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“I am. You must be Elle.” I reach out a hand for a shake, but she takes it between both of hers and clasps it.
“I am,” she agrees, a huge smile curling her cherry-stained lips upward. “This is Gail, she’s our instructor today, but we actually went to culinary school together. Isn’t that wild?” I smile, sticking out a hand to shake Gail’s when she offers it.
I turn to introduce Holley too, but by the time I’m done exchanging pleasantries with Gail, Holley’s retreated to the very back corner of the room.
I frown at her, but she waves me off, mouthing, “It’s fine.”
I frown harder at the word, so she rolls her eyes and smiles, pointing at her mouth with a finger as if to say, “See?”
When Elle grabs my arm and drags me around to the other side of the table, I have no choice but to take my eyes off Holley and focus on the dish we’re making for the day.
It’s steak with a garlic demi-glace and fajita corn and potatoes. Safe to say, I don’t know how to make that one, so I do my best to pay attention. Elle is extremely flirty and affectionate, and while those are normally markers of a good date, I have to admit, on this one, I’m left feeling inexplicably uncomfortable.
She’s very pretty, well-spoken, and intelligent, and yet, I couldn’t be less into her if I were an inanimate object.
When we get the sauce or demi-glace or whatever-the-hell-it-is together, Gail steps out of the room momentarily to take a phone call, and we each take turns testing our product.
I put the tasting spoon to my mouth and take a taste, but when I pull it away, Elle makes a face pretty much immediately.
“Oh,” Elle says with a laugh, pointing at my lips and then the bottom of hers. “You have something right…there.”
I reach up to wipe away whatever food remnant is there, but she takes over, pushing my hand out of the way gently and offering, “Let me.”
Next thing I know, her lips are on mine.
I’m shocked, so shocked that I don’t pull back immediately, and she grabs on to my head to try to deepen the kiss.
What the fuck?
We’re kissing. Well, she is kissing me. For my part, I don’t do much else besides stand there in shock, giving my best impression of a dead fish, until I gently put an end to her lips’ attempts at slipping her tongue into my mouth.
Without delay, a pit of inexplicable guilt grows roots in my stomach and sets my mind to swirling.
How in the hell did that happen so fast?
I don’t know, but in this case, what I do know is even more troubling—Holley is watching.HolleyI scoop my notebook and phone into my bag in a rush, knowing without a doubt that I have to get out of here. I don’t know the reasons, and I don’t want to know them.
I don’t want to think about Elle’s lips on Jake’s at all—not for the rest of my life.
Sure, I’ll have to face it at some point when it comes to writing the article—it’s too important a milestone for Bachelor Anonymous to leave out—but I’ll do it when I’m good and entrenched in the solace of my dark, moody townhouse with half a bottle of wine in my veins. Not in the bright lights of this state-of-the-art chef’s kitchen.
Not where other people can see me, and not where there’s this much stuff available to emotionally binge eat.
I wave casually at Jake and Elle—Ha. Ha-ha-ha, have to go—and make a charge for the door, but by the time I get there and get my hand wrapped around the handle, Jake grabs me by the elbow and pulls me through a side door, into an abandoned hallway.
“Holley?”
“What’s up?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can manage while completely out of breath, as though the two of us aren’t displaying any behavior that’s at all out of the ordinary.
“Where are you going?” he questions in response.
“Home. Sorry to take off without saying goodbye, but it looked like it was going well, and I, well, I really have to get home and write this article since the last date is tomorrow and the big reveal party was moved up an entire week. Can’t get behind, you know?”
His eyes narrow, so I blather on.
“I also think I might have had some iffy meat at lunch. My stomach isn’t really agreeing with me.”
He considers me closely before letting go of my elbow. “We normally go somewhere. Talk about the date afterward.”
“I know,” I say with a fake wince. “And I’d love to. But I really don’t feel well.”
“Do you want me to take you home?” he asks then, his eyebrows drawn together in concern.
I shake my head—almost violently. “No, no! Go on back in. Finish your date! I’ll be fine.” His eyes narrow again on my word choice, and I rush to correct myself. “Good! Good, I’ll be good.”
