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)
“Actually, I won’t have time for pie.” I pull in a deep breath. “I’m going back. If I hurry, maybe I can get there before they announce the winners.”
“You’re sure?” Gram asks. “No pressure here, either way.”
I nod. “Yes, I want to be there for West, even if I am a bedraggled baby penguin.”
Harrison frowns. “Excuse me?”
“Long story,” I say, grabbing my bag from the floor beside the couch. “I’ll tell you later.” I start for the door then pause and turn back. “Or maybe I won’t. I don’t think you really want to know. But I will tell you this—” I point at one dear one and then the other. “I love you both. Thank you for giving it to me straight.”
“Haven’t given it to anyone straight since junior high,” Harrison deadpans.
I wiggle my finger his way again. “Which reminds me. West’s oldest brother plays for your team. So maybe, if all goes well…”
He hums beneath his breath. “I get laid by a hot Brit at your wedding?”
“I was thinking double wedding, but whatever sounds good to you,” I tease, some of the old spring in my step as I wave goodbye to Gram and hurry out the door.
But on my way back to the competition, in my third car of the night, I’m nervous again.
Nervous, but determined to do my best by the man I love.
If my best isn’t enough, that’s okay, too. Gram and Harrison are right. I don’t have to be perfect. I just have to give my full heart and be good to myself, even when I fall short.
And if I’m lucky, I’ll get to be good to West too, even when he falls short.
Surely, even unicorns have an off day now and then. I just hope I get to be there for him on those days.
And all the ones between.
30
WEST
Two hours and twelve minutes.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t aware of every second that’s dragged by since Gigi left. Every moment I’ve spent tending a fussy dark chocolate soufflé on this rooftop while wishing I were wherever she is now.
But I had a job to do and, damn it, I did it.
I have no doubt this chocolate creation is orgasmic.
Now, it’s in the judge’s hands, and I hope it’s enough to take home the prize.
But not for me. For Gigi. For the woman I adore, who left her parting orders—Kick Hawley’s arse.
Mission accepted.
Now, as the sun dips toward the horizon, pulling the day away with it, I send out a wish—on my mother’s memory and on the love she left me along with her soufflé recipe—that the rest of the evening will go as I hope.
Mr. Skips huddles with the judges then clears his throat and approaches the microphone, ready to announce the winners.
He stands before the crowd in a seersucker suit and a panama hat, beaming with pride. But there’s disappointment too, likely over Gigi’s ousting.
I get it. I feel it. Justice didn’t win out today, and the only way to make that even slightly more palatable is if someone other than Hawley wins the prize.
Please, let it be someone other than that fucking weasel…
Please don’t let him win. Not when I’m out of flour and sugar and all other easy-to-dump-over-an-asshole’s-head materials.
Though, I do a have a few leftover eggs I can toss if needed…
“Every day is better with a little sugar in it,” Mr. Skips says, patting his rotund belly. “Believe me, I know.” He holds for polite chuckles from the audience parked at the picnic tables scattered across the roof. “But I have no guilt about my love of sweets, cakes, chocolates, and treats. Like my grandmother, the wedding cake queen of Brooklyn, always said: The world can always use more of two things—love and frosting. And that’s why she started this contest, to celebrate the sweet things in life. So, without further ado, I’m pleased to announce our top three contestants. In third place is—” He takes a beat to scan his index card. I clench my fists, nerves tearing through me. “Frederick James Ebenezer Hawley.”
Ha! Brilliant.
Bloody fucking brilliant!
I stifle a whoop of victory as I whip my gaze to the tosser. Hawley’s doing a stellar impression of a beet, slowly turning red as embarrassment floods his neck, his face, even his beady little eyeballs.
The sore-loser scarlet matches his polo shirt perfectly as he pastes on a thin-lipped smile, giving a simpering thank you nod that makes me want to punch him. But doesn’t everything?
Now I have a very real shot at the top prize.
Like Gigi wanted.
Like she hoped.
But all I can think is that she should be here.
That she would love to see this.
And then, a vision in emerald emerges from the elevator.
Is that…?
I squint as the redhead steps onto the rooftop garden with her hand raised to shield her eyes from the fading sun as she scans the line of chefs gathered in front of our stations.