Page 49 of The Baking Games

“I’m sure there is, but if we do that, we’ll have five loads to clean all the dishes. I think we should put in a load and wash the rest by hand.”

I sigh. “I’ll dry.”

He chuckles. “How did I know you’d pick that?”

“Then why give me a choice? Of course, I’m going to pick the one that doesn’t involve me sticking my hands in dirty water where other people’s food is floating.”

“They have these things called gloves, you know?”

We walk into the kitchen, and everyone is gone. They’re all out in the courtyard playing pool, chatting, or sitting in the hot tub. I wish I was with them.

Rhett plugs the sink and turns on the water to allow it to fill up. He squirts some blue dish soap into the water and then hands me a dish towel.

“I need a snack,” I say, looking up and down the countertops. Maybe I’m procrastinating a bit but doing dishes has always been something I abhor. It’s Sadie’s job in our apartment.

“You’ll do anything to avoid these dishes, won’t you?”

I bump my shoulder into his side. “I’m hungry. Open that cabinet and see if there are any chips.”

He rolls his eyes. “For such a tiny woman, you sure like junk food. You’ve risked your life for it once already.”

“What can I say? It’s my only vice.”

Begrudgingly, Rhett walks away from the sink and opens the corner cabinet, reaching high up and feeling around for my prized snack selection.

“There’s nothing here but a box of raisins and a package of stale cookies,” he says, pulling each of them out of the cabinet and examining them. I rise onto my tiptoes and look around his hulking body for proof.

“So, no chips?”

“You need to see a nutritionist.”

Just as I’m thinking of a witty retort, I feel something under my bare foot. Water?

As if in slow motion, we both turn around and see a mountain of bubbles in the sink that almost covers the window, looking out over the courtyard. There’s water pouring over the side of the sink and onto the floor.

“Oh no!” I screech as Rhett immediately rushes toward the faucet to turn it off. But we’re attached by a chain, and he yanks me along with him. My bare feet slip from under me, and I fall toward the floor. Rhett manages to hit the faucet handle with his hand, turning it off, before he topples to the floor with me, landing right on top of me.

Having the wind knocked out of you by a giant man isn’t something I’d recommend.

“Ouch!” I yell. He looks down at me, shock written all over his face, and then pushes up onto his forearms.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say, breathless. That’s when I realize Rhett is on top of me. All of him. I can feel his chest heaving, his heart pounding. I can feel his warmth and taut muscles. All of it is good. My face flushes, giving my thoughts away.

“I guess we should get up,” he says. Well, it was more of a whisper. Like one of those hot, sexy whispers in a movie.

“I guess we should.”

Neither of us moves. How have I never noticed those little flecks of green around his blue eyes? Or how naturally pink his lips are? Or how he has this little scar just over his right eyebrow that I want to know the story of?

Finally, Rhett adjusts his body and makes it up onto his hip. All of this is harder due to the stupid chain that connects us. I feel like I need to escape. Get away from whatever these feelings are. Maybe I just need to get on one of those dating apps and have more male interaction, so when a good-looking guy falls on top of me, I don’t go to places I shouldn’t in my mind.

I don’t like Rhett. In fact, he annoys me in ways I can’t imagine anyone else would. He gets under my skin like pieces of fiberglass.

I don’t like Rhett.

“I’m going to try to get up. You stay here until I get my footing,” he says.

---