How To Lose A Bachelor (4 page)

After the dessert plates were removed—Rochelle had asked for seconds so everyone was waiting for her to finish—Grant stood. “So, ladies, it’s been a pleasure dining with you. But now, onto the contest. Will you follow me, please?”

Rochelle remembered a time when Grant despised the spotlight, when he loathed being the center of attention. Which was unfortunate for him, because he turned female heads wherever he went. Now he seemed to languish in the spotlight like a fly on a pile of crap.

The twin Barbies flanked him on each side, latching onto his arms as if they were in danger of falling without his help, and accompanied him out the back French doors. Grudgingly, Rochelle followed the rest of the girls to the veranda. She was delighted to find that her gait was more of a stagger than anything else—and she was sure the shots of whiskey hadn’t even caught up to her yet.

She felt a bit floaty as she accidentally glided into Maya, who had already stopped to listen to what Grant was babbling about at the head of the group. They walked off the veranda and into the grass. Maya, lovely as she was, gave Rochelle a disapproving look. “You’re drunk,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Rochelle giggled.

Under normal circumstances, she would have taken the time to appreciate the massive garden Grant showed them. There were benches, giant sculpted fountains, rows and beds of flowers everywhere. It was the type of place in which one could have taken up residence in a hammock, nurtured a good book, and hidden from the world. But in the dark, and under the influence, Rochelle decided to appreciate it another time. Another time when the cobblestone walkways didn’t seem quite as uneven or the pathways quite so winding. And when Grant wasn’t jabbering on and on about a stupid contest.

“Behind me, as you can see, ladies, is a maze made of hedges,” Grant said. Rochelle definitely saw six-foot rows of hedges. A maze, though?
He’s got to be kidding
. “There are a lot of dead ends. I hope you were paying attention to what I said at dinner, because I gave you clues about how to find your way out.”

Oh crap. Maybe I shouldn’t have hummed to myself every time he opened his mouth. Or called for more shots…

“What’s the prize? A kiss maybe?” asked a perked-up Amber—that much Rochelle remembered from dinner, simply because she was a cookie-cutter big-breasted blonde. She looked like an Amber. Typical nightclub fare, as far as Rochelle was concerned. Completely not Grant’s type.

But then again, Grant was being way more flirtatious than he ever had been ten years ago. And were his muscles bigger? She was pretty sure he hadn’t been that shredded in college. Now that he’d taken off his suit jacket, it was obvious that his biceps and chest were threatening the seams of his shirt—and he wasn’t even flexing.

Rochelle made a mental note to Google what a tactical training consultant actually was. It sounded violent and potentially brainless. Maybe Grant’s total transformation into a dick was finalized during the time they’d spent apart.

“Better than a kiss,” Grant said, grinning.
Maybe he was always a dick and I just didn’t realize it.
That scenario sounded more legit. “Whoever finds their way out in the least amount of time gets to pick what we do on our first group date.”

A rush of excited chatter circulated through the group. It cut off abruptly when Grant said, “Without further ado, I’ve selected Rochelle to go first.”

Of course he has
. This was probably payback for the nod to FSU. Or for dinner, in general.

Rochelle stumbled forward, thankful that she was wearing tennis shoes instead of the ground-piercing stilettos the other girls wore. And this sweatshirt? Perfect maze-maneuvering attire. Still, it was a bit stuffy, since they were in southern California in May, after all.

Oops. Did the ground just swerve or did I?

Grant reached out a hand just in time, catching Rochelle around the waist before she became better acquainted with the lawn. His grip felt strong, confident. He looked amused. Also, he smelled nice.

But why does he have four eyes?
And why did he have to talk so fast? His words raced around her mind, her brain trying to grasp one or two of them, willing them to form actual sentences, but none of it made any sense. He said words like “attitude” and “agility” and “perseverance”.

Is he giving me a pep talk?
This mystery raged on in Rochelle’s head even as he released her, turning her in the direction of some big-ass bushes; an opening in the row of hedges materialized in front of her. Oh, right. A maze or something. Her mom used to take her to corn mazes when she was younger. This was going to be easier than Amber after a few cocktails.

“Heh,” she said to herself. “Easier than Amber.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grant pinch his three noses.

“What?” she said. “What’d I say?”

He gave her a solid shove toward the entrance, and she helped by moving her feet in that direction, but the opening kept getting farther and farther away. The alcohol in her blood made her shoes feel as heavy as anvils as she approached the entryway, and it might have been the reason she advanced on it in a zigzag-like pattern.

