He’s not handsome in a traditional sense, certainly not like Mason or the guy I will not mention. But there’s something about the way he carries himself, of how comfortable he is in his own skin. It’s working for him.
Sadie blinks up at him, looking both intrigued and half-terrified.
“People with more money than sense can book a week here to train with various chefs,” he continues.
I study him. “You don’t approve?”
“To each their own. I’d rather put my money toward a real culinary education.” He flashes us a thousand-watt smile. “Which I did.”
Sensible, honest, built like a gladiator—I like him. We’ve been here five minutes, and we’ve already bumped into twogood-looking guys. If I must spend two weeks with Sadie, this isn’t a bad way to do it.
“Are you a contestant?” Sadie asks, her voice syrupy with excitement.
“From Chicago,” he answers Sadie, but he turns his eyes on me. “And you’re Miss YouTube—American’s new sweetheart, media favorite, and the bane of half a million vapid eighteen-year-olds.”
I stammer and glance at Sadie. She widens her eyes, silently telling me she has no idea how I should answer.
“I’m Harper,” I say, purposely ignoring the last bit of his spiel, and I bob my head to the side. “And this is Sadie.”
He smiles, his eyes glinting with humor. “I’m Cole.”
Cole.I lock it away for later. He’s blunt, but I like that, and cocky, but I’ll make an exception. And he apparently knows his way around the kitchen—which is downright hot.
“We need to check in,” I say, jabbing a thumb at the counter.
Giving us a nod—a single, upward jerk of the head—Cole moves along, sauntering away. His expression says we’ll undoubtedly be seeing more of him. Sadie cocks her head to the side, watching him go.
When I give her a knowing look, her cheeks turn pink. “He’s built like a redwood.”
“Maybe I should tell Brandon you were checking out Cole’s?—”
“Harper!” She glances Cole’s way, obviously hoping he didn’t hear, and then she presses her lips together, trying not to laugh. “Honestly.”
“Assets,” I finish, unable to help myself.
“That isnotwhat you were going to say,” she hisses, unable to hold in her giggle now.
I raise an eyebrow.
She stares at me for several seconds and then shakes her head and grabs my arm. “Let’s talk to Tammy and find our rooms.”
“Hello, girls,” Tammy says when she spots us, smiling in a no-nonsense sort of way.
The show’s lead producer’s dark hair is pulled back, this time into a perfect bun. Her skin is porcelain, her cheeks lightly pink, and her brown eyes expressive. Somehow the severe way she prefers to wear her hair only enhances her features. Yet, her eyes betray her age—she must be in her late thirties. A person would be wise to invest in the company that makes her moisturizer.
Sadie stares at the woman, star-struck. For a moment, I almost think she’s going to curtsy.
“I have you on the third floor, rooms thirty-eight and thirty-nine.”
“Are we allowed to have visitors?” I ask. Riley begged me to let her stay this weekend.
Tammy raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “This isn’t a college dorm, dear. As long as you don’t disturb the other contestants, you can do whatever you like.”
She says “dear” in a decidedly condescending way, but I shake it off.
“So, it’s all right if my sister drives up to visit on the weekend?” I ask, just to make sure.
“We’ll go over the official social rules at this evening’s dinner,” Tammy says, sighing. “But it’s fine if your sister comes. Most of the contestants are here with their spouses.”
