you wanted to marry the woman you broke up with.”
Don’t ask questions you shouldn’t care about anymore.

“Yes, I did. I already had a ring.”

She filed that away for later, only allowing the shock to hit the surface. She couldn’t deal with what that meant, not in front of the cameras and Chris Schnartz-Legend and especially not in front of Grant. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure if she could deal with it at all. A ring. He’d had a ring to give her. That is, if she was the one he was talking about. “If…if you could find this woman again, if you could look her in the eyes right now, what would you say to her?” She took a bite of her potatoes, just in case her mouth wanted to ask any other stupid questions. And then she tasted the familiar crunch of walnut.

She’d grown sensitive to it, always acting as Grant’s taste tester back when they had dated since Grant was severely allergic to walnuts. He broke out in horrifying welts all over his body, and sometimes his throat even closed up, depending on how much he’d eaten. And she had dumped an entire bowl full in those freaking sweet potatoes. “Omigod Grant,” she said, dropping her fork. “This has walnuts in it!”

Grant didn’t seem the least bit fazed. He questioned her with a look. “You knew it had walnuts in it. You put them in yourself.”

“I was following the recipe, you idiot! How much did you eat?” Because timing from when he took his first bite until now…he’d be showing signs very soon.

He cast a worried glance at the still-rolling cameras. “And it was delicious, really,” he said pointedly.

Wait, what? Why was he stalling? He knew what was going to happen. Did he really want that to go down on television? This was life or death, and he was still trying to play the part of strangers talking over dinner!
And why do I care?
“Grant, how much did you eat?”