“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

then, I suddenly have an

out. “That’s why you’re trying to

That a woman, of all people,

And you

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

quick that I

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

go cold from

I grit out through

states, taking a

I find myself taking a shaky step back, my

attempting to muscle her way into

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