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“Evie Reynolds,” the Amazon says, offering her hand. “You pick a workstation yet, Bailey?” I shake my head. “Come on,” she says, tipping her head in the direction of the stage.
The competition’s been set up with small groups of five workstations each, each arranged around a set of shelves containing ingredients and equipment. Stations don’t appear to be preassigned, but I guess Evie got here early enough to choose one up close to the action.
She leads me all the way up near the front, almost to the stage itself.
“That’s mine,” she says, pointing at a station covered in pink glitter. Neither of the stations alongside hers appear to be claimed so I set my folder down, claiming the one next to Evie’s.
“Seriously though,” says Evie as she dusts off her hands. “What’s that chick’s problem? You owe her money or something?”
“It’s not that,” I say, laughing. “She kind of has a thing for this guy I’m, um, seeing.”
“Ah,” Evie says, a knowing look coming over her face. “Say no more. Not a great way to start the competition though.”
“Yeah, probably not,” I say. A thought occurs to me. Shit. “Oh, God. What if she’s one of the judges?”
“Nah,” says Evie, holding up a hand to block the sun from her eyes as she looks up at the stage. She points to the far end. “See the table there at the end? Those seats for are the judges. If the bitch isn’t up there already, you’re in the clear.”
Sure enough, all four seats at the table are occupied, the judges chatting and smiling, no Mila in sight.
“Lucky break,” I say, laughing nervously. Evie gives me a warm smile.
“First time competing?” she asks.
“Isn’t it everybody’s?” I ask. It’s the first year the network’s held any kind of competition as far as I know. Evie shakes her head.
“It’s Sizzle’s first, maybe,” she says. “But a lot of these people here have competed in cooking shows and demos locally for a long time.”
“Have you competed before?” I ask her. Evie nods.
Double shit.
“Don’t sweat it,” says Evie. “It’s supposed to be fun, isn’t it?”
“Isn’t that what the losers always say?” I say before I can think better of it. Evie snorts and I slap a hand over my mouth. “That was rude of me, I’m sorry.”
“Girl,” says Evie, cracking up. “We’re gonna get along just fine.”
“Contestants! Choose your stations quickly, please,” comes a familiar voice over the loudspeaker. “We’ll begin the first round in approximately fifteen minutes. Again, please choose your stations quickly.”
I look up at the stage and there’s Drew front and center, holding a microphone. He secures the mic back into its stand and sets his hands on his hips, scanning the crowd. Looking for what, I’m not sure.
God, he looks good. It’s not like I didn’t know that. It’s not like it’s news to me that he’s good-looking. Hell, I wanted him when I first met him, did I not? But now there’s all this history…damn near ten years of being friends. All that water under the bridge of our friendship. I can’t let one fake kiss as his fake girlfriend on one fake date ruin that, can I?
I told him that kiss didn’t mean anything. I had to, didn’t I? He matters too much. I don’t know what the hell would I do without him, and since the surest way for me to get rid of a man is to get involved with him, that means Drew is off-limits.
Off. Limits.
Just then he catches sight of me. Drew’s arms drop to his sides and I watch his chest rise as he sucks in a breath, straining his T-shirt at its seams.
“Hot damn,” breathes Evie. “Friend of yours?”
“The best,” I say, and leave it at that.
I shake my head and turn back to my table, forcing myself to focus on the layout. The first round requires cooking with a surprise ingredient. I tried to focus on recalling every TV cooking competition I’ve ever seen, mentally cataloguing all the weird surprise ingredients I can remember from those shows. Mostly, though, I’m ignoring Drew for all I’m worth. Maybe it’s shitty of me to have blown him off all week, but really. A girl can only take so much rejection, even if it comes from a well-meaning friend.
Besides, technically I’m the one who kicked him out, so if anybody should be feeling rejected, it’s Drew. Right? Which makes no sense and dwelling on it only makes me more tense.
Time to focus, girl.