Finally, she rounded the first corner and was greeted by a long corridor of more hedge. Deciding the best way to win was to run everywhere—the faster she found dead ends, the faster she could backtrack and find her way out—she picked up the pace and was proud when one foot obediently fell in front of the other. It wasn’t exactly a straight line by any means, but at least she didn’t fall. The bushes did hurt when she scraped against them, though; she might have been bleeding on her elbow from a corner mishap, though the pain was delayed and promptly numbed by the glory that was alcohol.

After a while, her initial momentum failed. She slowed to a walk, then a trudge. Each dead end looked exactly like the last; it was like getting assaulted by deja vu. Surely she wasn’t walking in circles?
Of course not. I’m practically a professional
.

A few more minutes passed, and her aching head forced her to stop and take a break. She sat on the ground, drawing her knees to her chest. How nice it felt not to be careening back and forth between the hedge walls. Who knew traipsing in the bushes could make you so dizzy?

Overhead, the moon emitted a comforting glow of luminescence that seemed to dull her sense of urgency. Surely she’d gained enough headway in the maze for a well-deserved reprieve. As far as fight or flight went, neither seemed appealing at the moment. But the grass beneath her did. It felt like a cushy pillow, supple and inviting under her rear.

Is picking the first—and last—of my dates on the show really that important?
At the moment, the only pressing matter to her was how stiff and unwieldy her legs felt, and how much more her bladder could actually take without bursting. She giggled to herself, visualizing a demure Amber stepping into a puddle of urine with open-toed shoes. The temptation to pull her pants down taunted her until she fell over, snickering her musings into the breezy night.

Oooh, the grass was so soft and plush. And she felt so weighted down, like gravity was a thousand times stronger in this part of the garden.

Surely they won’t miss me if I close my eyes for a minute.

Chapter Six

G
rant placed his palms flat on Richie’s desk and stared down at the man whose fault this was. “You’re going to let her act like that? She wore an FSU sweatshirt to a semi-formal dinner, for God’s sake. Then she drank herself into a coma.”

They’d had to send a search team to find her, since she didn’t pass out where the hidden cameras could see her. If getting carried out of the maze even qualified as finishing, she came in last place at a whopping forty-five minutes and twelve seconds. Stephanie, one of the twins, won first place by finishing at nine minutes and eight seconds. She picked skydiving as their group date; Rochelle would be thrilled. She’d been terrified of heights since she fell out of her tree house when she’d been seven years old.

But this was her own fault. Hers, and Richie’s.

Richie shrugged, fixing his voice into a faux, practiced innocence. “I’ve asked around about the sweatshirt and it turns out that she had a last-minute wardrobe malfunction. Don’t worry though. It will be great for ratings. So will the drunken maze thing.”

Grant crossed his arms. “Really? Because I asked around, too, and several of our lovely contestants said the ‘wardrobe malfunction’ was that she refused to put on any dress chosen for her. You realize why she wore a FSU shirt, don’t you, Richie. I hate that team. And as for ratings, I don’t give a rat’s—”

“Please, lower your voice. This isn’t as bad as it seems.”

“She’s disrespecting this show! She’s disrespecting me. Why should I keep her around for that?”

Richie pressed his fingertips together thoughtfully. “This woman was the love of your life and you don’t recognize what she’s doing? I find that hard to believe.”

“
You
said she was the love of my life.
I
told you I’d vote her off first chance.”

But Richie only laughed. “I thought you’d be happy about this turn of events. About what it means for you.”

Grant scowled. “Are you incapable of being direct?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Grant? She’s making what I would call a tremendous effort for you to vote her off. Which means she still has feelings for you.”

“You have a warped sense of reasoning.” She might have feelings for him, but they sure as hell weren’t romantic in any way. What, she was trying to woo him with a sweatshirt that smelled like hot dumpster trash? Richie was crazy.

“She can’t stand to be around you because of all the feelings it dredges up. Is that so hard to understand?”

Grant blinked. It actually wasn’t; he could relate. He wished he could turn off the memories her presence provoked in him. “You can’t let her run wild on the set, Richie. She’s making a joke out of your show. Don’t you care about that?”

Richie laughed. “She’s doing exactly what I’d hoped she’d do. The question is, are you going to let her beat you at this game?”

Grant took the seat behind him and leaned on Richie’s desk with his forearms. Of course she was trying to get voted off the show. She hated his guts and had an entire decade to let this medley of hatred and anger simmer. This was her loophole. Her way of getting out of the contract. “You don’t know Chelle. She won’t give up. These tantrums will only get worse.”

“Look,” Richie said with a sympathetic sigh that barely hid his delight. “There’s a fine line between love and hate. Haven’t you ever heard that? She obviously has strong feelings toward you.”

