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“Oh, dear,” Jen mumbles. “I’m not sure they’ll come back from this.”
The two women look shellshocked. Jen rushes over again—even though I’m whisking three different mixtures like my life depends on it—and counsels Sonia and Nikki on what they should do. Prognosis: start again.
The competitor in me wants to tell Jen to get back over here and work on our own croquembouche, but the man in me admires her. Even in the midst of a high-pressure situation, her heart is big enough to help a struggling team. These are the things that first made me notice Jen when we worked together. She notices so much about how other people feel. For Simone’s wedding, she made a hazelnut and chocolate cake at the last minute because she noticed Simone eating Ferrero Rochers all the time. She quit her job at a Michelin-starred restaurant under a world-renowned head chef to step into the unknown with the Four Cups Café—and I suspect a big part of that was wanting to support Candice in her new project.
On the outside, Jen seems like a hard ass. A logical, rational kind of person. But she’s deeply, incomparably empathetic. And I love that about her. I love a lot of things about her—maybe more than I want to admit to myself.
Because in what universe could a woman as incredible as Jen want an ex-con like me?
She makes her way back over to our station under the judges’ watchful eyes.
“Are you sure you’ve left yourself enough time?” Heather asks with an arched brow, eyes flicking to the Denim Ladies. “Assisting other competitors won’t help you win.”
“We’ve all been there,” she says, setting up a pastry bag to be filled with our swirled pastry cream and lemon curd. “Fallon has saved me more than once from a breakdown.” She glances over at me, a smile tugging at her lips.
I saved her from a ruined-cake-induced mental breakdown the first time we kissed. I didn’t mind her chocolate-covered hands being shoved into my hair—still wouldn’t mind if we got that messy again. My cock throbs at the memory, and I’m glad I’m wearing a heavy apron.
Jen glances at the judges, her eyes landing on Carrie’s assessing gaze. “I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror by the end of the competition and be proud of myself—and not just because of my baking.”
“Well, good luck,” Bernard says. He’s the only one who seems to approve, and a flare of jealousy lights up inside me. I can’t explain it, but I just hate the way he stares at her.
While I start on the raspberry filling, I watch Jen crouch down to check on the oven. She grabs one of the choux, tests the weight, then pulls the tray out.
Jen doesn’t stop for a minute. She orders me around, and I’m happy to oblige. When the dough is out and cooling, we check our fillings and assemble the sugar for the caramel. Jen tells me we’ll make two batches, since it’s quick to make and we don’t want it to harden halfway through assembly.
“Whatever you say, boss.” I mean the words seriously, but Jen just arches a brow at me, her lips quirking.
“I don’t remember you being this docile when we worked together at Four Cups,” she notes.
“Docile, huh?” My hands move without me watching as I glance over at Jen, loving the flush in her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes.
This is where she belongs, and I’ll be damned if I ever let anything stand in her way. It’s almost awe-inspiring to be in the presence of someone so talented, when my whole life has been an exercise in survival, in mediocrity.
In the last hour of baking, the live audience starts filtering in. Jen gives them a quick glance, flashing a smile at her posse. We work down to the wire, our hands sticky, the choux stuffed and caramel’ed and set in an impossibly tall tower.
When Jen starts creating spun sugar, it looks almost like a dance. Her hands sweep and swirl as lines of caramel dangle down from her spoon, encasing our tower of cream puffs in a cage of golden sugar. All I can do is watch and try not to let my heart beat out of my chest, because right now, I can’t deny my feelings for her.
I’ve been in love with Jen Newbank for years.
I love that she sticks her tongue out the side of her mouth when she’s focusing. I love that she’s militant, precise. That she cares about things. I love that she’s so damn talented, and I wish she could see just how amazing she really is.
She’s so attractive that staring at her is like staring into the sun. Blinding.
As I watch her put the finishing touches on it, my smile is tinged with sadness. I’ll never be on Jen’s level. I just spent the last six months surrounded by ex-cons. I was volunteering my time and doing something worthwhile, sure, but I’m so ashamed of my past. How could someone like Jen ever want someone like me? She might slum it with me when we’re in this environment, but what happens when the competition ends?
When the time counts down to zero, Jen steps back from the bench with her hands covered in caramel and her face flushed with excitement. She turns to me with a broad smile on her face, then launches herself at me. I shake off my sadness just in time to catch her as she wraps her legs around my hips. A laugh falls from my lips for a second, just before Jen silences me with a searing kiss.
Heat rips through my core, my cock stiffening in an instant. This is the first time she’s kissed me, the first time she’s made the first move—and damn, but it feels incredible. Her fingers are sticky on my neck and she tastes like sugar and raspberry, and it’s the most perfect moment of my whole fucking life.
Then a loud bang sounds from the rafters, followed by a yelp and a scream that I recognize—because it came from my sister.
CHAPTER 13
Nora
I’m literally on the edge of my seat watching Jen and Fallon work like they can sense each other’s every move. They work perfectly together. It’s entrancing, and my heart grows for my brother—especially when I see the way he’s looking at Jen. But just as the sound of the buzzer goes off and Jen throws herself into Fallon’s arms, the whole bench collapses out from under me, sending me crashing down to the ground. I scream, flailing my arms as I fall back, landing with a hard thud on the wooden planks of the barn’s mezzanine.
Simone lands beside me with a groan.
