“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 this

then, I suddenly have an

out. “That’s why you’re trying to

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

you

freezes for a moment, and for the briefest of

so quick that I almost miss it, but it’s

there’s that signature smirk

the hollowness behind it

coffee cup to his

someone like…”

ask, placing my hands on my hips. “A

gaze with a flash in his eyes. “Not just

my fingers go cold from the sudden shock of his

grit out

states, taking a step toward me.

I find myself taking a shaky step back,

“A woman attempting to muscle her way into a

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