Grant wiped a hand down his face. Changing Rochelle’s mind about anything had always been a challenge. But changing her heart? Was that even possible? “Why would I care about her feelings?”

“I’m not sure exactly what your motives are. But if the woman has feelings, isn’t it worth exploring for just a little while longer? If you don’t like what comes of it, then by all means, vote her off. But aren’t you a little curious to see what’s become of Rochelle after all these years?”

As much as Grant knew Richie was selling him a line to get his way, he also knew he was a little curious to see the woman Rochelle had become. And maybe he’d give her the opportunity to see what
she’d
miss out on all these years.

“You handled yourself quite well last night,” Richie continued. “Very composed for the situation.”

“Am I just supposed to ignore her behavior? That’s not fair to the other women.”

Richie smirked. “Do you even remember the names of any of the other women?”

Touché.

He hadn’t so much as considered that any of the other contestants could be a match for him. All he could concentrate on was Rochelle. Even during dinner last night, when he’d been engaging in conversation with everyone but her, his attention had always slithered back in her direction. It infuriated him when she appeared to be flirting with the server.

It still infuriated him.

He should keep her here, just for that. He considered starting a list of all the reasons he should keep Rochelle on the show. After all, she had led him on all those years ago, made him believe that he mattered to her, that they had been more serious than the average college couple. He could let her suffer for a bit longer for that, couldn’t he? And maybe, just maybe, this would give him some real closure. He wasn’t over her. Maybe he could move on if she continued to act like this. Maybe he’d thank his lucky stars when she walked out on him again. “Sorry I wasted your time, Richie.”

G
rant sat on the edge of his bed and dialed Colby’s number, putting the cell on speaker phone so he could finish tying his shoes. He wasn’t supposed to have any contact with the outside world during filming, but he’d been able to smuggle a phone in; he had to be able to check in on the consultant business he and Colby shared. Colby took care of the financial aspect, while Grant served as the talent.

His friend answered with a yawn. “You met the woman of your dreams yet?”

“If you mean Rochelle Ransom, yes, I did happen to have a run in with her.”

“Rochelle Ran— You’re kidding. Where did you see her?”

“She’s a contestant on the show,” Grant said, sliding his other shoe on. “And you’re never going to believe what happened.” After Grant explained everything to his best friend, including his plans to get her back, or if not, hopefully get some closure, Colby let out a long whistling breath.

“Dude, you’re playing with fire. Maybe you should just quit. It’s not like I couldn’t use you here. You and Rochelle don’t mix, remember?”

Grant resented that, even coming from Colby. His friend knew how crazy he had been about Chelle. And he knew why it had ended. So, to say they hadn’t mixed, was like saying what they had wasn’t real. For some reason he wasn’t okay with that, even if that’s what Rochelle had thought.

Wow, overthinking it a bit?

“So what are you going to do?” Colby asked. “You could just vote her off. Save you both the trouble.”

“Actually, I was thinking of keeping her around for a while.” Of course, he couldn’t tell his friend
why
he wanted to keep her around. He wouldn’t approve.

Colby sighed. “I don’t want to see you hurt again, man. That’s all.”

The last thing he needed was for Colby to get sentimental. Besides, he was as far from getting hurt as a person could be. He was practically immune to Rochelle Ransom now. “Listen, I’ve got to go,” he said, standing. “I’ve got filming in fifteen minutes. Everything okay on your end?”

He could almost hear Colby rolling his eyes. “Everything’s fine, Grant. No one has died in your absence yet.”

“Do me a favor and check in on Mrs. Windsor?” Mrs. Windsor was an elderly widow he’d trained in self-defense. He’d also set up a home security system for her before coming on the show. She’d had a very reasonable fear about some home invaders a few weeks ago since some of her neighbors had had their houses broken into. She was a prime target for that kind of thing and she knew it.

“Did that already. She’s fine. A little feisty, actually.”

Grant chuckled. “Knowledge is power.”

Colby grew silent on the other end. Then he asked, “What was it like? Seeing her again, I mean.”

Tortuous. Thrilling. Overwhelming. None of which he felt like divulging to Colby at the moment. “Surprising.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, just say so.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” And then he hung up.

S
o far the Cozy Couch episode was as pleasant for Grant as dislocating his shoulder had been when he’d chased down a purse-snatcher in New York City. Of course, the initial getting-to-know you sessions were expected to be awkward, and Richie had warned him that in the past, contestants seemed to be the most nervous during this episode. Grant was, after all, interviewing the women one-on-one and if they didn’t know how to answer, they could come off looking unintelligent, uninterested—or worse, according to Richie, boring.

