“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

might outshine you. That a woman, of all people, might

competition. And you

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

shoulders. It’s so quick that I almost

signature smirk of his again,

the hollowness behind

cup to his lips. “As if I’d

someone like…”

placing my hands on my hips. “A

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

of my fingers go cold from the sudden shock of

grit out through

a step toward

aggressive, and I find myself taking a shaky step

chuckles. “A woman attempting to muscle her way into

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