Page 14 of Room 710 (The Scarlet Hotel #15)

Ziggy

Week Three

Week three was a lot of the same—cooking and cleaning, reading, watching movies, with the occasional challenge thrown in to keep things interesting.

It turned out that Prairie was a big Fortnite fan, and once Devon admitted he’d always been curious to try, we’d ended up with a small group of other part-time gamers who were interested in joining.

We all played a few rounds in the mornings after breakfast, and it always devolved into a bunch of trash talking and promises for revenge.

I didn’t mind the routine so much. It beat the hell out of sweating through my uniform in Lorenzo’s kitchen, but I missed my mom like crazy.

What occupied most of my thoughts, though, was thinking about how Eli had rushed in here to save the day as soon as he’d noticed someone was hurt.

How he’d swept Garfield up in his arms like it was nothing.

For just the teensiest second, I’d been jealous of Garfield—which was ridiculous, of course.

Why would I want to cut my hand and go to the hospital for stitches?

Except then I would remember the interview on my birthday.

The heat of Eli’s hand in mine, the way his thumb had stroked my skin and how I’d dreamed almost every night of him stroking me elsewhere .

When I looked up at the cameras now, I didn’t think about the thousands of people who might be watching.

I thought of only one set of eyes, their crisp intensity as they raked down my body.

I kept hoping to hear Eli’s deep voice come over the house speaker, asking me to come to the vault.

I didn’t care why—an interview, a request to get on my knees, I would take anything at this point.

It had been a full week since I heard his voice, since I last saw him carrying Garfield out the door, and I was starting to feel like I’d hallucinated the entire thing.

It's just a crush , I told myself, even though it felt far more serious than that. I barely knew the man, though when I thought of how he’d said he was watching me, it sure felt like he knew me— intimately .

I wandered out to the back yard where I found Devon lying with his feet up on one of the loungers, talking with Prairie and Darnell who were sharing the lounger beside him.

“Hey, roomie. What’s up?” Prairie asked. “You look lost in thought.”

“No, just… thinking about the live challenge tonight,” I said, coming up with the excuse on the spot, since I couldn’t be entirely honest. Besides, it wasn’t a full-on lie, either. “What do you think it’ll be?”

Last week, we’d been separated into two groups and played a life-size version of Battleship on the lawn outside, but it was Devon guessing the squares for both teams, and even though Garfield had decided not to come back, we were still forced to say goodbye to Abraham.

This week, Devon would be sending someone else home.

“Hey, don’t worry,” he said, reaching out to grab my hand and pulling me down to sit on his lounger. “Whatever it is, we’ll just have fun. Okay?”

I nodded, extricating my hand from his as casually as I could.

He moved his legs so I was sitting between them, and I could feel the faint touch of his soft blond leg hair.

My eyes involuntarily flicked up to the camera mounted on the top of the fence.

It was ridiculous, but I felt guilty, like I was cheating on Eli or something.

We aren’t dating , I reminded myself. Hell, just over a week ago, I’d tried to convince myself I was dating Devon!

Still, I inched away to put some space between us.

We were distracted from our conversation by someone shouting. It was coming from the street. “Who is that?” I asked, standing from the chair and walking toward the fence.

“I love you, Ziggy!” someone yelled, and something came flying over the fence.

“Stop right there!” a deeper voice called. “Hey, get back here!”

We all listened to giggling and gasping, followed by running footsteps.

I shook my head. This wasn’t the first time someone had snuck behind the house to throw something over the fence, but they were usually Devon’s fans, not mine.

We’d even had someone try to fly a drone over, but it’d ended up crashing into the pool.

I bent down to pick up whatever it was they’d thrown over the fence, but when I realized what it was, I hooked just my pinkie in and lifted it up to show the others.

“I hope they’re clean,” I said, my nose wrinkling at the sparkly blue thong dangling from my finger.

“But I fear I’m probably wrong.” Lonely Alpha fans were hardcore like that.

