“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

suddenly have an

why you’re trying to

you. That a woman,

And you can’t

the briefest of seconds,

in his shoulders. It’s so quick that I almost miss

slowly turns around, and there’s that signature smirk

hollowness behind

wish,” he says, lifting his coffee cup to

someone like…”

ask, placing my

meets my gaze with a flash in his eyes. “Not just a woman. A

fingers go cold

me?” I grit out through

really,” he states, taking a step

and I find myself taking

attempting to muscle her way into a

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