RHETT
I knew it was her. I just knew it.
Normally, I love women with red hair, but not this one. She is the most annoying person I’ve ever met. Not that she’s unattractive. Quite the opposite. And in the three years since I’ve seen her, she somehow got better looking.
But she’s perpetually sunny about everything.
Drop an egg on the floor? No problem! This will clean up in a jiffy!
Add too much baking powder? Oh well! We’ll add a smidge of this or that, and it’ll fix it right up!
I hated being paired with her. Sometimes, things were just bad. Or they sucked. But not to Savannah Greene. Nope. The world was just a happy place where everything would work out alright in the end.
I have no such notions. The world often sucks, and people are even worse. I find that people will generally let you down, given the chance. I don’t give them the chance. I don’t let people get too close to me. If you keep people at arm’s length, they can’t hurt you. Or at least that’s what a therapist told me that I seem to think. Well, the one time I went to therapy.
And I suppose they could still hurt you at arm’s length if they had a long enough sword.
She’s looking at me like she’d rather be anywhere else but here. I know she doesn’t like me either. She never said so because she’s so irritatingly nice to everyone, but I know. I can feel it.
Her gaze quickly travels to another person in the room. Some guy I don’t recognize. He’s tall with jet-black hair. Thin and toned, but not muscular. I could definitely take him in a fight. I’m not sure why I’m considering sparring with a fellow contestant on a baking show, but I’m just going with whatever pops into my head.
She looks nauseous. She looks lost. Why do I care? She’s my opponent, and I intend to put my boot on each of these people and smoosh them into the Georgia red clay so I can walk away with those prizes. I didn’t come here to lose.
“Alright, contestants, we’re going to get to know each other now!”
Oh God. I hate stuff like this. Are we going to go around the room and tell everyone what we hope to do this summer? I hope to win and send all you losers home. Should I say that?
“After each of you introduces yourself, we’ll talk about the competition and rules.”
Rules. I hate rules.
Before I can think too much about how I hate rules, I hear the first contestant introduce herself. I guess I should pay close attention. If you know things about people, you can use them to your advantage.
“My name is Maggie Roy. I’m a sixty-five-year-young widow…”
Young? Yeah, that’s a cute thing to say, but she’s the oldest one in the room with her solid white short hairdo and glasses on a literal beaded string around her neck. I bet she has cats. That just feels true in my bones.
“I always wanted to be a professional baker,” she continues, “but I cared for my disabled husband for many years. He passed away two years ago.”
Everyone bows their heads like we knew him. I do the same because I don’t need them to know I’m faking my care right now. I mean, I do care that this woman lost her husband, but I don’t know him, so why should I act like I’m in mourning?
The next person takes the microphone.
“I’m Leo Martinez. I’m a first-generation Mexican American from Texas. I am a graphic designer but dabble in baking on the side.”
This guy is dressed in what can only be described as a bold-colored suit, with shades of lime green and purple that have not been duplicated anywhere else on the planet. Nor should they be. Still, I think I can beat him. I’m trained, after all. He’s designing websites and baking cookies for fun. Next.
“I’m Lainey Loudermilk,” a voice says. I lean over to see Barbie herself standing in the parlor. Can’t we just call this a living room? “Parlor” seems awfully formal. “I’m twenty-eight years old, although everyone thinks I’m college-age.”
I did not think she was college-age. I did, however, think she uses a large quantity of tanning creams and potions that are probably killing her from the inside out.
“And what is your training, Lainey?” our host asks. His name is Dan Carmichael, and he could surely sell you a used car. His teeth can be seen from space, and he looks at Lainey’s chest, not her face.
“I went to a prestigious culinary school in Colorado,” she says, beaming. I bet she did beauty pageants and twirled a baton that was on fire while wearing a pink dress and stiletto heels. Every man in here is staring at her, drool forming at the corners of their mouths. I’m not that guy. She’s attractive but in a too high maintenance and annoying kind of way. She’s fun to look at, but her personality subtracts massive points, and then she ends up with negative numbers.
Okay, I just met her. Not even. Maybe I’m being too judgmental. It’s a flaw. I know this about myself. But I read energy, and I don’t like hers. I will steer clear as I wipe the floor with her in this competition. No way a girl named Lainey Loudermilk is taking this prize from me. Next.
