One
Guess I shouldn’t have said I’d never mold myself into someone I wasn’t. Because the dark-blue satin blouse, black fitted dress pants that hugged my curves, and black spiky heels that gave my 5'6" frame extra height proved me to be a liar.
Even my chestnut hair hung down past my shoulders in a straight line, no kamikaze strands in sight. I brushed said hair back for the hundredth time, then took out my blush and makeup brush.
My hands shook, my breath came out in little bursts, and my mouth was dry, making it more difficult to put on the finishing touches. But everything had to be perfect today. I would get that blush on my cheeks, shaking hands be damned.
I’d finally made it. Had proved my family wrong. I wasn’t useless. I wasn’t dumb. Now I just couldn’t let my nerves get the best of me and screw it all up. I’d come too far for that.
I took a deep breath, then another, steadying my trembling hands. A few last strokes of the brush, and I’d finished my transformation.
My phone, lip gloss, tissues, and mascara went into a small clutch. After glancing around the fancy hotel room they had put me up in, I walked out, head held high.
The clacking of my shoes on the floor was the only noise accompanying me on my walk to the elevator. I was alone with my thoughts on the way down, giving me more time to freak out. As promised, a car was waiting outside the hotel entrance.
“Ms. Sweet,” the driver greeted me.
I had to give him credit for not smiling or commenting on my last name. After all, I was a contestant in a reality baking show. Even I saw the humor in my surname. He probably thought it wasn’t my real one.
The short drive did nothing to settle my nerves. I eyed the minibar between the two back seats. Tempting, but the last thing I needed was to get drunk.
This was it. My chance at taking hold of my dreams.
The car slowed in front of the restaurant where I’d meet the other contestants and some of the producers. I’d only arrived in LA early this morning and still couldn’t wrap my head around the glitz and glamor of the city.
It was overwhelming and exciting at the same time. That they chose me to be part of a show that could potentially change my life was still too staggering to think about. I had twelve weeks to show why I was the best baker this country had ever seen.
Good thing baking was one skill I had absolute confidence in. It had always been my passion and often my refuge.
The car door opened, and the driver helped me out. I was glad, since I stumbled out of the car like a newborn foal.
Should have worn flats.
“Rayna, darling, there you are,” one of the producers I’d met during the audition said as soon as I set foot inside the sparkling clean restaurant.
It was the only way to aptly describe the sterile-looking place. Everything was white and gleaming, looking like someone polished it every day.
I wondered if I’d leave any prints if I touched the walls. The temptation tugged at me to put my hand against the tile, but my common sense prevailed.
“Did you have a nice drive?” Bert, Bart, Ben, or maybe Stephen grinned at me. His name had escaped me the second he’d finished introducing himself when I first met him.
I returned his smile with one of my own. “I did, thank you.”
The long drive to LA was the second time I’d ever left Colorado, and it had made me feel alive for the first time in years.
He waved me through to a back room, putting his hand on my back, making my body lock up tight at the contact. “Everyone else is already here.”
The other eleven contestants were standing around the room chatting, holding champagne flutes. We would all be competing for the grand prize of a hundred million dollars and the chance to have one of our products placed in a supermarket.
“I take it this is the last contestant? Unless Hector has already found a companion for the night,” a guy in a suit that was at least a size too small said when we entered.
Hector. That’s the producer’s name. I put it on an imaginary shelf in my head like all the cognitive training I’d done had taught me. Hopefully, this time it would stay there.
Someone thrust a doughy hand in my face. “I’m Pascal, one of the producers.”
I shook the clammy hand, putting his name right next to Hector’s. He hadn’t been at my audition, but I’d learned quickly that it took half a village to make a reality TV show. I’d be meeting a lot more people.
Better extend that shelf.
