“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

suddenly have an

out. “That’s why you’re trying to

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

you can’t stand

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

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

around, and there’s that signature smirk of

hollowness behind

his coffee cup to his lips. “As if

someone like…”

ask, placing my hands on my hips.

gaze with a flash in

the tips of my fingers go cold from

me?” I grit

he states, taking a step

myself taking a shaky step back, my

chuckles. “A woman attempting to muscle her way into a

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