* * *
SAVANNAH
Oh, my dear Lord in heaven. Hallowed be thy name. Why are these guys here? My rival and my ex. Lovely. There’s no way this was an accident.
All sorts of conspiracy theories flow through my head. How did this happen?
They asked me so many questions during the process—about my background, likes, dislikes, and family dynamics. I rack my brain, trying to figure out how this happened to me. How did I end up in a parlor with eleven other competitors, two of whom are guys I loathe?
I have so many questions. The first one is whether I should stay here. They can’t force me to stay. I can pitch a fit and walk out of here. Who’s going to stop me?
I’m going to stop me, that’s who. I can’t walk away. I signed contracts. I promised Sadie.
The host is going down the line of contestants, asking each one to introduce themselves. I find myself watching Rhett Jennings. His eyes are dark and smoldering, like he’s making notes in his head about each person.
I got to know him after going to pastry chef school at night with him for two years. When we graduated, I was thrilled that I would never have to see his grumpy self again, and yet here I am, trapped in a house with him for up to six weeks. Maybe he’ll get voted out early on, along with my ex, Connor, who is staring at me like he’s trying to bore a hole through my head.
“I’m Connor Kane.” I suddenly hear his voice boom across the room as he continues looking at me. “I graduated from culinary school four years ago, and I have skills outside of baking as well.” I swear he winked at me. Gross. “Oh, and I’m single, ladies,” he says, flashing a broad smile in Lainey’s direction. She bats her eyelashes, and I must force myself to keep my breakfast down.
“Nobody cares.” I look up to see Rhett crossing his arms and rolling his eyes like he’d rather be anywhere else at the moment. I can relate to him for the first time.
“Okay, guys, let’s keep the smack talk for competitions,” Dan says, smiling directly into the camera. Where did they get this guy? “Let’s move on. How about you?”
“I’m Zara Ali, age thirty-five. As a food blogger, I’ve traveled the world and know global cuisines. Graduated from culinary school in Switzerland five years ago. I’m a competitor, and I’m not here to make friends.” She sounds terrifying, but she’s beautiful. A natural beauty. What I wouldn’t give to be one of those. Her medium brown skin tone makes me jealous as I look down at my pasty white skin. Redheads don’t tend to turn any shades but white and red. SPF 50 is my best friend.
Zara not only has a cool name, but she also has gorgeous curly black hair with little tendrils hanging around her face. Actual tendrils. Stunning. She’s one to watch. I think she’s going to give a lot of these cocky men a run for their money.
“Hello, everyone. I am Sophia DuBois, from France. I am twenty-two years old, and I moved to the United States about six months ago.” Her accent is very thick, and I must listen closely to understand her. “I am a graduate of pastry chef school in Paris, and I will warn that I am quite competitive.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of why we’re all here,” Rhett interjects. Man, this guy doesn’t have an unexpressed thought, does he? It’s kind of entertaining.
Dan suddenly points at me. “And you are?”
Like he doesn’t know. TV is weird.
“I’m Savannah Greene. Thirty years old. I live in a suburb of Atlanta and work at a bakery.” Kind of a lie, but whatever. “I attended pastry chef school.” Wow, even my intro sounds dull.
Thankfully, Dan doesn’t pry further. He turns to another man.
“I’m Nate Winston. I’m forty-five, so y’all are all kids to me!” He laughs loudly at his own joke. No one else does. We all look like deer caught in headlights. “Anyway, I come from a whole family of bakers and self-taught chefs. My grandma just loved making cookies…”
“Great! Nice to meet you, Nate,” Dan says, cutting him off. “Sorry, but TV time moves very quickly.” Nate nods and then stares at his shoes for a while.
Dan continues pointing around the room, where we meet Hank Dalton, a fifty-two-year-old construction worker who got hurt and did a virtual pastry chef school. I don’t know how well he will do, but people can surprise you.
Then there’s Bianca Rossi, a twenty-seven-year-old goddess of a woman of Italian-American descent. She specializes in fusing the two cultures and graduated from some fancy culinary school in Italy.
There’s also Tanya Cohen, a thirty-four-year-old single mother who runs her own catering business and is self-taught. She’s a shy, mousy thing. I’m not sure a competition show is for her.
Finally, it all boils down to Rhett. Mr. Congeniality. This ought to be good.
“And you are?” Dan asks expectantly.
“Rhett Jennings.”
“Where are you from?”
“Originally? Boston.”
“I don’t hear an accent,” Dan quips.
