Page 65 of The Baking Games

"It depends. Fast dance or slow dance?"

My heart speeds up a bit. "Either."

"I'm not so good at fast dancing. I don't think I was given the gift of rhythm, but I love to slow dance. It's been a long time since I've gotten to do it, of course. What about you? Do you like to dance?"

"I have to say I'm pretty good at fast dancing."

"Really? Rhett Jennings is good at fast dancing? I feel like I need to see proof of this."

Am I brave enough? Apparently so, because I jump down off the counter and walk over to the small radio in the corner of the kitchen. I don't know why it's here. I guess it gives us something to listen to without our phones, although it only goes to music channels. Somehow, they've managed to make it so that you can't access any of the news channels because they want us sequestered from the outside world.

I turn it on an 80s station until I find a song that meets my need for dancing. Ironically, the song is Whitney Houston's “I Wanna Dance With Somebody”.

"Come on, you have to try it with me," I say.

She shakes her head. "Absolutely not."

"I'm not going to dance alone."

"Fine," she says, jumping down. “But, I warned you, I'm not a good dancer."

"It doesn't matter. If I'm doing it, you have to do it."

Finally, she relents, and we start dancing around the kitchen. The more I dance, the more she dances, and the more we laugh. Every time I'm around her, I laugh.

I wonder how I went through culinary school without realizing that Savannah is very fun and nice. Maybe I was just too focused on myself. Maybe I was just too focused on school. But for some reason, being chained to her has been the most fun I've had in years. I'm kind of dreading them taking us apart. I know she doesn't want to hang out with me twenty-four hours a day. Who would? So she will go back to talking to everybody else, and I will be by myself yet again, trying to fit in a world where I don't think I really fit in.

I try not to think about any of it while we continue dancing and laughing. She's really not a bad dancer. She might think that she is, but I think it's cute.

Lord, I have got to stop saying things like this to myself. Am I really convincing myself that I'm falling for Savannah? I'm trying to have a fake relationship with her, even though she hasn't agreed to that yet.

It's not real. It's not real. It’s not real.

I keep telling myself that over and over. This is all pretend on my end, and she's just being nice. I can't think of it as anything else. In a few weeks, if we're lucky, when we leave this house, I probably won't ever even talk to her again. We don't live in the same area. We don't do the same kinds of things. We don't hang around with the same kinds of people. Well, I don't really hang around with any people. I can't convince myself that this is going somewhere.

Maybe it's better that we don't have a fake relationship. Maybe she's right about that, but I can't tell if she's pretending or just being nice. It's definitely not that she has real feelings. She's told everybody who will listen that I'm her rival, that we hate each other, but do we? Maybe I'm overly tired, but the lines are becoming blurred. Finally, the song ends, and we're both breathless and laughing.

"I told you I couldn't dance!”

"I thought you did a pretty good job. I mean, I don't think you'd win any competitions for that, so it's probably a good idea that you can bake well."

As soon as the song ends, “Careless Whisper” by Wham comes on the radio. A slow song. I don't know what to do. Before I can decide, she reaches her hand out.

"Let's see if you can slow dance."

SAVANNAH

I don't know what I was thinking. My heart races as I look at Rhett, this ridiculous man I’m chained to for a reality show. I keep telling myself that he's just acting, playing a game to win over the audience back home.

But he took my invitation to slow dance seriously. I don't know why I said it. I just suddenly blurted it out. I think I'm getting way too comfortable here. He slowly pulls me toward him, and I can feel the lines between reality and make-believe starting to blur.

"So you think you can slow dance better than me, huh?" Rhett says with a teasing smile. His warm breath tickles my cheek.

I can't help but notice how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. I have the urge to reach up and smooth away the laugh lines. There's something so disarming about his expression right now, and I can feel my stomach fluttering.

"I know I can," I say, trying to keep my voice light and playful, hyper-aware that people at home are watching us right now. Deep down, I want nothing more than to get lost in his embrace, to feel his strong and steady presence. But there's something different about him at this moment that I’ve never seen before: a softness, a vulnerability. I wonder if he knows it's visible.

As the music fills the kitchen, he begins to sway gently, his hand resting on the small of my back. Electricity shoots through me as I feel him touch me, and I resist the urge to lean in closer and closer to press my body against his.

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