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“There she is!” Candice says, climbing up to stand on top of a table. “Our very own Jennifer Newbank.”
Applause erupts and all eyes turn to me. Including the camera, which is back on and pointed at my face.
Deer. In. Headlights.
This is literally my worst nightmare. I force a smile, heart beating a million miles an hour in my chest. Everyone is here. They’re all looking. Waiting.
“We know you’ll win,” Dorothy says. The elderly, animal-print-loving woman owns the Heart’s Cove Hotel along with her twin sister Margaret. She slings an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into yet another hug. “You’re the town’s pride and joy, Jen.”
“I can’t believe you’ll be on TV!” Allie, Candice’s daughter, screams in my ear.
“Go, Jen! Go, Jen! Go, Jen!” Simone, the fiery redhead who co-owns the café with Fiona, Candice, and me, starts chanting.
To my abject horror, everyone joins in. The dozens and dozens of people in the café are all looking at me, cheering for me, chanting my name, expecting…something. I don’t know what they want! I don’t know what to do.
So, like the lump I am, I just freeze. I stand in the middle of this big crowd, feeling the temperature of my body ratchet higher and higher, while panic starts swirling around and around and around in my head.
Too many people. Not enough air. Too much attention, expectation. They want me to do something, but all I can do is stand here. What do I do? What do I say? How do I—
My body is hauled up with two big, broad hands clamped around my waist. I vaguely register that those hands belong to Fallon as I’m flung over his shoulder, his strong arm banding over my thighs.
“Coming through!” he bellows. “Move over, people!”
Breathless, panic still sizzling inside me, I glance over my shoulder to see a thin slice of space forming between us and the door. Fallon shoulders his way through the crush, not stopping until the door opens and sweet, sweet fresh air fills my lungs.
I breathe deep, expecting Fallon to put me down.
He doesn’t. He keeps going. And going. And going.
We walk all the way down the block and around the corner, where Fallon finally sets me down with steady, careful movements. His head ducks down so his eyes can meet mine, searching my flaming face. “You good?”
“The people,” I push out with a breath.
“You looked stressed.”
“Too many people,” I manage.
“I figured.” Fallon moves one hand from my waist, and I immediately miss the comforting warmth and weight of it. He doesn’t go far, though, sliding his palm behind my neck and tugging me into his chest.
It’s not until a few shuddering breaths make their way in and out of my lungs that I realizing I’m clinging to him, hands curled in his shirt, tears wetting the jersey fabric.
“I can’t do this,” I say, voice muffled in his broad, safe chest. I inhale the clean scent of detergent and that musky cologne that smells like Fallon.
“You can.” His hand nestles into my hair while the other slides around my waist and starts making slow, comforting circles over my back.
“There’s too much pressure.” My voice cracks on the last word.
Fallon’s hand freezes, and he pulls away a few inches to look down at my face. “Do you really want to stop? Quit the competition?”
He doesn’t say it judgmentally. He’s just…asking.
The earnestness of his expression hits me hard. I gulp, mind whirling, trying to find the words.
I’ve always been told that I need to do something with my life. Be someone. Make something of myself. I grew up in the shadow of my parents, who had enough degrees between them to cover an entire wall in our house. They were titans of their fields. Forces of nature.
It was never a question of whether I’d be successful, only a question of what I’d sacrifice along the way.
And I’ve always done my best. I won scholarships to college and rose like a rocket in my tech career. I finished pastry school with a job offer from none other than Guillaume Boucher. I am successful. I’m a winner.