Rhett stares at him. “I dropped it.”
“I don’t think you can drop an accent that easily,” Dan says, laughing toward the camera. I don’t know why he’s poking at Rhett. The guy is at least six foot two with shoulders like a pro football player and jaw muscles that twitch when he’s annoyed. I saw that a lot in classes with him. Rhett doesn’t like to lose. In fact, he rarely messed up. If he did, that jaw muscle twitched. I never saw him lose his cool, though.
“Well, I dropped it.”
“Okay then… So, what’s your background?”
“I attended pastry chef school, and then I went to work on yachts with celebrities.”
“Wait. You’re telling me you travel on yachts, making sweet treats for famous people?”
Rhett stares at him once again. Gosh, he could set you on fire with one look. “That’s what I said.”
How did he get on this show? He’s the grumpiest person I’ve ever seen. Part of me wants to hate him, and part of me wants to know what hurt him so bad that he became this way. Babies don’t come out ornery like this. Did he come out of his mother’s womb and just shoot his doctor the bird?
Sadie would say I’m too empathetic, and I take on other people’s junky emotions when I should just focus on myself. She’s probably right, but I will never stop doing it. It’s just who I am.
“That sounds like a very exotic life! Why did you decide to leave that to come on a competition show?”
Rhett sucks in a breath and blows it out slowly. “I like to win.”
Connor lets out a laugh, which causes Rhett to turn his attention in that direction. It’s like watching a nature show on TV. The lion has now noticed the small kitten wandering across the desert. Okay, maybe not a kitten, but I don’t know what would wander across the desert, so let me have my imagery.
Now, see, the lion could play with the kitten. Bat him around a bit. Make him think he might live to see the next day. That’s Rhett Jennings. He’ll play around with you. Make you think you might get the best of him, and then bam! He gobbles you up without missing a beat. Connor should tread lightly. Rhett is not to be played with, lest you want to be eaten by a lion.
* * *
RHETT
That was tedious. I want to get to the competition, and I don’t care what school people went to, how old they are, or if they’re single. I’m not here for love. I’m here for money.
But Dan has more to share, so I try to pay attention since this is the part I care about: the rules, the prizes, and the competition itself.
“Okay, folks, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty! As you know, this is a competition show lasting six weeks. There will be a panel of three judges, all experts in the area of culinary arts. You’ll meet them tomorrow at your first challenge. Voting during main competitions will also involve the audience, although judge votes will weigh seventy percent and viewers will count for thirty percent. Now, each week, we’ll have two competitions. One is a reward comp, and the other is a main competition. Rounds will also be solo, but we’ll also have partner rounds sometimes…”
He keeps droning on and on. I can’t imagine viewers at home will be interested in all the minutia this man is spewing out of his giant, toothy eating hole, but I try to stay awake. This has been a long day, and I really want some food and a nap. I may be “hangry,” as the kids call it.
“As you know, the prizes are amazing! One contestant will win two hundred thousand dollars, a cookbook deal, and the job of making a wedding cake for Keaton Mallory and Keira Donaldson!”
Keaton and Keira are this year’s it couple. At least, that’s what my Internet search told me. I don’t follow a lot of celebrity gossip, but I’m not telling anyone that. After all, as far as these people know, I’m on yachts with celebrities all day long.
Apparently, they met on a silly reality TV dating show and got engaged, but everyone thinks these two lovebirds will make it. They have the love of a lifetime. Gag. I give them six months tops, if they even make it to their wedding day. I need them to make it there so I can make the cake, of course, so all my blessings and prayers go out to Keaton and Keira. May you make it to the altar so I can get famous for making your cake. Amen.
“You will all share this house, obviously, with several people in each bedroom. There is a large industrial kitchen at the back of the house, with multiple stations, allowing for this type of competition.”
An industrial kitchen with multiple stations? In this beautiful home? Somebody is going straight to hell for doing that to this house. People are awful. It’s like when developers mow down huge forests to build ugly condos that all look alike and have terrible HOA presidents.
“You will have camera crews all around you during all waking hours. There are also cameras mounted in every nook and cranny of this house. There is no privacy, so assume everything you say and do will be broadcast across this country.”
“Wait, how will we use the bathroom?” Lainey blurts out, sounding like a complete fool.
