“I know my way around a kitchen better than you ever will,” I retort, although the

words feel hollow even as I spit them out.

“Abby, Abby, Abby,” he tuts, pushing off from the counter to take another step

closer. “You can barely navigate your way out of a paper bag. This competition?

It’s not for the weak. It’s not for the passionless. And it’s definitely not for

someone who can’t tell nutmeg from cardamom.”

His words are like a slap to the face, a reminder of the humiliation on stage. Of

Logan’s disappointment. Of Vanessa’s confused expression. Of the tiramisu that

now represents my biggest failure, all on live television.

Enter title…

Logan turns to leave, his posture as casual as ever as he saunters over toward

if this

suddenly have an

blurt out. “That’s why you’re trying to

That a woman, of all

you can’t stand

for the briefest of seconds, I think

quick that I almost miss it, but

there’s that signature smirk of his

hollowness behind it

cup to his lips.

someone like…”

ask, placing my hands on

with a flash in his eyes.

tips of my fingers go cold from the sudden

I grit

shameful, really,” he states, taking a

aggressive, and I find myself taking a shaky

to muscle her way into a

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