10. 10
“ M arco!” Maya calls out, her eyes closed.
“Polo!” we all chorus back to her.
She spins in a circle toward Carmen’s voice that is closest to her. The stunning woman everyone treats like she’s personally trying to cure childhood cancer by working at a children’s hospital, tries to move slowly to avoid making noise. Maya lunges and Carmen squeals before slipping away in a flurry of waves. Maya tries to follow her, but she’s slightly disoriented with the echoes of the rest of us laughing and misses Carmen entirely.
“Marco,” she calls out again when she realizes her prey has slunk away to safer waters.
“Polo!”
“I don’t think I’ve played Marco Polo in about ten years. I forgot how much fun it is,” Zoey whispers, trying not to call Maya’s attention to us.
“I would have played almost anything today. I was getting really bored. I didn’t think about all the downtime included in this show,” I say.
Looking over at her, I notice a tendril of her blue hair has escaped her bun. Reaching over, I tuck it back up for her so it doesn’t dip into the chlorinated water. Dyed mere days before we came to the mansion, she doesn’t want it to fade too quickly since she’ll be unable to touch it up and that means avoiding the harsh chemicals in the pool. She considered asking for a swim cap on the first day but discarded the idea, sure they would include the footage in the show.
“I did and it was still what I expected. Did you hear about Olivia and Victoria’s fight the other day?”
“Which one?” I ask. While I have no desire to be a part of any drama, with no access to television, I’m desperate for entertainment. There are only so many games we can play.
She snorts as we move away from Maya, skirting around the edge of the pool. “Apparently little Miss Lawyer Barbie Victoria was screaming about Olivia breaking her four-hundred-dollar hair straightener and how she was going to take her to small claims court if she didn’t pay for it.”
“Why would a hair straightener cost four hundred dollars? What does it do one costing less than a hundred dollars doesn’t? It’d better give me a scalp massage at that price point,” I say.
“Fuck if I know, but Olivia ended up sitting on the floor crying about how she can’t be taken to court. ”
“Did someone tell her the likelihood Victoria will actually sue her is extremely low?”
“Once they could get her to uncurl from the ball she’d rolled up into, yes.”
“Boredom and this many different personalities isn’t exactly a great mix.”
“Maybe not, but it’s definitely entertaining. For those of us staying out of the drama, that is.” She lifts her hand out of the water for me to high-five as Maya finally catches someone, ending her turn as Marco.
“Oh my God!” Leslie squeals from her sun chair as Sam the Butler comes out with his usual silver domed tray.
“Pardon the interruption ladies, but some of your presences have been requested by Mr. Parker this evening.” His white glove clad hand grips the dome, pulling it off with a smooth, practiced grace.
Leslie rushes over, the gold bangles on her arms tinkling as she grabs the white envelope from the tray and rips it open.
“ Gorgeous ladies. I have been able to think about nothing other than seeing you all again. Will Anastasia, Carmen, Zoey, Leslie, and Maya please join me today? Your taste buds will never be the same ,” Leslie reads out.
“Looks like you and I are competing against each other today,” I say, grinning to my friend.
“As if I’d ever consider you competition,” she jokes as we lift ourselves from the pool.
The kitchen at the culinary school we are taken to is cold and clinical feeling compared to mine. Everything is perfect and pristine. There is no chip on the corner of the workbench from it being dropped when the installers were bringing it in. There are no stains from dye incidents. Everything matches. And everything is white or stainless steel.
“Ladies, today you will have one hour to create a home cooked meal for Parker. Whomever creates the best one will be the winner of a solo date,” Jacob Jacobson says, from the monitor on the wall.
We haven’t seen Jacob in person since the first night. Since Lucy was sent home after their solo date, the elimination was just a time for us all to hang out. My guess is most of these messages were recorded beforehand since he’s dressed in the same suit in them and eliminations are the only time he’s live.
“Parker, do you wish to say anything to the ladies before they begin?”