In the beginning Grant was determined to put each contestant at ease. Now he was convinced
he
was the one who should have had a couple of drinks before filming. Shy was not a word that could be used to describe this particular group of contestants.

Especially not the one he just finished interviewing.

Grant watched as Sakiya—the artist he’d remember for saying weird things such as “drought of the soul”—exited the room. The only contestant he hadn’t interviewed yet for the Cozy Couch Episode was Rochelle. No doubt a strategic play on Richie’s part.

Out of the nine contestants so far, he did find a couple of them interesting. Maya for instance, stood out from the rest. Beautiful, compassionate, adventurous. She worked as a pediatric nurse during the day and lived life as a karaoke junkie at night. She was, by far, the most down to earth woman he’d ever met. He couldn’t imagine that
she’d
ever have the kind of rage it took to slash someone’s tires or key their dream Camaro.

And then there was Sonia, whose rollercoaster curves would normally have his hands itching to traverse them. A makeup artist and a self-proclaimed doomsday prepper, she was full of engaging conversation—he’d hardly gotten in a word—a fact which might be attributed to the reaction he had to her lips. As it turned out, keeping his eyes off her blood-orange lipstick wasn’t as easy as he thought it’d be; he’d been wondering all along what Rochelle would look like wearing that color.

But there had been some crazies, too. Like Amber, the blonde fitness instructor who, in the middle of the interview, became bored and began to run in place. Or Grace, the Persian heiress who abruptly informed him that if they were to marry, he would have to convert to a religion she had recently developed herself. Something about being baptized in diamond water.

Or he could have nodded off and dreamt that part.

What he was sure about was this: the questions on his prompt card, the questions he was required to ask each contestant, were nothing close to what he wanted to know about Rochelle. Well, maybe the first one had some appeal:
Why did you choose to audition for Luring Love?

That was one he’d been trying to figure out from the beginning. Hopefully, she’d answer honestly. Then again, maybe he didn’t want to know. If she was looking for the man of her dreams, for instance, he’d be crushed. He could have been that man, if she’d given him that chance.

The door to the romantically decorated living room opened and in strolled Rochelle. She wore tight jeans that hugged her mouth-watering hips. Her halter top showed just a peek of his favorite breasts—which seemed to have gotten perkier since their last naked encounter. Or maybe it was just that she was showing more of them than she used to. Her hair cascaded around her face like she’d just experienced an exhilarating walk on a breezy beach—or a scream-worthy toss in the bed. That used to be his favorite look on her—hair down, walking barefoot around his dorm room wearing only her panties and one of his T-shirts.

It was that memory that left its mark on Grant. He closed his eyes against the sight of her now, hoping the camera didn’t capture on his face what his body couldn’t ignore—raw desire.

“Am I boring you already?” Rochelle said, taking the seat next to him.

“Never,” he said. “Last but not least, right?”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

He felt his nostrils flare. She planned to be rude again, like she had been at dinner last night. She was going to try to humiliate him all over again. And what kind of man would he come across as, if he took this sort of crap from her? It was out of the question. He would play her game. And he would win. “After your performance in the maze last night, how could my hopes possibly even hit knee high?”

“Cut!” someone yelled. It was Chris. He stalked up to them, amusement dancing in his eyes. “We can’t mention the maze competition here, because this episode will air before that. So keep to small talk, okay? The witty stuff is good, though. Loving it.”

Rochelle offered him a tight smile. “Will do.”

“Perfect,” Grant said, pleased with himself. Rochelle may have mastered the indifferent-attorney expression, but in her eyes flared a certain rage. Her lip twitched almost imperceptibly. “Thanks, Chris.”

“Aaaand rolling!” Chris said, retaking the director’s seat a few feet away.

Grant could practically feel the cameras focusing back on him. “I’ve decided to be America’s reporter for the day,” he said, having already memorized his lines. “So I have a few questions to ask that I think everyone will want to know—including me.” Their eyes locked. So did Rochelle’s jaw. Grant paused for effect. Then, “Why on earth would you choose to audition for a sleazy show like
Luring Love
?”

“CUT!” yelled Chris.

“I mean, have you
really
drained the dating pool already?” Grant continued, getting angrier with each word out of his mouth. These were, after all, valid questions. Never in a million years would Rochelle have chased after a man—so why the hell was she here? “What would your mother say? Coming on a show like this to paw at a man who’s already got nine other women doing the same thing?”

“I said cut!” Chris growled.

“Oh, are we going to talk about mothers, then?” Rochelle flung back her hair. “Instead of dating pools, let’s talk about
gene
pools—and the fact that you and your
four
siblings originated from separate ones!”