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I pushed a very similar fluffy skirt up her thighs just two nights ago. Memories of the way it bunched around her waist as I devoured her sweet, hot pussy flood my head as she swishes by, shooting me a sultry glance from the corner of her eyes that nearly knocks me off my feet.
“Stop it,” I hiss as she passes.
She laughs under her breath but doesn’t respond. She’s listening to the woman explaining that the small ovens we’re using tend to run a few degrees hot and that there’s a chance she’ll blow a fuse if she runs more than two or three appliances at a time.
Hm. Good to know.
I make a mental note to turn off the mixer for the scone batter before I start whipping my lemon-infused cream. My English take on the “Classic New York Dessert” we’re creating for this first challenge—lemon-strawberry shortcake served on toasted scones with cream and shortbread crumble—is fairly simple, but I will have several ingredients going at the same time.
I jot a reminder on my notepad and then go back to admiring Gigi’s ensemble. And I’m not the only one. Wretched Hawley is slobbering on his shirt as he crosses to introduce himself, making me wish I’d warned Gigi that there was a sister-destroying monster in our midst.
But I needn’t have worried. Gigi is pleasant, but distant, and sends him on his way after just a few moments. Hawley crosses behind the cooking stations, giving each one a thorough once over.
Move along, wanker. Move along.
He lingers near Willow’s a few more seconds, bending over to tie his shoe or something, then marches on.
Once he’s back in his station, Gigi turns to Willow and begins a warm conversation clearly designed to put the anxious creature at ease. I overhear bits and pieces.
“I stopped in your shop the other week. The cinnamon roll cupcake was genius.”
“Oh, thank you. I’ve always loved cinnamon rolls and, well, of course I love cupcakes,” Willow replies.
“And to marry them together?” Gigi gives a chef’s kiss.
Willow’s smile lights up her face. “And the cinnamon rolls and cupcakes lived happily ever after.”
I smile too, at the Gigi Effect. Willow seems more relaxed after talking to her.
The redhead truly is an excellent judge of character. She shouldn’t doubt herself. Or me. I’m wonderful, and as soon as this contest is over, I’ll prove it to her.
Because I do need to kiss her again. Soon.
As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, she shifts her attention my way, her lips curving in a wry smile as she shakes her head. “It won’t work,” she calls out. “I refuse to be distracted by…any of that.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say with a grin, pleased that she finds me as distracting as I find her.
“Welcome contestants! And welcome, Brooklyn!” The short, pudgy man with the thick gray beard who seems to be running the competition waves to us from a small stage at the front of the tent. Behind him, several hundred people have gathered.
People who cheer as he turns to wave their way.
They’re so loud Willow flinches and looks ready to dive under her counter to hide. And I confess, my own pulse picks up a little. I didn’t expect this to be so public. Or performative.
But as the cheering crowd is allowed past the entrance ropes to surround the tent—settling into lawn chairs they’ve brought with them or onto blankets spread on the grass—it’s clear we’re going to have an audience.
“Gigi! Gigi! Over here!” The call comes from behind me, and I turn to see a group of women—all ages and colors, with seemingly nothing in common but the big smiles on their faces—waving her way.
“Give ‘em hell, kiddo!” an older woman wearing an unusually sexy pair of overalls shouts out. The woman beside her with the wild blond curls and killer smile seconds the sentiment.
“You’re already our winner,” says a younger woman with luminous dark brown skin and a stunning, big-eyed baby strapped to her chest with a shawl. Beside her, a pretty woman with brown hair and a heart-shaped face that reminds me a little of Gigi’s shouts, “You’re the goddess of pie, and don’t you forget it.”
I glance back at Gigi to see her blushing and shushing them, but it’s clear she’s happy to see her fan club.
I am too. She absolutely deserves a fan club.
Still, it makes me a little sad that I forbade Abby from coming. I didn’t want her to be forced into close proximity with Wretched Hawley or to worry about how she’s handling being near her ex for the first time since their split.
But now’s not the time for emotions.
Now is the time for cooking.
I roll up my sleeves and get to work.
Thank you, mum, for the inspiration.
Forty minutes later, I put the finishing touches on the strawberry shortcake.
