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I scowl. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“He’s talking about the fact that I’ve known Mr. Skips since I was a kid,” Gigi’s says from my right, her voice tight with choked-back tears.
I shift my gaze, my chest filling with knives as I see the tragic, shame-filled look on her face.
“The organizers aren’t allowed to choose family or close friends as contestants,” she continues. “Mr. Skips didn’t think we’d spent enough time together for me to be out of the running, but once someone pointed out how long we’ve known each other…” She shoots a cutting look Hawley’s way. “Well, the other organizers agreed that I should be disqualified.” She swallows and says to the group at large. “So… I’m out. I won’t be competing tonight.”
I go cold, my heart frozen.
This can’t be happening to my Gigi.
I have to do something.
Some of the contestants murmur dismayed, sincere-sounding apologies, but Hawley just stands there, smugly beaming.
Gloating.
So bloody pleased with himself for ruining an innocent woman’s dream, for snatching her one shot at something that matters right out from under her.
I won’t let him get away with it.
No Cut Direct this time.
I’ve got another plan.
One that’ll make all my feelings absolutely clear.
In seconds, I have the flour canister in my hands and upended over Hawley, raining wheat flour all over his wretched head.
Oh, well. Who uses wheat flour with chocolate anyway?
He sputters and lets out a shocked, squawking sound. His arms fly out to the sides, and his shoulders hunch as flour slides down the back of his flamingo print button-down shirt to stain the back of his navy pants.
“You miserable fucking wanker,” he finally sputters out. “But thanks. Now you’ll be disqualified too.”
“But it was an accident,” Willow pipes up from beside me, steel in her voice I haven’t heard before. “Wasn’t it, everyone?”
“Yeah, just flew off the shelf,” the young guy in the purple apron says.
“Must have been the wind,” adds the older woman who specializes in flan as the rest of the assembled crew make noises of agreement.
Clearly no love lost for Hawley here.
“You’d better get to your station,” Willow adds in a soft yet slightly ominous voice. “Before something else accidentally falls on you.” Then she pelts him with one of the chocolate chips from the cup in her hand.
It hits him in the neck and lodges in a mound of flour near his collar.
Hands curling into fists, he storms away with a huff.
After he’s gone, I realize he’s not the only one who’s made a run for it.
I search every inch of the rooftop, but Gigi’s vanished.
Gone. Like she was never here to start with.
27
GIGI
I thought I knew embarrassment when I vomited all over Christy Cannon’s bathroom door during her eighth-grade Christmas party. I’d drunk eggnog, like a fool. I’d wanted to see if I was still allergic to eggs.
The verdict?
Disgustingly, violently allergic.
Half my class saw me yak up a yule log before I could make it to the toilet.
That felt like a ten on the one-to-ten scale of life’s most horrifying moments.
Then, there was Theodore, watching me slide with a look that said I couldn’t be more horrifically uncool or embarrassing if I tried.
Those moments feel tiny compared to this one.
As the elevator doors open, releasing me into the lobby, I want to race out of here, tear down the street, leave this all behind.
But I hate running, and I’m wearing two-inch pumps.
My heart thrashes inside my chest, mortified by what I’ve done.
Fine, what I did wasn’t technically awful.
But the fact that I messed up so publicly, in front of everyone I respect, Hawley aside, is awful.
The fact that West and Willow and Mr. Skips and the other contest organizers and everyone I wanted to impress saw me step in it makes me feel so very small.
And it’s my fault.
I didn’t pay close enough attention to the rules.
I missed the caveat. The catch.
And now I just served up my aching, tender heart on a platter for everyone to feast on. Hi, I’m Gigi, and I’ve been disqualified for being an idiot.
“I should have known better,” I mutter as I march out of the hotel, rustling around in my bag for my sunglasses.
I find a pair and shove them on my face, but not before fat, salty tears streak down my cheeks.
My throat tightens, a hard, hot knot of humiliation.
Yes, this is more than a ten.
My eyes sting, and I gulp back more tears. But they’re relentless, determined to flood my eyes.
Outside in the muggy evening air, I make my way to the subway that’ll take me home, and my phone buzzes.
Rooting around in my purse, I grab it, spying a notification. A text from West.
All my emotions try to throttle me.
Amid all the awfulness, a spark of hope flares inside. I can’t help it. I want West to stay and beat the shit out of Hawley, but I also want him here with me. I want to run away with him, find somewhere safe to curl up together, and let him hold me as I drown in a sea of tears.
