Page 23 of The Baking Games
Rhett.
He’s looking at me, and I’m looking at him, and it feels like time has stopped. Where did he come from? How did he catch me so quickly?
I glance and notice Vinny coming in for a closer shot. Thanks for the help, Vinny.
No words are exchanged as Rhett slowly lowers me to the ground. He sets me down and backs up, leaning against the island, crossing his gigantic arms.
He’s wearing a white t-shirt and baggy sweatpants that hug him in all the right places. This wasn’t the Rhett I saw in school. That guy dressed like he was going to the stock exchange afterward but with a white apron on.
“Thank you,” I croak out as he continues staring at me.
“What in the world were you trying to do?” His tone is accusatory.
“I thought that was a bag of chips.”
“So you decided to kill yourself for it? Wearing fuzzy socks?”
I look down at my feet. “I didn’t say it was a good idea.”
“And was it chips?”
“No. It was nasty cheese crackers,” I say with a sigh. Why do I feel like I’m being scolded by my large older brother?
“Why didn’t you just ask somebody?”
I laugh. “Who? Everyone is asleep.”
“Me.”
“As far as I knew, you were asleep. And we’re not exactly friends, Rhett. It’s not like I’d come to you for my potato chip needs.” I walk around him and look in more cabinets, like someone with a tapeworm needing a snack.
“Well, I’ll let you get on with your chip search,” he says, walking toward the back patio. For some inexplicable reason, I follow, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. It’s not what I want, but it’ll do for now.
“Hey, thanks again for catching me.”
He waves a hand behind his head. “No problem.”
I follow him until we’re outside in the large courtyard they’ve created for the show. There’s a hot tub, hammocks, a grassy area, and some outdoor sofas. There are foosball and pool tables on a covered patio area. He walks to the grassy area and pulls one foot behind his very nice rear end, stretching his quad.
“What are you doing up, anyway?” I ask, taking a bite of the apple.
“Running.”
“Running? At this hour? We have our first competition tomorrow. Why aren’t you sleeping?”
He drops his leg and turns to me, his dark eyebrow quirked up above his pale blue eyes. “Why aren’t you sleeping, Sunny?”
I forgot he’d given me a nickname. I choose not to engage with him about it. It’s not a bad nickname. He thinks it’s a putdown. I think it’s a compliment.
“As I said, I was hungry.”
He turns to stretch the other leg. “I didn’t peg you as a junk food eater.”
“I didn’t peg you as a midnight runner.”
He chuckles. “I think it’s closer to one now, actually.”
“You still didn’t explain why you’re running this late the night before our first competition.”