“So, what now?” he asks softly. “About the competition, I mean.”

I sigh, my mind racing back to the hours John and I spent in the kitchen, the relentless pursuit of a

perfection that now seems so utterly… pointless.

“I think I just have to accept that I can’t practice this recipe the right way,” I finally murmur, taking a step

back as I try to ignore the racing of my heart. “I guess not everything can be perfect.”

I fumble with my keys at my apartment door, finally managing to unlock it and step inside for the first time

since this morning.

The weight of the day presses down on me like a ton of bricks. ‘Exhausted’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.

And the frustration over the truffles—or the lack thereof—is the cherry on top.

Enter title…

what a day,” I mumble to myself, tossing my bag onto the coffee table as

them thud unceremoniously onto the floor. For a moment, I entertain

asleep right here, still in

I start to drift, the stress

welcoming arms of

as I’m about to finally nod off into the sweet embrace of sleep, a

my eyes snapping

coffee table, a

narrowing as I see

subject catch my

cook-off judges. My heartbeat quickens as I open the email, thinking they must

as I skim the content, my

thread reads. “I’m thinking that we should

you think?”

“The mafaldine will pair well with

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