How to Lose a Bachelor Read online

  But Rochelle had risen above all that, the pain and humiliation. She had picked herself up from the proverbial floor, finished college, then law school, and went on to start an amazing career. At twenty-nine, she was in a prime position to make partner soon. She’d worked her butt off, finding strength in the fact that she could leave the past in the past. That she could overcome insignificant obstacles like Grant Drake.

  Heck, she had become an obstacle-devouring beast.

  Except that now, with the insignificant obstacle himself sitting a few feet away from her, she felt like a certifiable lunatic on the verge of a meltdown. And “meltdown” was not in her vocabulary.

  “I’m waiting,” Richie said after what seemed like an eternity.

  Grant cleared his throat. “Chelle and I—”

  “Do not call me Chelle.” Grant was the only person who ever called her Chelle, and she used to love it. Now she despised the sound of it on his lips—and what it did to her heartbeat.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grant pause and look at her. He recovered quickly, just like he always had. Calm, collected Grant. Except when she unleashed her tongue on certain parts of his body.

  Stop that. Immediately.

  “Rochelle and I dated in college,” Grant continued, oblivious. “We… Things were left on bad terms.”

  Bad terms? Understatement of the millennium. Still, she was glad he didn’t want to restate the facts. The facts could still drive her mad to this day. She remembered the way he’d broken up with her. His indifference. No, she didn’t want to relive that. She couldn’t bear to hear him say he’d fallen out of love with her. Not again.

  Richie watched them closely, pressing his fingertips together. “So you two have a colorful past.”

  “Imagine the rainbow and all the colors in between,” she said.

  The corner of Richie’s mouth tugged up. “Still hard feelings, I see.”

  “It was a difficult breakup,” Grant said diplomatically.

  She shot him an “are-you-serious” glare, before looking back at Richie. “I assume this disqualifies me from the show. I’m happy to take my leave.”

  She started to rise, but Richie held out his hand. “Not necessarily, Ms. Ransom.”

  “Actually it does. I’m an attorney, Mr. Odom. I read contracts carefully. It specifically says—”

  “Grant, could you excuse us for just a moment?” Richie said. “I’d like to discuss the circumstances with Ms. Ransom privately.”

  “Of course.” Since when was Grant the epitome of politeness? But she recognized the wariness in his voice. He probably doesn’t want me to relate all the morbid details of that night. Rest assured, I won’t, Grant Drake. I don’t want to relive it either.

  After Grant closed the door behind him, Richie offered her a sympathetic smile. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through right now.”

  She raised her chin just a bit. “I’m fine.”

  “With all due respect, Ms. Ransom, you don’t look fine. I mean, you dropped your champagne glass when you saw Grant walk through the door.”

  “I was shocked to see him. Surely you can understand that?” She’d been shocked and outraged and in need of something more stout than a swallow or two of champagne.

  Richie leaned back, assessing her. She didn’t like the look in his eyes. Richie Odom might have been the dense, Hollywood type, but she’d seen this kind of calculating expression before—and it was usually worn by defense attorneys right before they sprang a surprise witness on the courtroom, or requested to admit a piece of evidence that hadn’t been previously discussed.

  Something despicable had unfurled in Richie’s little brain, she could tell. And she hoped he’d reveal his intentions soon. She had a cab to catch to the airport, after all.

  After a few more moments of scrutiny, Richie said, “Why did you try out for Luring Love, Ms. Ransom? And don’t tell me you did it to find true love. No one in their right mind resorts to a dating show for that nonsense.”

  “You don’t believe in what you’re selling?”

  He ignored her question, instead sifting through pages on the thin tablet in his hand. She knew what he was looking for when he pressed an index finger on the screen then opened his hand to widen the view. He took a long moment to read, probably just to keep her in suspense. “You’re a successful corporate attorney, which at your age, means you’re an over-achiever. You definitely don’t have time for love, do you, Ms. Ransom?”

  “I have a strong work ethic.” But he had nailed it, and they both knew it. She worked twelve-hour days during the week, then took her work home with her on the weekends. She barely had time to brush her teeth.

  He read another page. “You’ve already made a name for yourself in the court circuit, and you apparently have more work than you can handle, so you’re definitely not on the show for more publicity. Let’s see here…” He scanned through a few screens, then paused on one. “Ah-ha. You volunteer at Helping Hands women’s shelter. Oh, you’re the president! Trying to bring attention to your cause, then? A warrior against domestic violence?”

  Maybe, but she still wanted to punch him in the face right then. “You could say that.”

  He pursed his lips, then opened the laptop on his desk and plucked at the keyboard. After a few seconds, he turned back to her, facing the laptop in her direction. “It says here that Helping Hands is trying to raise money for a new housing facility in a better part of town. You’re in it for the grand prize money, Ms. Ransom. You’re going to donate it, aren’t you?”

