Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cam
I’m feeling calm this morning as I get dressed.
Yesterday surprised me. Hell, really, it was Fletcher that surprised me.
He’s not the monster I thought he was and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Or maybe he is and I’m being fooled. I don’t know which way is up.
I feel like I’ve fallen down some crazy rabbit hole and the universe is upside down.
I check my phone and there’s a message from the apartment group chat and Max. I check the one from Max first.
Max: Good luck with your business endeavor today. Hope it goes well!
I smile and check the group chat.
Drew: If those judges don’t vote for you, I’m coming out there and kicking some asses.
Al: They’ll win. I know it.
Margie: Good luck from Cornelia and me!
Carly: Don’t kill your assistant and good luck!
I grin.
Roxy: Good luck from everyone at the bookstore and Gray. He’s in a sound studio all day.
Bray: The emergency room says good luck!
I giggle.
Troy: Jessa and I wanted to say good luck too!
Kasen: I know how to take down a studio production’s web access if you need me to.
Piper: Kasen! Don’t listen to him! Good luck!
I shake my head.
Hutch: (photo of flowers on the bench) Today’s flowers are for you!
God, I love my neighbors. A text comes in from my family chat.
Winston: Good luck!
Mom: You’ll do great!
Dad: Go get ’em, kiddo!
With a smile on my face, I walk into the hallway and glance toward Fletcher’s bedroom. The door is cracked open. I heard him come out earlier to grab breakfast from the tray of goodies that were brought to our suite.
I’m about to call out that I’m heading down to get set up for the day when suddenly movement draws my attention closer to the open door.
And then…abs. Holy shit! So many abs. What the hell does this man do at the gym?
He looks like the business version of Kasen.
I mean, I’ve seen photos of him online, but in the flesh, he looks even better.
A memory pops into my brain as my jaw falls open.
“If the men in our building were Ken dolls, what would their Ken doll name be?” Drew asks as he sips his margarita while lounging on our sofa.
I laugh. “You are ridiculous. You know that?”
He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Play along. Don’t piss off the Queen.”
I laugh again and set my martini down on the side table next to my favorite reading chair. “OK. Well, Bray is obviously Doctor Ken. And Kasen is, of course, Soldier Ken,” I start.
“No way. Kasen is Spy Ken or like Undercover Ops Ken,” Drew declares and I snort with laughter.
“OK. Gray is Composer Ken,” I say and Drew nods.
“Oh, and with his body, Hutch is Viking Ken,” he states.
“But he’s not a Viking,” I protest, getting into this game more than I should.
“Fine, he can be Football Ken,” Drew says with a sigh.
I nod. “Al is Grandpa Ken.”
We both nod in agreement.
“Troy is Dad Ken,” he adds.
“What about me?” he asks as he swirls his drink and then finds the part of the glass lip that still has salt and licks it.
I give him a pointed look and he laughs. “I am not Gay Ken.”
“Why not? And I wasn’t even thinking that. I mean, not really,” I tease with a sheepish grin. I’d otherwise never tease any of my other friends like this, but Drew and I have been through so much together and I know talking about that topic is tough for him, even now.
He glares at me.
“I love you,” I tell him because even if we joke with each other, I need him to know that I will always have his back.
“I know,” he says like a petulant child.
“How about…hear me out…Fashion Ken?” I suggest.
He purses his lips and furrows his brows. “Doesn’t that already, like, exist?”
I shrug. “Who cares?”
“I care. I want a unique Ken name,” he protests.
“Fine, you can be Diva Ken,” I say as I narrow my eyes.
He cocks his head to one side and laughs. “OK, I can live with that.”
We both laugh and then sit smiling at each other. “Now, what Barbie am I?”
My mind whips back to reality. I live in a world of Ken dolls. How are all the men in my life so fit? What the hell? I never gave that a lot of thought, but now as I watch Fletcher pull a shirt over his head, I’m left drooling and contemplating all the abs in my life.
“Business Ken,” I whisper.
