Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
“Right.” My breath shudders out as I force myself to take a step back. I look up at him and nod. “Goodbye, then. And good luck.”
“Smashing good luck. I can’t wait to see you perform under pressure. I have no doubt you’ll be brilliant.”
My lips part, then close, then part. I’m struggling to sort out a response to such sweetness from an adversary, when West adds with a sigh, “But fair warning, I’m still probably going to beat you. I’m very good at what I do. Everything I do.”
Crossing my arms, I shoot him my best cat-who-shredded-the-dog’s-favorite-squeaky-toy grin. “As am I, sir… As am I.”
He matches my evil grin and raises me a wink. “You certainly are, Ms. James. This is going to be fun.”
As I watch him walk away, heading back toward the park, I shake my head.
Fun isn’t the word I would use, but it’s certainly going to be…something.
10
WEST
That kiss was a bad idea.
A really bad idea.
I’m not usually the sort of bloke who has trouble staying on task. But as I check in with the contest coordinator at the festive Mr. or Mrs. Sweet Stuff tent in Prospect Park a few hours later, I struggle to concentrate as the woman leads me to my cooking station, explaining my setup. I keep scanning the space for a sign of Gigi. Will her station be near mine?
I keep thinking about that kiss too, and how much I want another one. And another. That woman’s mouth has exposed a gluttonous side of my personality I wasn’t aware existed before we met.
I’m not sure I like it.
“Weston, old boy,” a deep, wanker-ish voice shouts.
I curse under my breath. This is the problem with Gigi. She’s so damn distracting that I didn’t spot Hawley the Wretched before he saw me.
I turn to see the loathsome pastry chef waving from the cooking station behind mine.
“What are the chances?” he asks, grinning. “Two old school friends locking horns half a world away. I hope you’ll let me take you out for a pint after we finish up today. I’d love to talk, hash things out, get back to being mates again.”
I let my cool gaze skim him up and down.
He’s impeccably dressed, as usual. His pink-and-blue plaid summer suit should look ridiculous, but he somehow manages to pull it off with aplomb. Hawley is an arrogant arse, but he’s a good-looking man, by all accounts, who knows how to put himself together. And he can be charming when he wants to be.
I can’t fault my sister for falling for him. And Hawley certainly did seem devoted to her while they were together. He fooled even me there.
But I won’t forgive what he did to my sister, and I certainly know better than to let my guard down around this two-faced, back-stabbing goblin.
I turn away without a response, deciding the Cut Direct is the best response in this situation. In Regency times, my Byron ancestors excelled at the art of staring straight in the face a friend who’d fallen out of favor, while pretending not to have a clue who he was.
I’m bringing it back, and it feels good to leave Hawley sputtering while I turn a kind smile on the petite Asian woman at the station across from mine. She has a slick page boy cut and red-framed glasses a bit too large for her small face, but there’s a friendly light in her eyes. “Hello, I’m Weston. Nice to meet you.”
“Willow,” she whispers so softly I can barely hear her. “Good to meet you too.” Her fingers flutter at her throat, tugging the top of her lacy shirt away from her neck. Cartoon cupcakes dance on her pink apron. “I’m so nervous.”
“Don’t be,” I assure her. “I think a lot of us are new to the competition scene. We’ll stumble along together.”
Her cheeks flush. “Thank you. I just hope the judges don’t yell like that angry chef on TV.”
“I doubt it. All the people I’ve met so far have been quite nice,” I say, then add in a confidential voice, “And the grouchy chef? He’s a friend of the family and a total lamb off-screen. The going-mental thing is mostly an act for the cameras.”
“Really?” Her hand drops to the counter of her station, and she seems to relax a little.
“Really. And no one’s going to be worried about ratings here, so we should be safe from unnecessary drama.”
She nods and tucks her hair shyly behind one ear but doesn’t make any further attempt at conversation. Which is probably good since, at that moment, Gigi steps into the tent, following the same woman who guided me down the center aisle between the stations. The stunning redhead is wearing a dress that drops my jaw to the floor.
Glossy red fabric wraps around her neck, crisscrossing at her breasts and nipping in at her waist before flaring into a poof around her legs. The dress is…blisteringly hot, but it’s the fluffy black underskirt beneath it that has my fingers itching and my cock thickening behind the fly of my black suit pants.