“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

door, as if

then, I suddenly have

“That’s why

a woman, of all people, might beat you

competition. And you can’t

for a moment, and for the briefest of seconds, I think

his shoulders. It’s so quick

signature smirk of

the hollowness behind it

lifting his coffee cup to his

someone like…”

ask, placing my hands

meets my gaze with a flash in his

of my fingers go cold from the sudden shock of

I grit out through clenched

he states, taking a step toward me.

find myself taking a

“A woman attempting to muscle her way

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