Page 45 of The Baking Games

I walk into the bathroom, but the toilet is too far. The chain won’t stretch nearly enough.

“Not going to work,” I call out. Our camera guy stands in the hallway with Rhett, obviously waiting for us.

“We can go upstairs,” Rhett says. The bathroom up there is even bigger than this one. There’s no way he’s going to be able to stand outside there either. I yank the chain, pulling him into the room. “What are you doing, crazy woman?”

I shut the door. “I need to go, so you’re going with me.”

“Again? Is this some kind of fetish you have?”

“Shut up. My bladder is about to explode!”

“So glad I’m going to be here for that,” he says sarcastically.

I flip the switch on my mic and point for him to do the same. I don’t need to whole world to hear me pee. Everything gets judged on social media, so I’m certain trolls would discuss the rhythm or flow of my urinary tract.

“Turn around,” I say, pointing to the corner.

“Better hurry. They’re not going to like that you turned off…”

Just then, someone bangs on the door. “Savannah and Rhett, you need to have your mics on!” one of the producers yells through the thick wood.

“I deserve urinary privacy!” I yell back.

“No more than five minutes!”

“Geez, wonder what happens when you need to… well, you know,” Rhett says. “Five minutes? What if you want to do a little light reading?”

I stifle a laugh and finish my business before flushing the toilet and dragging him to the sink with me. Well, as much as a petite woman can drag a giant with her. Rhett is built like a superhero. He’s definitely been lifting weights since our time in school together.

“Okay, I guess we can go,” I say, turning toward the door. Rhett doesn’t move. “What’s wrong? Do you need to go?”

“No,” he says. “And when I do, you won’t be attached to me.”

“Why? Embarrassed?” I tease, poking him in the chest.

“Savannah, have you ever seen how a man goes to the bathroom? We sort of need both hands.”

“Ew. Yuck. Say no more.”

“We’ll work this out with the producers so they can let us loose for bathroom time. But before we leave, I need to say something while we’re not miked.” He pulls the chain so we’re in the corner, as far away from the door as possible.

For some reason, my heart starts to pound. What is that about? I have no feelings for this man. Well, no good ones. He’s arrogant and cocky and rude. He’s also talented and handsome and hot.

Maybe I need hormone cream.

“What’s going on, Rhett?”

His voice is barely above a whisper. “Have they been asking you questions about us?”

“Who? Production?”

“Yes. In your confessionals?”

“All the time. Why?”

“One of them let it slip to me that the audience is asking these questions.”

“So?”