  “Which, if I remember correctly, also disqualifies me from the show.” The contract had specified that the contestant must be emotionally and physically available to find their soul mate in order to participate in the show. The grand prize money was intended strictly for the couple’s enjoyment—wedding, vacation, honeymoon, and other senseless things. A fact that, until now, Rochelle was confident she could talk her way out of. If the bachelor was any kind of decent man, he’d readily agree to donate the money. But she knew how decent Grant Drake wasn’t. And she just wanted to get out of here and on with her life—again. How long would it take her this time? Would she mourn? Would she gain weight by eating all the ice cream she could get her hands on? She wasn’t as young as she had been when he’d ruined her life the first time. This time, the threat of cellulite was very real.

  “You don’t want to be on the show anymore.”

  “You think?”

  “What I think is that you should stay on the show. You have such a worthy cause, after all. And there’s definitely still chemistry between you two.”

  “Stay? Are you crazy? We’re about as chemically compatible as potassium and water.” Which exploded upon contact with each other, if she remembered correctly. Against her will, she recalled just how explosive they could be together, she and Grant. Having studied every inch of her body like a final exam, Grant Drake used to keep her moaning for hours.

  “What if Mr. Drake is a changed man? He strikes me as a nice guy.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re wasting your time and mine with that one. Why are you trying to keep me on the show? We know each other. It’s a direct violation of the contract.”

  He waved in dismissal. “Contract, schmontract. That’s for the legal department.” Leaning forward in the chair, he folded his hands in front of him. “I’m a producer, Ms. Ransom. My job is to earn ratings. Do you know what gets the highest ratings?”

  “Love?”

  “Drama.”

  He wants to exploit our relationship. My agony. My heartbreak. All for ratings.

  She stood. “This discussion is over.”

  Richie rose, too. “I’ll double the prize money. Personally. No one will have to know. Think of what that will do for Helping Hands.”

  She drew in a deep breath. Double the prize money? “You’re assuming Grant will choose me, Mr. Odom. You’re asking me to stay and play a game of chance. One that I’ve already lost in the pa
st.” It hurt worse than she thought it would to say that out loud.

  “You were already going to play the game before anyway, right? Why let Grant Drake change that? You’re doing it for a great cause. Besides, it’s not like you still have feelings for the guy. You’re in no danger there, correct?”

  She couldn’t help but scowl, even as her stomach did flips. “Of course not.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you. You don’t have to win. If you just stay on the show, I’ll give you double the prize money. Your only obligation is not to quit.”

  “I would love to take advantage of your stupidity, Mr. Odom, but I have a conscience. Grant will vote me off the show the first chance he gets. That means you’re doubling the prize money for one episode of precious drama. Not the best deal for you.”

  “But what if he doesn’t vote you off? He didn’t seem like he had any ill will toward you.”

  “I keyed his 1969 Ford Mustang. Then set fire to his mother’s house.” Well, that last part had been an accident. She’d gone to his mother’s to pick up a box of her things he’d left there for her, and caught his fourteen-year-old sister smoking in her bedroom. She’d slapped the cigarette out of her hand, and…homework burned particularly fast, she’d learned.

  At this, Richie Odom’s mouth formed a definitive O. Sure, he was shocked, but Rochelle could tell he was also delighted. To him, the more she said, the higher the ratings rocketed.

  Disgusting.

  “I want you on the show. Period. If he votes you off on the first episode, then lucky you.”

  Slowly, she sat back down. “You’re telling me that as long as I don’t quit, you’ll give me the prize money? Even if he votes me off?”

  “No. I’m telling you that I’ll give you double the prize money. Even if he votes you off. You just can’t quit. That’s the only stipulation.”

  “He already broke up with me, Mr. Odom.”

  “Drama, Ms. Ransom.”

  She imagined all the things Helping Hands could do with that money. They’d have a new building, new furniture to go with it. They could even start up their own low-cost daycare, to help battered working mothers get back on their feet. It had been something the committee had talked about—no, dreamed about—but it always seemed out of reach, especially with their puny budget.

  How can I say no?

  Richie was right. Why let the likes of Grant Drake stand in the way of such a worthy cause? Helping Hands needs that money—who am I not to try? It was only twelve weeks of her saved up paid vacation—she had to use it or lose it anyway. And deep down, she knew she would lose it. Still, just thinking of all the work she could get done on a staycation nestled in bed with her laptop and a glass of wine had her almost salivating.

  The word “workaholic” was invented for people like her.

  So I’ll do everything in my power to get voted off the first week. How hard can it be?

  She offered Richie her most insincere smile. “You have a deal, Mr. Odom.”

  Chapter Four

  Grant shut the door behind him and strode to Richie’s extravagant mahogany desk. The producer looked pleased with himself—which put Grant instantly on guard. If there was one thing he’d learned about Richie Odom during the bachelor selection process, it was that the man could only be gratified at the expense of others.

  “Mr. Drake, please do sit,” Richie said.

  As soon as he did, he felt an emptiness in the chair beside him, where she’d been sitting, just an hour ago. Even now, he could smell her perfume lingering in the air. And to be honest, he was still reeling from the sight of her, too.

  “I just wanted to let you know that Ms. Ransom has decided to stay on the show.”

  Grant’s blood thickened in his veins. She’s staying? “How did you manage to pull that off?” He was proud of himself for keeping his voice at a manly octave.

