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And in the grand scheme of things does it even matter?
Not really.
But my pride does.
I straighten my shoulders and draw a deep breath. “I’m not divorced. I’ve never been married. But I certainly hope, Gabriella, that you’re happier now than you were before. And Nelson? Goodbye. Again.”
I walk away with my dignity intact but tears streaming down my face. Once I’m a block away, they fall faster, stinging my skin.
Nelson was lying. Which is on him.
But there’s something on me.
Something I’m responsible for.
My choices.
Do I have chronically awful taste in men?
And is West going to be the next guy I run into once we’re over, when he tires of me and finds another plaything who’s more interesting than Gigi the curvy baker who loves dresses and her friends and nerdy games and has ordinary, pedestrian dreams like finding someone who wants to snuggle her for the rest of her life?
Back at my apartment, I rush inside, shut the door, and slump against the wall—feeling weirdly uncomfortable and unlovable all over again.
Deciding to indulge myself just this once, I call into Sweetie Pies that I won’t be in today, after all, explaining I need time to plan my competition entry for tomorrow even though I’ve had it locked and loaded since the day after the first contest.
I am a very prepared person.
Just not a very memorable one.
Stop it, I insist as I change into a silk kimono and prop up in bed to watch old episodes of my favorite makeover show. You are memorable and West isn’t Awful Nasty Nelson.
Nelson, who visibly cringed when I said something the tiniest bit nerdy or wanted to go to Trivia Night at the pub instead of martinis at whatever Manhattan hot spot he was desperate to be seen at. Nelson, who preferred for me to leave his place before midnight and never held me tight all night long.
My brain makes very good points here, but I’m still low for the rest of the day.
Even West’s romantic text later that afternoon—I’m dying for you to sleep over again, but tomorrow’s opening day and Abby will kill me if I’m groggy because I was up all hours kissing every perfect inch of you—can’t banish the lingering gloom.
It makes me smile, but I’m not sad to have a good excuse to sleep in my own bed tonight.
I shoot back—Abby is correct. And we both need rest for the contest tomorrow. But Saturday night? You’re mine.
All yours—he confirms.
For now, I think.
For now.
22
WEST
It’s grand-opening day at the shop, and customers line up down the block. Abby, at the counter, and the two servers and busboy on duty in the dining area have all been slammed.
The madness is so intense that around eleven a.m. I call in another server and busboy, only for traffic to die down by the time they arrive.
But that’s good.
Better too much help than too little. And Eli, the server, is fabulous in the kitchen.
I put him to work prepping the dough for tomorrow, when he and George, my second in command, will be in first to get the ovens going. Then I toss my dirty apron into the laundry bin and head out back for some fresh air.
There, I find Graham munching sandwiches in the garden. When he sees me, he lifts a pinkie finger.
“Hello,” I say, laughing as I cross to clasp the hand he holds up in welcome. “You should have had your server tell me you were here. I would have sent out some extras with your order.”
“I didn’t want to bother you on your first day. Just wanted to provide friendly support and pick up scones for breakfast before I head home.” He smiles his predatory businessman smile. “Sounds like that contest was as good for business as Abby hoped it would be. She said you were slammed all day.”
I sink into the chair across from his with a satisfied sigh. “Yeah. We were.”
“Made you even more determined to win it all? Leave those other chefs in the dust?”
I shrug and cross my arms, slumping a little lower. “Eh…”
“Eh?” He arches a brow. “What’s that about? Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying the limelight.”
“No, the limelight’s fine. The first event was fun, and the buzz it generated was clearly brilliant, but…” I sigh again, a less satisfied one this time. “But I’m honestly considering dropping out.”
Graham’s brows shoot up. “What? You? But you’re the most competitive person I know. You almost punched me over a poker game, for God’s sake.”
“You were cheating.”
“We were playing for pennies!”
“I don’t care. Cheating is cheating and it’s a reprehensible thing to do no matter how big the pot.” I drag a hand down my face. “But that’s different. I like to win, yes, but I like…other things more.”
Graham tosses the last of his rosemary and goat cheese sandwich onto his plate. “This is about a woman, isn’t it? Specifically, that chef from game night you tied with in the first round.”
