Shoban walked up to him. “I’m in love with someone else.”

If he laughed at that too, she was going to shake him. But he didn’t laugh. He grabbed her arm. Hard. Hard enough that his fingers squeezed pain out of her flesh. “That’s not funny.”

She looked down at her arm where his hand was threatening to tear skin, then back up into eyes that had gone harder than she’d ever seen them. “I know it’s not. None of this is funny. I’m in love with someone else. And I’d rather die than marry you.”

Chapter Seventeen

Ashna was clutching Rico’s arm so hard she was cutting off his circulation. The strange thing was that she seemed to have no idea she was doing it. Her eyes were glazed over and a blank smile was frozen across her face.

Rico overcompensated by grinning at the studio audience—visible only when the spotlight panned the auditorium seats—too afraid to move for fear of startling her out of her trance. Again.

It had been a week since their omelet challenge. There had been no elimination that first week, so today all the teams were competing to avoid being the first ones cut. Not that there was any chance that Ashna and he might be eliminated. Audience votes from last week and this week were going to be combined with the judges’ scores and they had more audience votes than the rest of the teams combined.

“Before we get to the part you’re all waiting for—the cooking challenge,” DJ said, making Ashna’s grip on Rico’s arm tighten, “let’s introduce our competitors one more time.”

A wave of applause went through the crowd and Ashna’s lips stretched wider across her frozen face. Rico placed a hand on hers, not sure what else to do.

She blinked, her gaze falling on her fingers gripping his arm, and some color returned to her face. One delicate finger at a time, she released her hold. For a few seconds her hand stayed there, sandwiched between his arm and his hand. The fact that she did not immediately pull away and rub off his touch was telling. Whatever had just locked her up inside herself, it was taking everything from her. Again.

With a swallow, she got a hold of herself.

He tried to catch her eye, but all he got was the slightest nod before she looked away. He had no idea how he knew there was gratitude in that nod, but he did. The loose lock of hair that always seemed to escape the confines of her bun fell across her cheek.

I want to be your hair.

How many times had he said that to her? Not once had she needed to ask him what he meant. Her hair—midnight spun into strands—was always kissing her cheeks, playing with her collarbones, caressing her skin.