Page 73 of The Baking Games

"I feel pretty groggy," I say, still struggling to get my eyes to stay open. I use my free hand to rub one of them. "But all in all, not too bad."

"When you said you were a lightweight, I didn't truly believe you until I carried you to your bed."

I scrunch my nose. "You had to carry me to my bed?"

"You were a little woozy."

"I'm so sorry. I don't normally drink that much. If I didn't know better, I would've thought somebody spiked my drink with something."

"Yeah, I think that was all you, Sunny."

I laugh. "Well, at least you get away from me today."

"It hasn't been so bad.”

We both slowly sit up, me because my head is still swimming a little bit and him because he's trying to make sure I don't fall off the bed. We're facing each other, and there's something different. I can't put my finger on what it is. The night starts to come back to me. The last few days. The slow dance in the kitchen. Did something happen last night? What if we kissed, and I don't even remember it? That makes me feel sad. What did I say to him? I vaguely remember us talking before I fell asleep, but I can't remember any of it.

“So, I guess we’d better be ready for the main challenge tonight,” he says after a few moments.

"Yeah, I think that's why I drank all the wine."

"You'll do fine. You're getting better and better at each challenge."

"Are you giving me a compliment?" I say teasingly.

"You're very talented, Sunny. You shouldn't downplay that."

"Thank you. And for what it's worth, it hasn't been so bad being chained to you, either. I thought it would be the worst time of my life."

He chuckles. "Well, that makes me feel good."

Before we can continue, one of the producers walks in with a key and holds it up.

"Congratulations, you both made it to seventy-two hours. Oh, turn on your mic packs before we film this."

I look at Rhett with a confused expression. "Our mic packs? Why are they off?"

"I asked producers to turn them off last night."

"Why?"

"Well, you were a little vulnerable in your predicament. I didn't want them showcasing that across national television."

Something in my heart swells up. It's like that part in the Grinch cartoon that I watched growing up at Christmas time when his heart suddenly swells up; that's what this feels like. Rhett protected me when I couldn't protect myself. He made sure the mic was off and that nobody was using my vulnerability against me. Who does that?

"You made them turn the mics off?"

"Yeah," he says, shrugging his shoulders.

I reach across and put my hand on his knee.

"Thank you," I whisper, making eye contact with him.

He nods slightly. "No problem."

We both reach around and turn our microphones back on. The producer unlocks the handcuffs while the cameraman zooms in on our wrists. Within seconds, we're free.

Free of each other. No longer forced to do everything together. No longer sleeping next to each other at night.

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