Dan looks at her for a long moment. “Of course, there won’t be cameras in the bathroom. That would be inappropriate.” He looks at the camera. “I just want to clarify that we do not film competitors while they’re in the bathroom.”
Everyone is getting restless. Even Savannah has her arms crossed now. I’m sure everybody is hungry and tired and annoyed. Dan had better speed this whole thing up or risk an on-screen bloodbath.
“Okay, I think that’s enough for now. Why don’t we let you choose your rooms so that everyone can have some downtime to get a bite to eat? We’ll have a little meet-up to get to know each other better tonight. Here are your room assignments,” he says, handing each of us a colored card. I guess the colors match up to rooms and roommates. The first thing I notice is that Connor has the same color. Great, just great.
I don’t know what his deal is with Savannah or what her deal is with him, but there’s a story. I don’t want to care what it is, but I kind of do. There’s not much else going on at the moment, so a little gossip might fill the time.
Within seconds, people are running like a hippo is chasing them. Hippos are fast, if you didn’t know. To be so overweight, those suckers are scary. I was obsessed with them as a kid.
Up the curved staircase, the contestants go, like little kids hunting Easter eggs. Well, if little kids were on methamphetamines while hunting Easter eggs. I walk up the stairs slowly. Why run if your room has already been assigned? It’s me, Maggie, and Hank hanging back. The two oldest people and me. It’s fine. Maybe it will make people underestimate me.
“You’re a hulk!” Maggie says, looking over at me as we walk up the stairs. She’s favoring her right leg.
“Thank you?”
She laughs and waves her hand at me. “I didn’t mean anything by it, honey. Just that you’re a big guy. I’m sure you’ve heard that all your life.”
“Most of it,” I say. “I had a growth spurt in between my freshman and sophomore years of high school.”
“Quite a growth spurt.”
“I suppose so.”
“I played football in high school. Did you?” Hank suddenly asks.
“I did for one season. Then, I hurt my knee, and that was that.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Hank says, as if we should all be in mourning that I didn’t play more.
“It’s fine. If I’d kept on, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be in the NFL.”
Hank laughs loudly. I’m not sure if he’s laughing because he thinks I couldn’t have made it into the NFL or if he’s laughing because I’d be making so much money there that this little piddly show wouldn’t even be on my radar. I decide not to press further. Again, I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to obliterate every one of these people.
When we arrive up the stairs, which takes twice as long because of Maggie’s bum knee or hip and my inability to run ahead of her, we see a long hallway. We split up into our respective rooms. I glance as Maggie walks into hers. The walls are painted pink, and there are three twin beds around the room. Savannah is in there, and I think that Lainey chick is, too. Good luck, Savannah. You’re gonna need it.
I walk into my room, which is thankfully painted a light shade of gray. Very masculine. Of course, I don’t care if ballerinas are painted on the walls. I’m still going to stay here and win this thing. Done and done.
“Hey, man. No hard feelings, right?” Connor says, walking over and reaching out his hand to shake mine. I don’t shake hands. I find it gross. I don’t know where his hand has been.
“I don’t shake hands.”
“What?”
“It’s just something I don’t do.”
Connor stares at me. “You’re a weird guy.” The camera crew is feet from us, capturing each and every word for TV viewers. This is strange. I couldn’t have imagined how weird and awkward it would be to have cameras in my face.
“Good that you figured that out all by yourself,” I say, walking past him to the last empty bed. I toss my duffel bag down beside it and lie down, looking up at the ceiling.
My other roommate is Nate, the talkative Southern guy. He seems nice enough, but I hope he doesn’t decide to chat me up all the time. No such luck.
“Hey there! I’m Nate. You’re Rhett, right?”
“Yep,” I say, not sitting up. Nate doesn’t get the message and continues standing beside my bed.
“Great name. My momma loved Gone With The Wind. Is that where you got your name?”
“No, actually. My mother got it from our family tree that stretches back to England. Apparently, it was a surname there.”
Yeah, it’s more boring than it sounds. I’m not nearly as interesting as Rhett Butler.
“Oh. Gotcha. I was named after my grandfather’s cat, if you can believe that!”
Yes, Nate. I can believe that.
I might be overly ornery today. Honestly, I wish I could fast-forward this game to the end so I could win the prizes and get back to my life, as dull as it is.
Like others here, I have some secrets—things I don’t necessarily want to get out, places in my life I’ve failed, and things I don’t necessarily want the world to see. This ought to be interesting.