by Abby Knox
Copyright © 2021 by Abby Knox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is coincidental.
Edited by Aquila Editing
Cover Designer: Cover Girl Design
Summary
Chloe
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I've been obsessed with the famous baker since I was far too young to fall in love with a man so much older. My family thinks it's an innocent celebrity crush, but what they don't know is I've been saving myself for this stone cold silver fox. And now, to everyone's disbelief, I've got my chance. There's only one problem that I hope he doesn't notice: I'm a terror in the kitchen.
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Phillip
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Everything about my life is endlessly enviable. A celebrity chef with his own television show, best selling cookbooks, and a sprawling estate-- it would seem I have it all. Except for one thing. I need someone to help me fill these empty rooms -- with love, with children, and with a feminine touch. And then one day, a single catastrophic audition video changes everything. I'm going to do everything in my power to meet this woman. I only hope she doesn't mind leaving the cooking to me.
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JUDGE ME is the first sweet treat in a themed collection of very short, very hot reads serve up with the tropes you crave: age gap; billionaires; virgins; a light dusting of kink and lots of heat!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
About the Author
More by Abby Knox
Chapter One
Chloe
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“Who. Is. That?”
My handful of popcorn pauses halfway to my mouth, eyes glued to the stone-cold Daddy on the screen.
My mom, who is cuddled up under a blanket on the sofa next to me, gestures impatiently for me to hand over the popcorn bowl. It’s our favorite night of the week, when we watch baking competitions together and eat junk food. We’ve already binged all of them, so tonight, Mom and I are trying out a show that’s new to us. I’m already hooked.
“Phillip Wildwood,” she answers after I hand over the bowl. “He’s supposed to be some super-famous bread chef, but I’ve never heard of him before now.”
As Mom crunches away, distracted by the snacks, I feel dormant places inside me awaken to the dominating presence on the screen, as if a homing beacon has summoned me.
I study the manners of this Phillip Wildwood as he appraises each fidgety contestant with a cool, unreadable stare. The man’s icey scrutiny has knocked all the smart words out of me.
The barrier of a television screen does nothing to reassure me that man is not also judging me. And I—always the overachieving oldest child—like to be judged. All my life, I’ve thrived under stern guidance from teachers, coaches, and tutors. This feels different. Phillip’s seemingly cold countenance, and the way his aura makes everyone around him twitchy, rouses not my instinct to win at something, but to win…him.
My awakening also feels like a fortune teller has pulled back the curtain dividing my present from my future. I’m looking straight at my life in a few years, and my future world is staring back at me with unyielding regard. The man seems committed to intimidating people, but my body, mind, and soul feel something else.
I don’t know the first thing about baking, except as a spectator sport. But I do know one thing. One day I’m going to marry that man.
As a rule, I regularly crush the high school competition in chess, debate (comedic monologue, thank you very much), and Model United Nations. Baking, cooking, and domestic talents are the domain of my sisters Cara and Cherise, ages fifteen and thirteen, respectively.
Tonight, Cara’s busy with her study group, and perky Cherise is at cheerleading practice. Middle child, Diana, my closest confidant, has snuck out of the house with her stoner friends—again—and has sworn me to secrecy. The youngest, Cecily, is holed up in her room, writing the great American novel.
Just as well my sisters are not joining Mom and me tonight; the four of them become ruthless little badgers whenever they see my cheeks turn rosy, and that’s usually when Henry Cavill’s chin dimple appears on screen.
Henry has a lot going for him, but I’m very sorry to that man today. Because when Phillip Wildwood opens his mouth to speak, the accent bowls me over. I’m finished. Dead. Ruined. “Oh. Wow. He’s…wow.”
Mom lifts one shoulder casually. “Meh. Seems a little full of himself.”
But I can see there’s plenty more to Phillip Wildwood than ego. Beneath the layer of ice lies oceans of warm currents.
“I’m going to have his babies one day.”
My mom snorts, thinking I’m exaggerating for comic effect. “He’s older than your father.”
“You don’t know that!” I laugh. But if she’s right, does it matter?
A realization dawns on me, however, that could potentially pose an obstacle.
“Wait a minute. He’s in Great Britain?”
Mom speaks through a mouthful of popcorn, watching a contestant jump a whole foot in the air in fright upon noticing a silent Phillip standing behind her, observing her technique of folding dried cherries into her biscuit dough. “The location is, like, in the name of the show, Pop Tart.” My mom’s nickname for me makes me grin and roll my eyes. Pop Tarts are pretty much the only thing I can’t mess up in the kitchen.
And here I am, on the other side of the pond, experience my sexual awakening.
This just won’t do.
One way or another, I am going to meet this Phillip Wildwood. And I am going to make him mine.
Chapter Two
Phillip
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“Bloody Americans.”
Bloody everyone, if I’m honest. I switch off the news; I can’t take any more nonsense tonight.
Leaving the media room, I make my way down the stone hallway to my bedroom, thinking how nice it would be to have someone to talk to about current events.
It’s lonely being Phillip Wildwood. I’ve made sure of it.
I pause halfway to my room and rest my hand on a doorknob of the most sumptuous room in the castle, and it’s not the kitchen. This exquisite room, I’m saving for a special someone. Against my better judgment, I push the door open to have a look.
