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Fallon
The rest of the competitors, Jen, and I end up in the main farmhouse after it’s announced that Jen and I are safe from elimination. Nate and Hillary are eliminated, but they’ll be staying on site until the competition is over. We all had to sign non-disclosure agreements—and everyone in the live audience, too—and we’re expected to stay in Heart’s Cove for the full month to avoid leaks about winners and losers.
Jen ends up sitting next to me on a couch in one of the big living rooms, her body nestled against mine with my arm draped around her shoulders. It feels right. So, so right. She rests her head against my chest and lets out a quiet sigh, and the thumping of my heart gets louder.
Is it any wonder I came back to see her? Even if I haven’t suddenly changed where I come from, who I am? Even if I’m still not worthy of her? How could I resist someone as masterful as she is in the kitchen, who then turns into a soft, sleepy kitten in my arms?
I’ve longed for this for more than a year. Ever since I tasted her lips, my arms have felt empty without her in them.
As the other competitors drink and celebrate being safe from elimination, Jen looks up at me. “I’m sorry for snapping at you.”
My shoulders drop, hand skimming her jaw. “You didn’t snap at me.”
“I did. What happened today was my mistake. You’re not a baker. It wasn’t your fault you didn’t know about the butter.”
I shrug, then crack a smile. “I didn’t exactly learn about French pastry in my house growing up.”
“What was it like growing up at your house?” she asks, head resting on my shoulder. “You said your mom taught you to make chai tea.”
“She did,” I answer noncommittally. A lump forms in my throat at the thought of saying anything else. I could tell her that my father died when I was twelve, and I didn’t know how to deal with the loss. All I had to remember him by was his old hunting knife with the bone handle, the etchings on it worn down from years of use. It’d been passed down to him by his father, and then it went to me.
That fucking knife ruined my life.
Widowed and alone, my mother worked herself to the bone and never accepted help from anyone. She had to work two or three jobs and was never home, leaving my sister and me to fend for ourselves.
I could tell Jen that I fell in with the wrong crowd, that I thought I’d found a brotherhood—but all I found was trouble.
My past is a black hole. My childhood was one trauma after another, and it wasn’t until I was in my mid-twenties that I started cleaning up my act. By that time, I had a reminder inked on my back of all the mistakes I’d made. I had no skills and no education beyond a high school diploma I’d barely managed to earn.
I’ve been working in kitchens ever since.
Lungs squeezing so hard I can barely breathe, I just lean my chin against Jen’s head. “My life was boring up until about a year ago,” I tell her. “I’d rather hear about your childhood.”
Jen snorts. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
She pulls away from me to search my face, eyes narrowing. “You’re being serious right now.”
I nod. “You’re much more fascinating to me than almost anything else.”
“Has anyone told you that you might need to get your head checked?”
The tension gripping my chest eases as my lips curl. “No, but I’m sure you’re about to.”
“‘Fascinating’ is not a word I’d use to describe myself.” Jen sits up and stretches her neck from side to side. I watch the way the light plays on her hair, how her slim neck moves, how her shoulders bunch and relax.
“Agree to disagree,” I say quietly.
“Well, if you must know, I grew up with a surgeon for a mother and a CEO for a father,” she says matter-of-factly. “My brother got a degree in business and ended up in executive management at one of the fastest-growing companies on the eastern seaboard, so of course he’s my parents’ pride and joy. I’m doing this”—she sweeps her arm at the room full of contestants—“so you can imagine how proud they are of me.”
Prouder than they would be if they knew you were sitting beside me.
Forcing a smile, I stand up. “Come on. I want to do something.” Mostly I want to get away from this conversation, this constant reminder that I’m not good enough for her. I grab a plate full of food—piling it high with nuts and seeds and a few pieces of fruit—and duck out the front door.
Jen trots after me, frowning. “What are you doing?”
“Making an offering to our overlords.”
