Shayne’s lips curled into a tiny smile. “Not puritanical. Culturally diverse, remember? But this contest is about home cooking. Family cooking. It’s okay if you don’t have kids, but they want the contestants to work in couples. Same-sex couples are okay. But since you only like dudes, you’ll need a husband. A fiancé would also work.”

Reena exhaled. Goddamn Shayne. He could have started with that. For all of two minutes, she’d been convinced this could make her longtime dream come true. She could practically smell the country loaves baking.

But once again, life kicked her when she was already down. She’d lost a dream only two minutes old, but Reena felt almost as disappointed as when she’d lost her cookbook deal.

“Well, that bites.” She slumped, tossing the paper and pen on the couch.

Marley sat up straight. “This doesn’t mean you can’t audition. Just find a husband! Or a boyfriend. Or a wife! Pretend! Nothing on TV is real anyway.”

“I’m a terrible liar,” Reena said. “And who the hell would pretend to be my boyfriend or girlfriend on TV?”

“Well, on a website at least. I’d do it for you,” Shayne said. “But I think my dalliance with Anderson will get in the way. Or at least I hope it will. Actually, no …I’m using guided visualization. I will be with Anderson then, so I cannot be your fiancé.”

“Seriously, guys, I am not doing this. I can’t. Even if by some miracle I can manage to find someone who would pretend to be my fiancé for this thing, what will happen when my parents see it?”

And there was another reason that she didn’t say aloud. At this point in her life Reena didn’t think she could face pretending to be in a happy relationship. She knew her limits. That was way, way beyond what she could handle.

Tuesday night, after an evening spent tinkering with a new bread recipe, Reena found herself with too much fougasse and a craving for nonfinance conversation. A quick text to Marley told her Shayne would be over soon, and they would love to help with the abundance-of-bread problem and talk about anything except numbers.

She checked the time—six fifteen. She’d have to hurry if she wanted to avoid seeing Nadim in the hallway. She was not in the mood for awkward conversation. Forgoing shoes and socks, she packed the crusty breads into a canvas bag, grabbed her purse, and pulled the door open when her phone rang. Struggling with her heavy door and the overladen bag of bread resulted in her dropping the bag as she answered the phone.

“Hello?” she said while retrieving the bag. Thankfully, all the fougasse remained safely enclosed in the canvas.

“Reena, why do you sound out of breath?” her sister asked, sounding annoyed and clipped. Not out of the ordinary. Saira usually sounded annoyed and clipped.

“Just about to head out. What’s up?”