He stands before us in tight jeans and a black t-shirt, leaving his bulging biceps on display. His black boots are scuffed and well-worn while his wrists are littered with leather bands and simple beaded bracelets. There is one simple, metal ring around his middle finger. His blond hair is wavy and kind of a mess but he looks perfect.
The desire to snuggle into his broad chest is strong. But so is the desire to lick his neck.
Luckily, I have enough self-control to keep myself from doing both of those things.
But only just.
Two of the camera people move around, recording us and Parker from different vantage points. I keep my eyes glued to him, having been yelled at not to look in the camera one time too many.
“Ladies, I’m not terribly picky. All I ask is there is no cilantro. It tastes like soap and I will die on this hill,” he says, and I laugh .
Dominic has been telling me the exact same thing his entire life. I don’t agree, but I’ve gotten so used to cooking any meal without it, that it’s not something I have in any of my kitchens.
“On your marks. Get set,” Jacob says, pausing for dramatic effect. I hate to say it works, but my heart rate picks up noticeably as I feel like I’m standing on the starting line of a hundred-meter sprint. “Go!”
We’re off. Everyone scrambles around the kitchen, grabbing various ingredients and kitchen tools. While baking is my passion, cooking is a little different. Baking tends to be more precise than cooking. With cooking, a little extra of something can typically be dealt with while still having an edible result at the end. In baking, a result can be different because of something as simple as weighing your ingredients versus scooping them.
One of my favorite meals to make for Dominic whenever we want something comforting, delicious, and easy is a creamy sausage tortellini dish.
Making my way over to the ingredient area, I mentally run through the recipe. Heavy cream, tomato paste, sausage, various spices, and cheese filled tortellini. Normally, I would make the tortellini by hand, but with only an hour, I just don’t have time.
Production provided us baskets, but they are off to the side of the ingredient station and unnoticed by the majority of the women. I snatch one up, not wanting to make multiple trips, and begin shopping. The basket is heavy on my arm as I make my way to my cooking station.
Carmen is in the station next to me and already measuring things into a bowl, her perfectly chic outfit covered by an apron. After winning a one-on-one date with Parker during a group date a few days ago, she came home talking about how good of a kisser he is, I’ve been annoyed by her.
Her hair is too perfect.
Her face is too beautiful.
Her voice is too captivating.
In every way I can see, she’s perfect, and all I want to do is fake trip and spill a glass of wine down the front of her dress.
What’s even worse is Parker’s eyes are glued to her movements.
Pushing my childish thoughts from my mind, and ignoring the stunning man with his sharp eyes, I put on my apron and get to work. This is a recipe I don’t need a card for. It’s also one where precision isn’t required and things can, generally, be measured using my eye. After watching my mother make this dish all throughout our childhood, I know if I have the mixture correct based on the color of the sauce.
Once I have all the ingredients ready, twelve minutes have disappeared from the clock. A bead of sweat runs down the side of my face from both the heat of the stoves and ovens as well as the stress of the competition and wanting a chance to spend more solo time with Parker since night one.
I want to get to know the man Lore thought would make a good match for me.
My deep skillet sits on the stove warming over medium heat with a drizzle of oil, waiting for me to add the sliced sausage. As the meat cooks, I look at the other ladies.
Carmen is cool and collected as expected. On her other side, Zoey is a tornado of movement. I can’t tell from here what she’s making, but there’s a particular scent of burning coming from her pan as she turns the dial on the stovetop. On my other side, Leslie stirs at something in a pot. From what I can gather, it seems as if she’s making a soup of some sort.
On Leslie’s other side is Maya who, much like Zoey, is a blur of motion. But where Zoey feels chaotic, Maya feels like a performer hitting their mark, moving like the dancer she is.
Minutes tick by as we all finish making our dishes. As I finish spooning mine into the bowl, Jacob Jacobson comes onto the screen to announce our time has run out.
“Contestant number one, please present your dish to Parker,” Jacob says before the screen goes black once more.
Zoey picks up her plate, and carries it over to him with a grimace on her face. She sets the plate in front of Parker.
“Well, I tried to make fried chicken, but I don’t know if the oil was too hot or what. It shouldn’t be black.” She rubs at her forehead and I feel a little sorry for her.
