“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

if

I suddenly have an

out. “That’s why you’re trying

that I might outshine you. That a

you can’t stand

for the briefest of

in his shoulders. It’s so quick that I almost miss it,

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

the hollowness behind it

coffee cup to his lips. “As if I’d

someone like…”

ask, placing my hands on my hips. “A

in his eyes. “Not just a

my fingers go cold from the

me?” I grit out through

really,” he states, taking a step toward

and I find myself taking a shaky

He chuckles. “A woman attempting to

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