Page 59 of The Baking Games

"You heard what I said. I don't want to say it again."

“I don't even know who this person is. You're nothing like you were when we were in school together. You're nothing like you were when we first got in this house together a couple of weeks ago."

"I know, it's very frustrating," he says, using his other hand to massage his brow line. "I don't talk about things like this. I don't get vulnerable."

"Wait a minute," I say in a whisper. Again, thinking that microphones can't catch me. I reach around and flip mine off for a moment, hoping that nobody can make out what I'm about to say. I nod at him, and he flips his off.

"What are you doing? We're not supposed to turn these off."

"I need to ask you a question."

"Okay, what?”

“Is this a part of the whole act?" I ask, using air quotes with one hand.

"What?

"The act that you want me to participate in."

Suddenly, over the loudspeaker, we hear the producers call out, probably waking everyone up in the house, and say, "Savannah and Rhett, put your microphones back on."

Turning your microphones off in a reality TV show house is a big no-no. We were told this over and over.

"Is it part of the act?" I ask before reaching around to turn mine back on.

He looks at me. “Goodnight, Savannah,” he says, flipping onto his back.

He then closes his eyes and looks like a corpse. No other words are uttered for the rest of the night. I close my eyes, still staying on my left shoulder because I usually sleep on my side, and look at him, waiting for him to open his eyes. Waiting for him to nod his head and tell me that, yes, this is just part of the act that he wants us to do. The one where we pretend to be in a relationship.

But he never does. He never makes a move. He never says a word. And now I'm wondering: Does Rhett Jennings actually have feelings for me, or is he trying to do something so that we can get to the end of the competition?

If there's one thing I know about him, it's that he will do anything to win this. I can't trust what he's saying or what he's doing, and I have to remember that. Rhett Jennings was my rival and will always be my rival.

RHETT

I wake up earlier than Savannah and turn onto my shoulder to look at her. She is a beautiful woman, so delicate looking with her features, her little upturned nose, full lips, and freckles across the bridge of her nose. She also has them on her arms, but they're not dark. They're just noticeable enough to be adorable.

Her red hair is splayed over her white pillowcase, and she’s breathing quietly, unlike Maggie, who sounds like a chainsaw beside me. There's one thing for certain. This woman has no problems sleeping and letting everyone in the world know about it. But still, it doesn't break my concentration as I look at the sunlight starting to pour into the blinds on the window next to us and go right across Savannah's cheek.

I don't know what happened last night. The whole thing is a blur. I felt like I was about to kiss her. Connor interrupted us. I asked her about it and then was accused of faking it for the show.

Of course, there's no reason for her to believe otherwise. I told her I wanted to fake a relationship so we could get further in the game. Of course, she would think that's what I was doing, but unfortunately, that's not what I was doing.

I'm falling for Savannah, which is something I never thought I would hear myself say. If I had said it before, I probably would've checked myself in for a mental evaluation.

Savannah, the goody-two-shoes, always sunshine, always positive Savannah. Not my type at all.

I've never dated anyone like her, and I never planned to. I'm Rhett Jennings. I'm a curmudgeon. I'm a 31-year-old grouch. How in the world could I be interested in her, or she interested in me? Is she? Has she started playing the part without telling me? I don't know what's going on. The lines of reality and make-believe have gotten muddied together.

Everything's a blur. I don't know what to think, and I wish I could wipe away everything that happened in the last twelve hours, but right now, she’s asleep, and I'm watching her like a stalker. It's not like I can go anywhere. I'm chained to the woman. If I were standing in her doorway and we weren't chained together, that would be stalking, I tell myself. That would be weird, but this isn't weird at all.

As I'm thinking through all these things, she suddenly opens her eyes and looks at me, startled, like she forgot we were chained together.

"Good morning," I say, trying not to have any emotion in my voice whatsoever. Trying not to tell her that I can smell her shampoo. It smells like strawberries to match her hair color. I remember when I was younger, my friend's older sister had a Strawberry Shortcake doll from the '80s. You could still smell that strawberry smell in its hair. That's what Savannah smells like. She's like a grown-up human Strawberry Shortcake doll.

I probably shouldn't tell her that, but she does wear those cute little vintage aprons that she brought from home with things embroidered on them, including strawberries, so there is precedence for it.

"Good morning," she says, her voice groggy. It sounds about two octaves deeper. She clears her throat. "How long have you been watching me?"