“Ewww.” Darnell recoiled. “Throw those straight in the trash. Besides, don’t they know red is more your color?

” He winked at me, before leaning over to stage whisper to Devon.

“He has this super-sexy pair of red lace manties.” My eyes bulged, cheeks heating.

I tried to gesture for him to shut up, but it was too late. The damage was done.

“Really,” Devon drawled, intrigued and seemingly trying to imagine me wearing them. “I’d like to see those.”

“Yeah, I bet you would.” I tried to say it playfully, like I was flirting, but my voice fell flat. Devon must’ve picked up on it, because he tilted his head, reassessing me.

My stomach gave an uneasy flutter. I didn’t like this kind of attention on me, prying and way off base. “I’m hungry. Anyone else hungry?” I fled to the kitchen before they could answer.

The live challenge started much like the other two, with all of us crowded in the living room, though with three of us already gone, there was now room for us to squeeze onto the couches and armchairs, no need to sit on the floor.

Clark and Marty appeared on the TV, from the studio across town, all bright flirty smiles and charming quips. They truly were made for hosting.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Clark said, “because it’s everybody’s favorite challenge week.”

There were groans around the room, Cy muttering, “Gods, no,” under his breath, and Alex drew his knees up to his chest where he sat wedged on the couch beside me, hugging himself protectively. Stuart had a hand tangled in his hair and whined, “We just got the blood cleaned up.”

Confused, it wasn’t until Marty said, “It’s kitchen week!” that I understood why everyone else seemed to be in various states of unease.

Every season, the contestants were forced to bake one of the alpha’s favorite dishes that he’d chosen beforehand.

Chaos was guaranteed as we all tried to maneuver around the limited kitchen space, vying for the stovetop and oven.

I swore they made sure not to have enough mixing bowls or spoons, which turned every step of the process into a metaphorical game of musical chairs, someone always left standing when the music stopped.

“Devon, would you please tell our omegas what they will be making today?” Clark said.

Whether he was acting or not, Devon at least had the good sense to look apologetic as he said, “My favorite dessert of all time is a s’mores cheesecake.”

“Mm, yummy,” Marty said with exaggeration, licking his lips.

Clark took over explaining the details. “In the vault, you will find a copy of the recipe—a no-bake version, for time constraints—as well as all the ingredients you need and a few tools, though you might need to cooperate in order to get the cake done in time. Devon will taste all the cakes at the end without knowing who made them, and whichever he decides is the best will earn the winner a romantic solo date with your alpha. Devon, if you could please leave the room. We don’t want you getting any clues about whose dessert is whose. ”

Devon got up from his spot and waved on his way to his master suite. “Good luck, boys,” he called over his shoulder.

“Alright, bakers,” Clark said. “You have forty-five minutes.”

“You heard the man,” Marty barked, clapping his hands sharply. “Your time starts now. Get baking!”

And with that, their faces disappeared from the TV, leaving a countdown in its place.

That seemed to jolt everyone out of the dread-filled stupor.

Everyone ran for the vault door, pushing and shoving.

It was hard not to get caught up in the excitement, everyone laughing and squealing, but I stayed back, trying not to get trampled in the process.

They came out with their arms loaded down with boxes of graham cracker crumbs and gelatin, bags of chocolate chips and marshmallows, a whole case of cream cheese, plus springform pans and spatulas.

“Ziggy, catch!” Darnell cried out, and I barely had time to get my hands up in time to catch a bag of powdered sugar he tossed at me.

The bag popped at the seam, a puff of sugar wafting into my face.

I laughed, wiping it from my cheeks. “Gee, thanks.” I could taste it on the air, and it instantly made me think of the icing on my birthday cupcake.

I would forever associate icing with Eli, and the mere thought of him made me hard.

It was like a Pavlovian response, and I looked up at the camera, eyebrow raised.

Did he have any clue how he’d ruined all dessert for me?

