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“True,” I mumble. “Small talk is horrible.”
His deep chuckle resonates in my chest. It sends something warm unfurling in the pit of my stomach. There’s something about Fallon that’s just irresistible. Always has been. He’s like a rock, a quiet, strong presence—until his hand starts sweeping up and down my spine, and heat gushes through my body.
His touch scrambles my brain, so instead of trying to talk, I turn to the front of the room.
Carrie and the two judges stop on their marks, and someone else calls for silence.
My stomach twists. “That’s Bernard Franco,” I whisper, seeing the brown-haired judge on the left. The man is a world-famous pastry chef who lives in Paris, and he happens to be my hero. “Oh my God. No. I can’t do this.”
I start turning away, and Fallon’s strong arms wrap around my waist. He pulls me tight to his body, my front mashed against his side. Despite myself, my hand flies up to rest on his chest.
His very hard, very warm chest.
Have I mentioned that Fallon is sex on legs?
“You can do this.” Fallon’s breath is warm on my neck, and a shiver travels down my body. “You can do anything, Jen.” When he says the words, it actually sounds like he means them. His hand brushes the small of my back once more before he allows me to pull away. I do, but mostly out of habit. My body screams for me to get close to him again. To have those comforting arms wrapped around me. To press myself against his broad body.
I feel the whisper of his touch in the pit of my stomach and lower, between my thighs. I don’t understand how Fallon can have this effect on me. He shouldn’t have this effect on me. I should be focused on what’s going to happen next.
The second judge is a woman younger than me with warm blond hair pulled back in a single, thick braid. She has a lilting Irish accent when she speaks, and my eyes widen when I hear her name. Heather Brennan. The Pastry Prodigy.
I’m going to vomit. Truly. I start scanning for a bucket, then calculate the distance between me and the sink. Three steps. Maybe four.
Fallon’s hand makes slow sweeps up and down my spine, moving up to squeeze my shoulder. His strong, warm fingers start kneading my neck, and despite myself, I soften. A rumble sounds in the back of his throat, as if he’s enjoying touching me, too. His hand does something magical to the stiffness in my muscles. The nausea in my stomach subsides the tiniest bit.
The heat between my thighs, on the other hand, does not.
For the briefest moment, I wonder what else Fallon’s hands could do. How would they feel against my bare skin? Would he be rough with me, or gentle? Would he take control?
Then I squeeze my eyes shut, because now is not the time.
“Welcome to Boss Baker,” Carrie says to the camera with a sweep of her hands. One of the staff members gets her to say it again, and then they set up a teleprompter so she can run through a few lines.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, nervous energy bubbling through me.
Fallon’s hand slides from my back to my hip, his fingers taking a strong grip. “Relax, Jen.”
“Oh, right. Easy. Just relax,” I hiss without rancor. “No problem. I’ll get right on that.”
His lips tilt, eyes glimmering. Damn it, I love that look on him. He’s the only person besides my girlfriends that doesn’t look at me like I’m a total weirdo.
“Quiet, please!” one of the crew members calls out, and I zip my lips shut.
Fallon’s hand squeezes my hip once more, then drops away. I miss his touch as soon as it leaves. My body feels bereft, untethered without his hand on me.
Sucking in a breath, I try to regain control over my own body, ignoring the imprint of Fallon’s fingers branded on my flesh.
The host and judges film another version of the introduction, then have to do it again, then someone comes over and powders Carrie’s face, and they do the introduction a third time, and finally our attention is directed to a box on the edge of each team’s station.
We’re filming online segments now, or “bite-sized” baking challenges, which will be offered to subscribers on the show’s online portal. I heave a big sigh of relief when I hear no one will be eliminated.
“This is your chance to make a strong first impression,” Bernard intones, his eyes landing on each and every one of us in turn. When they land on me, they seem to linger. Or is that all in my head? His gaze moves to Fallon. “Make it count.”
“The first challenge is a mystery box,” Heather Brennan announces, her eyes scanning the room. They land on Fallon. Something like heat sparks in her eyes. Feminine interest.
The urge to vault over my counter and punch her in the throat rises within me.
Um.