“It looks great, Zoey. Thank you for making this for me,” Parker says with a gentle smile and a touch of her hand. His tenderness melts my insides and I try not to turn into a pile of goo on the floor.
Parker’s face shows nothing but enjoyment as he eats the overcooked chicken, soupy mashed potatoes, and soggy roasted broccoli. For each item, he finds something to compliment, and I melt even more at his treatment of my friend.
The chicken was moist.
The potatoes were well seasoned.
The broccoli had good flavor.
Despite knowing her food was lackluster, Zoey beams at him as he thanked her again for her effort .
The TV turns back on and Jacob calls for contestant number two, Carmen. She strides across the floor, not a hair out of place despite all the activity for the last hour.
“Darling, I made you my favorite things since I’ve moved to this country. A steak with honey sriracha Brussels sprouts.”
Her accent grates on my nerves as he tells her Brussels sprouts are his favorite vegetable now. Apparently, he hated them as a child with the passion of a thousand suns. Which seems completely reasonable to me.
As he compliments her on how amazing her food is, I wonder if I should have subverted expectations and done a dessert instead of a meal.
Desserts for me are a love language.
But, despite them being my living, they aren’t all I am. And that’s what I was trying to show with this dinner. Maya presents her dish as I continue to berate myself for not sticking to my strengths, but when my number is called, I let it go, unable to change the choice I made.
I walk over, and stare down at the simple bowl, letting my hair fall in my face.
“This is my mom’s famous one skillet tortellini dish. She makes it in the fall when all you want is comfort food,” I tell him, but keep my eyes down on the bowl I place it in front of him.
I can’t look at him when I share this meal with him. What if he doesn’t like it as much as my family does? Or what if it’s not fancy enough? I should have baked for him.
His large hand reaches out, but instead of grasping the bowl, his fingers barely grip my chin, raising it, forcing me to look at him .
He lets go, tucking one side of my hair behind my ear, his fingertips gently brushing my neck as he pulls back.
“Please don’t hide from me,” he whispers so no one can overhear us. But we are wearing microphones so no matter how private of a moment we might be having, I know it’s being recorded.
“Parker, you need to speak up,” a member of production instructs, but he ignores them.
“Sorry,” I say, a little embarrassed.
“I’m surprised you didn’t bake for me,” he says louder, trying to lighten the mood.
“I considered it, but I figure if you want to taste my baking, you’ll have to keep me here until the hometown dates.”
“Will you teach me to bake something if I do?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He nods and then grabs the fork, stabbing a few of the tortellini as well as a slice of sausage. Plopping the bite in his mouth, he hums as he chews and my face heats in pleasure.
“This is amazing. It reminds me so much of something my mom would make. The slight spice is really nice,” he says, taking another bite.
He’s only taken one bite of the other girl’s dishes so far, so I can feel myself preening under the compliment.
“That’s my brother’s and my favorite meal.”
“I can see why. Okay,” he says, setting the fork in the bowl and pushing it toward me, “you need to take this away from me. Thank you for cooking for me. And I’ll be holding you to your promise. ”
I grab up the dish and float across the room back to my station as Leslie goes last.
My mind races a mile a minute at the implications that if he expects to hold me to my promise, he intends to keep me until the hometown dates at least. Despite my desire to show off my bakery, my first thought is of getting to spend more time with Parker.
Metal chair legs screech across the floor as Parker pushes back and stands, shocking me out of my thoughts. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to run from this room and not hear his judgment. But my obligation to the show keeps my feet rooted in the spot like an aged oak tree.
“Thank you all again for such lovely meals. I know cooking for another person, especially a food that holds sentimental value to you, is a precious gift. Carmen, the technicality of your dish won me over. Will you do me the honor of going on a date with me?”
Hope sours into hurt and I have to quickly avert my tear pricked eyes. For the first time during this entire endeavor, I realize that I am not the only person vying for Parker’s attention.
And how much I want that attention for myself.
“I’d love to,” Carmen tells him and at his smile, I die.