As expected, there was only one copy of the recipe, and we were forced to take turns huddling around it, then running off to measure out ingredients. At one point, Rune snatched the recipe right out of Cy’s hand. “Hey! Give that back!”

“Make me,” Rune said snidely in reply.

I rolled my eyes. “What are you, ten?” I turned to Cy. “Here, you can come over here, Cy. I’ll tell you what step is next.”

“Thanks, Zig,” he said, sighing in relief.

As chaotic as it was, I had such a great time. A few of the guys stuck with me, letting me lead them through the process, while Rune stood sulking with his recipe on the other end of the kitchen island, though a few times I saw him trying to eavesdrop on my pointers.

In the end, the kitchen looked like a bomb had gone off, and tensions were certainly high as the timer counted down.

We all ended up with some semblance of a crust and batter in the cake pan, with not nearly enough time to chill properly, and though I couldn’t speak to how they would taste, the whole house smelled amazing.

But then it came down to the final step of decorating the tops with toasted marshmallows.

Someone on the production side of things had thought it would be a great idea to give ten bakers just two crème br?lée torches, used to give the mini marshmallows that classic golden hue.

Sure, it was good fun for the viewers to see us fighting over this integral tool, but in the final minutes, it was far less fun on this side of things.

“Oh, forget this shit,” Rune muttered, finally deciding to wing it without the torch. He cranked the oven to broil and stuck his cake under the element.

“Good idea!” Ross said, shoving his cake in with Rune’s.

“Time’s up, omegas!” Clark called across the room to us as our hosts reappeared on the living room TV, and Marty made an aggravating buzzer sound. “If we could please have our alpha rejoin us…”

Devon emerged from his suite, looking nice and rested compared to the rest of us, covered in flour and melted chocolate, our hair sticking up in all directions.

He tried to take a look at the cakes, but Marty made a tutting sound.

“Ah-ah, no peeking yet. Go have a seat at the table, and someone will bring you your first cake.”

Rune was tagged to go select a cake at random, and he chose Darnell’s, which looked…

well, rough, but better than it would have if he hadn’t had some help from me.

Rune snickered, but Devon beamed down at the cake that leaned slightly to the left.

“This looks amazing,” he said, picking up his fork and diving straight in with zero hesitation.

I heard Darnell’s frantic squeak as he sucked in a nervous gasp.

Turned out he didn’t need to worry, though, because Devon raved about how good it was.

“I wish I could eat all of it, but I’ve heard I have to try another eight cakes.

You boys aren’t good for my waistline.” Rune scowled, his fun ruined.

Cake by cake, Devon tried three more, praising the bakers’ efforts. He was on to his fifth cake, when I heard Clark mutter something that sounded like, “Is that smoke?” A second later, a high-pitched beeping sound tore through the house.

“Oh gods, my cake!” Ross shouted, eyes wide, as he tore into the kitchen and flung open the oven, letting out a huge cloud of black smoke and the orange flicker of flames. Without thinking, he grabbed an oven mitt and went to grab the two cakes that had been left under the broiler.

“Ross, no!” I yelled. I was already running toward the fire extinguisher, but I was too late.

Ross had tried to throw the pans into the sink, but one sailed straight over and onto the floor, where it lit the floor-length curtain on fire.

And now his oven mitts were also on fire, and he flung them off his hands.

I stood there, frozen, fire extinguisher in hand, unsure where to spray first. “Fuck.”

For the second time in a week, the front door was kicked in—far easier this time, since the glue had barely dried on the last repairs—and Eli barged in with two security guards at his heels. “Out! Everyone, out!” he shouted, and everyone started running for the exit.

I pulled the pin on the extinguisher and started to spray the foam on the curtain, but before it could do anything, Eli had thrown me over his shoulder and was running for the door. “Wait! I can help put it out!” I shouted, bracing myself on his back.

“You are far too important to put yourself at risk,” he growled, and maybe it was just smoke inhalation, but I swore I swooned a little at his words.