His gaze abruptly shifts to the crack in the door and we stare at each other as he finishes pulling his shirt over his head. I’m not sure what he’s thinking but a part of me that is in desperate need of sex is most definitely thinking about licking those abs and other things.
I’ve been caught red-handed, ogling my business partner. Partner? Yeah, I guess I’ll go with that for now.
“You ready?” I ask, finally breaking the silence and hoping my face isn’t as red as I think it might be.
“Yes. Let’s go,” he replies while his lips twitch and I know he’s trying not to smirk. That smug bastard knows he’s good-looking.
I spin on my heels and head out the door, a small part of me wishing that damn saltshaker was in my pocket. But instead, I have its twin and that will have to do for today.
As we approach the tent, cameramen are moving equipment.
I trip on a wire and I feel Fletcher’s hand on my hip, holding me steady.
Once I’m upright and stable, he moves his hand to the small of my back, guiding me through the chaos to our station.
It’s a small thing. It’s a gentlemanly thing. But it feels more than that.
When we reach our station, I shake the weird feeling I have. There’s nothing between us. We’ve been thrust into a situation where we have to work together, and when it’s over, we’ll part ways and go back to being rivals. All will be right with the world.
Only, when I think about that future, it doesn’t seem right. Can I hate Fletcher again? It feels wrong.
Fletcher grabs my apron from the hook where I left it and hands it to me before grabbing the second one. We all have aprons with the show’s logo on them.
And then, just like that, we start prepping. The filming starts mid-morning, and every time I feel like I’ve done something wrong, Fletcher is right there, encouraging me. We get the cookies in the oven and start cleaning up our workstation. It’s unnerving doing it with a camera in your face.
My face falls and I go still when I realize I didn’t set the timer. Shit!
I quickly go to the oven and turn the light on, peering inside. I can’t tell.
“What’s wrong?” Fletcher whispers in my ear, his strong body pressed to my back.
“I forgot to set the timer,” I admit. I feel tears threaten.
His hand wraps around my upper arm and his thumb gives it the smallest rub. “It’s alright. I set a timer on my watch as a backup. We have three minutes to go.”
I immediately feel my shoulders relax.
I turn to face him. “I owe you…something,” I manage.
He smirks and I roll my eyes. “Seriously? Do men not think of anything else?” I hiss, keeping my voice low in the off chance a boom with a microphone is nearby. Thank God we don’t have microphones attached to us at the moment.
He shrugs. “Sometimes.”
I roll my eyes again but then meet his gaze. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He smiles. “I’m trying to be a good assistant. Now, let’s get the frosting station ready.”
I nod. His timer goes off and I pull the cookies out to cool. They look…perfect. Thank God!
He knocks my hip with his. “We did good, right?”
I grin at him. “We did. These look great. Let’s just hope they taste as good as they look.”
I check the timer and set a fan in front of the cookies. We don’t have any time to spare. “Give them one more minute to cool and then we have to get frosting,” I state as I double-check our frosting.
I nod when I touch them. “They’re ready.
Let’s get going,” I command as we start icing the cookies.
I taught him my technique yesterday and he has picked it up quickly.
Before I know it, all three dozen cookies are done.
I place them in the fridge for two minutes to set the frosting a bit and then we arrange them on the platter.
Our hands keep bumping into each other’s, and as I set the last one down next to his, I feel his finger run along mine with intent. I look up at him.
“Win or lose, we did good,” he states.
“You think?” I ask as I glance at our plate of cookies. I placed some decorative touches on the plate and it does look nice.
“I know,” he insists and then gives a small chuckle.
“What?” I ask.
“Who would have guessed we’d make such a great team?” he confesses and I giggle.
“Not me,” I admit as we both laugh.
The judges come around and sample each plate after we give a brief presentation of our cookies. I can’t read them at all and I feel my palms sweating at my sides.
Just as they go to announce the winner of the round and which team will go home this week, Fletcher’s hand wraps around mine and squeezes.
His palm is sweaty too and I squeeze it back.
This is crazy. How am I going to survive being this close to him for two more weeks without my growing crush turning into something more?
I need to keep my head on straight. Falling for my rival and mortal enemy is not an option.