Page 27 of The Twelve Days of Christian
“Not yet,” Rachel says, but her intense gaze, and the determined set of her jaw, tell me she’s going to do her best. The challenge has piqued her interest, even if meeting it means getting a scumbag like me off the hook.
“How about I start dinner?” I suggest.
I’ve prepped for the three of us. Hopefully Rachel likes steak. I retrieve the chunky slab of best fillet from the fridge, finding a spot on the worktop so it can come up to room temperature. Tucking it safely out of reach of marauding dogs, I begin to assemble the ingredients for a simple but impressive red wine jus. I ordered in a heap of vegetables, in case she’s not a carnivore like me and Haley. Plying her with good food might ease her distaste for the task at hand.
“I’ll help,” Haley offers. “Leave Rachel to work her magic, eh?”
I’m not sure Rachel is the answer to my prayers. Only one page into the contract, she muttered about it looking watertight. Still, I’d rather take my chances with her than Megan and her mates, who’ll only try to bully me into doing what’s best for others, even if it’s not good for me.
But working in the kitchen alongside Haley takes the edge off my gloomy mood. Even if Rachel fails to save me, having her here has delivered an opportunity to do something so ordinary, but at the same time, special: cook dinner alongside Haley. What I’d give to be doing this every night when we’re not on the road. To have Haley arrive home, share a glass of wine together, talk about nothing and everything while we make dinner.
I’m not giving up on that possibility. The thought of that kiss still dances seductively in my head, but I’m scared to raise it with Haley. Best to leave that to her; to choose when—or if.
Ollie’s kitchen is spacious and well-equipped, with wide worktops and sleek cabinetry, two sets of gas hobs and two ovens. While there’s room for both of us to work in here without ever colliding, we gravitate to the centre, drawn to each other. The task provides an excuse to flirt with the tantalising nearness of her, and it feels as if she wants it too. The relaxed brush of her body past mine, as we dance back and forth, peeling and chopping, measuring and stirring, mesmerises me. I tingle all over as she leans past me to pull open a drawer, her fingers grazing my hip.
I offer her a taste of the jus, and the sight of her dainty tongue lapping at the spoon has me regretting it immediately. I force my brain to retrieve useless information. I recite the monarchs of England since 1066, the names and dates of Henry the Eighth’s wives, the names of Shakespeare’s tragedies and then move onto thecomedies—anything to damp down all the messages my body is sending; anything to drive away the taunting images of Haley; the ones that invade my dreams and now seem to have braved my waking hours. I fail, but at least the apron I tied on covers the physical evidence of my arousal.
She gives me shit the whole time, bantering with me as if she doesn’t believe I can really cook, even though two pretty damn good meals the previous two nights prove otherwise. It’s playful and flirty, and I lap it up like a cat with a bowl of fresh cream.
“Better hold the steak. These are still hard.” Haley leans into the oven, stabbing viciously at the tray of roast vegetables with a knife. The sight of that sweetly curved arse pointing in the air captures my gaze, and I jerk my eyes away just in time as she slams the oven door and turns to face me. “I told you twenty minutes wouldn’t be enough.”
“Are you always so right about everything?” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Always. Especially in the kitchen.” She pokes my chest with a pointy little finger, trying to look bossy.
I adopt a hurt expression. “You don’t like my cooking, then?” I pout.
“Lose the puppy dog eyes, Christian,” she says, attempting to suppress a giggle, and failing when I respond by exaggerating my down-turned mouth. God, it’s like the music of angels to my ears, the sound of her unbridled happiness. What I’d give to hear that every day of my life.
“Send that puppy dog in here.” Rachel’s voice has an edge of excitement to it.
I pull the pan off the gas element and try to walk casually. Haley isn’t so restrained, dumping the knife inthe sink and running to Rachel’s side. I join her, staring down at the lines of black print that hold me prisoner.
“Right,” Rachel says, a smug smile lighting her face. “I think I’ve found a loophole. Yes, you might have to take a risk, be prepared to defend it in court, but it might not come to that.”
My heart races, the blood roaring with possibility.
“So, you want to spill some dirt on these guys?” she asks.
I nod. “People deserve to know what really happened.”
“OK. Butyou’renot allowed to talk about why you were asked to leave—”
“Chose to leave,” I spit.
“Settle down, Christian,” she commands. “I’m not the enemy here.”
I swallow. “Sorry.”
“OK,” she says, pointing at the document on the screen. “First, you were right, you can’t leave this house. Not until the day of the live show, next Thursday. That’s still a whole week away. Anyone catches you breaking that condition and they’ll sue your arse.”
Hayley’s panicked eyes meet mine across Rachel’s head. I smile reassuringly and give a little shake of my head. I don’t want her to feel bad about what she asked of me. I have no regrets about risking those two trips to the vets. I’d do it again without hesitation if I had to; for her, for Tully, no matter what.
Rachel scrolls down some more. “And it’s very clear, in this clause—you can’t talk about why they asked you to—why youchoseto leave. They’ve got that sewn up tight.” She trails a finger down the contract, pausing to reread each numbered clause.
“But,” she bites at her lip, her chin resting on one hand, “there doesn’t seem to be anything in here that prevents you talking aboutother contestants. Or them talking about you. I’m at a loss as to why they’ve left it out. It could be an oversight, which is kind of surprising given the money these guys would spend on contracts—”
Haley interrupts. “I bet it’s not.” There’s a small satisfied grin on her face. Rachel and I sport twin questioning frowns. We obviously have something in common—unlike Haley, neither of us are regular consumers of reality TV.
