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A deep breath leaves her lungs, her body melting into mine ever so slightly. Then she nods. “Okay. I’m ready.”
We make it back to set in time for lunch, then are thrust into another bite-sized baking challenge. We’re given sugar cookies and bags of royal icing, and told to decorate the cookies as best we can in fifteen minutes. Jen kills it, obviously. I stumble along beside her, as usual.
We do a few more promo shots for advertisement and social media, then are fed a hearty dinner at the farmhouse, and finally dismissed for the evening. I hold back a growl when smarmy Bernard Franco comes to put his hand on Jen’s shoulder to congratulate her on the first couple of challenges. Jen just thanks him with a nod, not giving him any more attention. Her response pleases me more than it should.
Jen is quiet when we make it back to the guesthouse. Her face is drawn, pale. I close the door behind us as Jen pauses in the middle of the room before making a beeline for the kitchenette. She puts some water to boil and hunts through her belongings for a teabag, finally leaning against the counter with her arms crossed.
Gnawing on her nail, Jen stares at a spot on the floor like she’s trying to burn a hole in it.
I take a seat on the couch near the window, arm stretched over the back of it, watching her. “You did really well, Jen.”
Instead of accepting the compliment, Jen deflects. “I messed up that one cookie. We could have come in first place.”
“We came second. First and second place in the first two bite-sized challenges isn’t bad.”
She huffs. “Still.”
“And your interview was great.”
“It was awkward.”
Chuckling, I cross the room to lean against the counter, hands placed on either side of her. She’s like a magnet to me; I can’t resist moving close to her whenever I get the chance. I duck my head, staring into her eyes. “Jen, just try to accept these compliments, okay? You were great today.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it again. With great effort, she lifts her eyes to mine. “Thank you,” she says with deliberate precision.
I grin. “Was that so hard?”
“Yes.”
Smile widening, I can’t help but lean into her body. I remember the way it felt to have my arms around her, my hands on her curves. I remember how it felt to kiss her like I had a right to.
I want that again. I want it every day until I die.
My eyes linger on her lips, heat lashing across my body. My fingers grip the counter so hard I’m worried it’ll crumble to dust in my hands. The urge to kiss her almost overwhelms me. I could lift her up and notch myself between her spread thighs. I could tear her jeans off and bury my face between her legs. I could make her scream my name as she rides my mouth. I’d want to see her come apart as she let go of that control she wears like armor.
But I’m not going to.
Jennifer Newbank is not the type of woman who sleeps with a man like me. Or she wouldn’t—if she knew the truth about my past.
Finally, stifling a groan, I tear myself away.
That night, I sleep in the cot. I wake up on the floor, achy and sore, but it’s better than having Jen wrapped up in my arms when I know I won’t be able to keep her.
Two more days are spent like this—filming small challenges, chatting with the contestants, getting to know the judges. One evening, at dinner, when Bernard pulls out a copy of Jen’s book and flips to one of the recipes to compliment her on some special cake technique I’ve never heard of, I hold back the urge to throttle him. He smiles at Jen, eyes roaming over her face, dipping to her chest, and I can almost taste his interest on my tongue.
My hands clench into fists under the dinner table, breath sawing in and out of my lungs.
The worst part?
Bernard Franco is exactly the type of man Jen should be with. He’s successful, charismatic, and famous. Even I can tell he’s handsome with his stupid, perfectly styled brown hair and stupid piercing eyes. He looks at Jen and sees talent, so he’s obviously not totally clueless.
And he wants her.
But no matter how much I know that Bernard would be a better match for Jen, I can’t help wanting to punch him in his stupid handsome face.
Because Jen is mine. At least for a month.
The next morning, I wake up with a stiff neck and tingles in my feet. The cot is far, far too small for me, but Jen deserves the bed. I certainly don’t—and based on how much I enjoyed waking up next to her that one morning, I already know that’s a dangerous path to take.
