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I wanted to prove something.
I don’t even know why I care what anyone thinks. Logically, I know I’m a grown woman and I know it doesn’t matter. But I wanted this very public display to be something I could be proud of. It’s so far out of my comfort zone that I almost need to be successful just to show myself that I deserve this book deal, I deserve this success.
Amanda didn’t just give me this opportunity because she was pining after Fallon. She gave it to me because I’m good.
But…am I? How can I claim to deserve my success when I can’t even do a stupid TV show?
I open my mouth to apologize, because really, what excuse do I have? I failed the man who dropped everything to be my partner in this competition.
But the buzzer goes off, the crowd in the mezzanine goes wild, and I lift my gaze to my friends. Candice’s brows are arched high. She gives me a sad smile as Simone does a thumbs-up, but by the looks on their faces, they can tell the greasy, dense mess on my platter isn’t anything to be proud of.
I failed.
Fallon has his palms flat on the counter, his head bowed. I hate that he feels bad for this when I’m the one who should have known better.
Carrie calls for quiet, and the tension in the room grows thick. When the judges start making the rounds, praising Reg and Tex for their flaky, near-perfect croissants, Fallon puts his hand on my lower back.
Instinctively, I pull away.
It’s not because I don’t want him to touch me—it’s because I feel ashamed of this failure. So embarrassed that all my friends saw how badly I performed.
“We’re going home,” I say to Fallon, my voice flat.
He doesn’t deny it. It’s stupid to be this upset about a competition, but I grew up under so much pressure to perform that any failure feels like an attack on my character. Losing is a heavy, suffocating weight on my shoulders.
I’m a perfectionist. I don’t fail. I don’t come in last place. I don’t lose.
Fallon’s face screws up, and he combs his fingers through his hair. “This is my fault.”
That weight on my shoulders sinks lower, and suddenly I can’t bear that Fallon’s blaming himself. I can be hard on myself any day of the week, but him? This isn’t Fallon’s fault. He used the wrong butter because I didn’t tell him the right instructions. He’s not a baker. He’s not a pastry chef. He’s an amazing chef and I respect his skills, but the fact that he didn’t know how to laminate pastry properly is entirely on me.
Instead of saying anything, I reach down for Fallon’s hand and give it a squeeze. He meets my eyes, and something softens in his gaze. The blackness recedes ever so slightly inside me.
I’ve spent so, so many years being hard on myself. Being exacting. Thinking that success was the only way to be worth something.
But what if there was another way? What if I could be happy without putting so much damn pressure on myself?
“We’ve entered the sudden death elimination round,” Carrie says, a serious expression on her face. “Jen, Fallon”—she looks at the two of us, then shifts her gaze to the two cake decorators from Virginia—“Hillary, Nate. You’ll each have to choose one competitor from your teams to go head-to-head. Please make your selection now.”
You know, when you watch these shows on TV, they seem kind of silly. All so serious and emotional, and for what? For some stupid competition?
But let me tell you, in real life, the pressure is intense. You could hear a pin drop in this barn. Fallon squeezes my shoulder and gives me a nod. “You got this, Jen.” His full lips curl into a smile, and everything inside me tightens—because he looks like he’s telling the honest truth.
He believes in me. Even after the last disastrous few hours in the kitchen. Even after I pushed him away and chose my book instead of him. Still, after all that, he’s got my back.
I don’t deserve him.
Fallon steps aside, and it’s me against Nate, the big-hearted man who made me laugh at dinner last night. We have to produce a dessert containing three elements, at least one of which has to be baked. We have limited ingredients and only half an hour.
The time starts, and I sink deep into my own meditative zone. My hands work fast as my mind grows calm, my movements sure as I whisk, mix, sift, and fold a new dessert into existence. I make a quick shortbread with strawberry reduction and fresh whipped cream. The skills I learned with Guillaume come into play when I plate the dessert up in a delicate, artistic way that would be worthy of a Michelin-starred restaurant.
When the buzzer sounds, I step back, and even though I can hear the girls cheering me on from the other level, the first person I look at is Fallon.
His eyes are shining, his lips are spread into a wide smile, and before I can even say anything, he strides over to me and wraps me in a big, warm, beautiful bear hug.
And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
CHAPTER 7
