“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

as if this is

then, I suddenly have an

scared,” I blurt out. “That’s why you’re trying

That a woman, of

you can’t stand

moment, and for the

shoulders. It’s so quick that

slowly turns around, and there’s that signature smirk of his again, but

hollowness behind it

says, lifting his coffee cup to his lips.

someone like…”

I ask, placing my hands on my hips. “A

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

my fingers go cold from the

I grit out through clenched

shameful, really,” he states, taking a step toward me. His posture

myself taking

chuckles. “A woman attempting to muscle her way

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