  Richie shrugged. “I’m sure you know Ms. Ransom to be a reasonable person. I simply threatened her with the contract she signed. In signing that dotted line, she promised she would do everything she could to win the bachelor’s heart. Which would be you, like it or not. You did hear her say she’s an attorney, yes? She knows it’s all legally binding.”

  “I also heard her say that staying on the show is illegal. Because of our history.”

  Richie remained unfazed. “I showed her specific wording in the contract where we could get around that little snafu. If, of course, we let it go to court. Which she doesn’t want to happen. It would be a conflict of interest, you see, for an attorney to get sued.”

  Grant imagined that attorneys got sued all the time. “That woman hates me. She wouldn’t stay because of a contract.” Of that he was certain. If there was anything he knew about Chelle, it was that she upheld her principles—no matter the cost. He remembered that last painful dinner together. He’d just explained to her all the reasons their relationship no longer worked, except of course for the real reason—that she was running off to the west coast without him. She proceeded to dump a plate full of spaghetti in his lap, rinsing it off with the remaining contents of her wine glass. Then she’d destroyed the new paint job on his car in the parking lot on her way out of his life.

  “I wouldn’t say that she hates you, per se—”

  “She keyed my Camaro.”

  “I heard it was a Mustang.”

  Grant rolled his eyes. “She always got them confused.”

  “Nonetheless, she’s staying. Congratulations! Now you can win her back.”

  “Win her back? You can count her as good as voted off.” Richie had just made it possible to do exactly that. Win Rochelle back after she’d announced her intention to move across the country to go to Berkeley law school and leave him behind? No way. The humiliation still stung his pride—and he felt a certain pang somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.

  “I saw the way you looked at her. You’re still in love with her.” When Grant’s mouth fell open, Richie smirked. “I’m a producer, Grant. It’s my job to see things from different angles.”

  If Richie saw it, then what did Chelle see? If she’s an attorney, probably everything. He nearly groaned. Of course he was still in love with her. But it didn’t mean he wanted her here. It didn’t mean he wanted to go down that path with her again. “You won’t be so confident when I vote her off, I assure you.”

  Richie studied him. “Did you know I personally had a hand in picking you for this show?”

  That caught Grant off guard. He shook his head. Can’t wait to hear this. The only person responsible for his being on the show was Chris Schnartz-Legend. His longtime friend had seen an opening and acted on it. How much Richie had been involved in the decision, Grant wasn’t sure.

  “When Chris brought you to us, I told the studio that you were our guy. I said, ‘This guy’s a tactical training consultant. He’ll be methodical, develop strategies. Bring America to its knees.’ I told them you’re a take-charge kind of man.”

  First of all, Grant doubted they even had another option on such short notice. Secondly, he could recognize false flattery when he heard it. Richie was buttering him up for something. The question was, what? “You gathered all that from a conversation with Chris? How profound. I’m a consultant, Richie, not a celebrity.”

  “A consultant? Don’t be modest. People put their lives in your hands every time they hire you. The safety and protection of their children, their loved ones.”

  He shrugged. Maybe his techniques saved lives…if his clients had the sense to listen to him. “I teach them to defend themselves. Thanks for the vote of confidence, though.”

  But Richie was too self-absorbed to notice Grant’s cynicism. “Don’t you see? I’ve given you a second chance. You have twelve weeks to win Rochelle over, Grant. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Richie made a tsking sound with his tongue. “I thought we were being honest here. Man to man.”

  “You don’t understand. Chelle—Rochelle—is
the most stubborn woman alive. Pride is her specialty.” That, and starting house fires.

  “I persuaded her to stay, didn’t I? Surely you could do the same. You’re an attractive, successful man. You saw the faces of all those women when you entered the room, didn’t you? You didn’t disappoint the ladies, my friend. You’re a catch, Grant. A stud. I even heard one of them use the term ‘eye candy’.”

  Grant nearly grimaced at the word “stud.” How far would Richie go with his cheesy adulation to get his way? Besides, the only face Grant remembered seeing when he walked into the room was Chelle’s. And she’d looked traumatized. Which made his confidence fizzle like a balloon with the air let out—and his heart pound like a machine gun.

  “Besides,” Richie continued, “she can’t leave without breeching the contract, which she doesn’t want to do. The only way she can go anywhere now is if you vote her off. Think about all the power that gives you. She’s at your mercy. How often does that happen?”

  At my mercy. That does have a nice ring to it. Still, if anything, he was at her mercy—considering the way his body reacted to her just sitting next to him. Even after ten years, that aspect of their relationship hadn’t changed.

  But Richie was right. He had twelve whole weeks to make Rochelle miserable—why stop at just one? She deserved it, didn’t she? She obviously wanted off the show; all he had to do to piss her off was keep her there. Then he’d vote her off. It was the perfect revenge.

  Yes, the world would be watching. But maybe that was a good thing. After all, Chelle could be unpredictable at times. Surely she wouldn’t try anything crazy in front of the cameras though.

  Or would she?