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If I didn’t know better, I’d think…
But, of course, I do know better. And I do think.
I stand with the red machine in hand, casting a narrow-eyed glare Hawley’s way as I plug it in. But the bastard isn’t looking at me. He’s pouring cream into a saucepan, an innocently focused look on his face.
Too innocent and too focused.
But I don’t have enough time or evidence to call him out for attempted sabotage right now. Though, of course, it had to be him. The rest of these contestants actually have a shred or two of integrity.
After a quick check to make sure Gigi and Willow both have the right sort of machines—they seem to—I set to work.
I’m bringing my London Fog ice cream base to a simmer—heavy whipping cream, sweetened condensed milk, Earl Grey tea, and my signature blend of spices—when Gigi clears her throat. Loudly.
I look up, sensing the sound is meant for me.
Our eyes meet across the counter of the cook station between us, currently occupied by an older woman I didn’t have the chance to meet last time. Gigi casts a wide-eyed glance at the counter behind me, where my ice cream maker is starting to smoke.
Gently.
And then, not so gently.
Lunging across the small space, I jerk the plug from the socket, earning myself an unpleasant shock in the process.
Cursing beneath my breath, I lift a hand to one of the staff members gliding up and down the aisles. I explain the situation with the malfunctioning machine and the unsuitable machine still on the shelf, and the helpful young chap rushes off to secure me another.
I set to work on my lavender sugar cookie batter, knowing the cookies have to be in the oven in five minutes if they’re going to cool enough to top the ice cream.
I’ve just barely plunked the ingredients in the standing mixer, however, when the staff member returns with Mr. Skips.
For once, the cheery elf looks fretful.
“I’m so sorry, but we don’t have a spare machine,” he says softly. “I would have sworn we had extras in the truck, but I just looked, and the bin is empty.”
I exhale and bite my lip, propping my hands on my hips as I try to sort out a solution.
“He can have mine,” Gigi calls out. I turn to see her swiftly mixing something in a silver bowl as she nods toward her machine. “Mine is coming out in ten minutes. I’ll pop it in the freezer and give the bowl a quick rinse. That should give West time to get his ice cream through, too.”
“Brilliant.” Mr. Skips’s apple cheeks pop as his familiar grin returns. “I’ll stay close and facilitate the cleaning and transition of the equipment. Thank you, Miss James.”
“Of course!” Gigi beams a smile at both of us, then adds a quick wink for me, and turns back to her work, having seamlessly offered a helping hand while fiercely pursuing her own goals.
I fucking love that about her.
As if reading my mind, Mr. Skips adds beneath his breath, “She’s lovely. I’ve known her since she was a little girl. Sweetest soul you’ll ever meet.”
“Agreed,” I murmur, my ribs giving my heart a squeeze.
And then, even though winning this contest isn’t high on my list at the moment, I turn back to my work and give it my all too.
Because that’s what my Gigi wants, and damn it, I intend to give her what she wants.
Everything she wants.
I can’t wait to figure out what that is. Some things I already know, of course—good food, great kinky sex, lots of laughter, and integrity and tenacity in all games of skill and chance—but there’s still so much to learn.
I want to discover every facet of Gigi. I want to read her like a good book—quickly the first time through because it’s too exciting to take my time and then slower the second and third times, savoring every beautiful sentence and perfectly executed plot twist.
There are only a handful of books I’ve read more than once. And I have a feeling she’s the only woman I’ll ever want to know this way.
25
GIGI
This time, I’m only sweating from the heat.
Not from being judged.
I certainly don’t love being judged, but I’m handling it better. A few days of putting myself out there with West is working wonders to soothe my anxiety prickles.
Turns out sharing My Feelings has some welcome side effects.
A smidge more courage.
A touch more gumption.
I stand tall, waiting as Mr. Skips clears his throat, cups his hand around his mouth as a megaphone for the cooking competition crowd. “What a delicious day for ice cream lovers! With those fantastic concoctions, we’re a few cups and cones closer to learning who’ll take home the prize. Before I announce the winners of this round, a brief reminder—the contestant with the most points at the conclusion of the final event wins. And now, in third place with eight points is Willow Thompson.”
