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Biblically so.
Please God, no. This can’t be real.
Pulse racing, my muscles tense just as Micheal leans over, placing his hand on my thigh like he has any goddamn right to do so, and whispers, “There’s been a bit of a change. I hope you don’t mind.”
My jaw is clenched so tight I’m likely to lose a crown, but I turn to him and force my expression into something pleasant.
Or, at least, pleasant adjacent.
Scratch that. I’ve missed pleasant entirely based on the way his eyebrows rise up his forehead.
“I’ve added a contestant.” My ex finally lifts his unwanted hand from my thigh beneath the table and taps at the name I’d just been fixated on. “I’m here to make sure he’s in the final thirteen.”
My eyes widen at the sheer audacity of this man.
“Ah, here we are,” Chef Jacques Broussard—my father’s longest friend and a well-known French chef—says from the other end of the table. “This must be our first contestant. What will you prepare for our starter, chef?”
Lisa’s hand clamps down on my other thigh and I swivel my head toward her.
Her face has paled considerably, striking against the light blonde of her hair, but her eyes aren’t on me. They’re wide and staring straight ahead.
At the first contestant.
I can’t bring myself to look.
My head begins to shake, my body reacting to the weight of this moment, the utter shock. What is he doing here? How has this happened?
Why me?
Lisa’s head slowly swivels toward mine and my stomach sinks to the floor. But her eyes are too wide to ignore. Like she’s just seen a ghost.
Or, because Fate is a heartless bitch, worse than a ghost.
What’s worse than a ghost?
The end of my career before it even begins.
Finally, I take a deep breath and force myself to turn my head to the front of the room. And I’m instantly locked into a gaze that steals my breath, his deep brown eyes wide with a surprise that mirrors my own.
I swallow hard, but my mouth has gone dry.
This can’t be happening.
Dawson holds my gaze for so long someone will have to notice, but then he finally releases me, turning that gorgeous, charming face to the rest of the judges so I can pull in a goddamn breath.
As he begins to speak, it’s a struggle to think of anything but the way that voice said my name last night—among other, deliciously dirty things he did with his mouth.
Micheal leans over again, nudging his shoulder against mine as he says, “Say hello to your winner. Dawson Riggs. I’m sure I told you about him, my cousin from New Orleans?”
I’m too shocked to respond.
Too shocked to tell my ex-boyfriend and boss that he can’t manipulate my show like this.
Too shocked to stop this before it goes any further, because Dawson cannot compete.
Too shocked to do much of anything but stare as my one-night stand begins to prepare his starter course for my panel of judges with hands that wrenched multiple orgasms from my body mere hours ago.
Too shocked to stop the tear that streaks down my cheek because this is my dream—