Sheets protect all the furniture, reminding me that I have no one in my life who I feel I can trust with the secrets of this room. The paddling room, I call it. Surveying the four-poster bed, the luxurious bedding, elegant furniture, state-of-the-art sound system, and of course the trunk full of toys, I wonder if I’ve put the cart before the horse.
Maybe I should have waited for the woman to show up before creating the one-of-a-kind room for us to play in.
About to head off to bed, a pinging sound from the library disrupts me. No surprise there, as I have a habit of leaving my phone to charge in there all day, much to the dismay of my assistant.
The bare stone floor chills my feet as I trud
ge grumpily down to the library. Why the hell would I, a working-class kid from Liverpool, buy an empty Warwickshire castle for myself alone? Because I could, first of all. Second, the location makes stunning pastoral visuals for my show, Britain’s Best Baker. Also, because I mistakenly thought I’d be wifed up by fourty, and this hollow space would be bursting with children by now. Once again, Phillip, your dreams are bigger than your reality.
I dash to the library, determined to get this digital exchange over with so I can go to bed. Alone. As always.
“Please check your email,” is the text that I read from my assistant, Jason. Harrumphing, I switch over to email and see a message from the executive producer.
“We’re going to produce a special American episode for the show.”
I don’t bother reading the rest.
I phone the executive producer, Harlow, not caring that the time is after midnight. She may hold the purse strings, but she can forget this appalling idea as of right now.
“I know why you’re calling, Phillip. But the idea was already focus-grouped. People responded positively, and we need something fresh. We’re losing viewers.”
I grumble, “Not my problem. I’ve been giving them exactly what they want since day one.”
“You’ve become grouchier over the years. The focus group said you’re a downer. We need a softer image.”
“Harlow, we’re friends, so I can say what I’m about to say. Phillip Wildwood has two settings: hungry and horny. Both make me the charming bloke everyone’s fallen in love with. Grouchy is my brand.”
Harlow sighs. “As much as I love it when you refer to yourself in the third person,” she says sarcastically, “the Wildwood brand is less charming than it used to be.”
She pauses for my reply, and I let the silence hang for a moment. Maybe she’s right.
“Fine,” I respond through gritted teeth. “I’ll go along with it. But I get the final say on who makes it through.”
“Of course,” Harlow chirps, a smile beaming at me through the phone. “Goodnight, Phillip.”
I hang up and march up to my waiting, empty king-sized bed.
Unfortunately, I can’t spank an American on worldwide television, but I take solace in the prospect of figuratively paddling a cocky colonist into submission.
Chapter Three
Chloe
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My mom and all four of my younger sisters are utterly shocked that I’m going to be on TV.
I don’t know why they’re so surprised. I’ve been talking about nothing else since the age of seventeen. Now age twenty-three, I’ve watched every episode of that English baking show at least a hundred times in between improv classes and stand-up gigs. I’ve bought all of Phillip Wildwood’s cookbooks and memorized them. I subject my family to my terrible baking skills at least daily. And I even wrote a raunchy comedy bit about my crush, and it always kills at the Chuckle Bucket. Or, at least, I killed that one time there were fans of British television in the audience.
“But you don’t even know how to bake! How is this possible?” Mom asks, not believing the congratulatory email even as she reads it on my phone.
“I know how to bake!” I shout back, a little bit hurt. “It just…never turns out exactly as planned.”
I look forlornly at the plate of scones on the breakfast island. This is exhibit A. They’re the texture of hockey pucks. But nothing can spoil my mood. The universe has blessed me with an opportunity, and I’m going to go and get my man.
Dad, because he’s a wonderful man who will lie to protect my feelings, pipes up from behind his morning newspaper, “I loved that soft pretzel you made for my birthday, and don’t let anyone tell you you can’t do something.”
I curtsy. “Thank you, Dad.”
He beams at me and then looks at Mom. “See? She even knows how to curtsy for when she meets the queen.”
I giggle. “I’m not going to meet the queen. Especially not if she’s ever heard that one joke I made about Prince Andrew.”
Dad winks at me. “You never know.”
“Bill! Don’t encourage her. I’m trying to stop her from getting her hopes up; to save her from rejection and humiliation. In a foreign country, no less!”
I chirp, “No need to get my hopes up. I already know it’s meant to be.”
Mom turns to my dad, exasperated. “The only reason she wants to go is that she’s got this cockamamie idea of making that rude British judge fall in love with her.”
“That old guy? Huh.” Dad seems neutral. Maybe he feels that at twenty-three, he doesn’t need to be so protective of me anymore. He would be correct.
“Yes! Doesn’t that make you want to protect your only daughter from getting hurt? I looked it up; he’s forty-eight years old! Older than you!”
“Huh,” Dad repeats. I know that sound. He strokes his beard. And then I hear the smile in his voice. “You know, she’d be well looked after. He’ll probably treat her better than those creepy dude comedians at the Chuckle Bucket. And she’s always wanted to go to England.”
Mom clucks, “That’s because she’s been holding out for that man! I’m telling you, the fantasy is out of control!”
“I tell you what,” Dad says, sighing and folding up his newspaper. “How about if she does go to England and is subsequently humiliated, then you can say I told you so, and I can finance a brand new car of her choice. It’s the least we can do for her, with all of the debt she’s acquired from improv classes, acting classes…”
I run at him, throwing my arms around the only person besides my sister Diana who truly gets me.
My mother shakes her head. “You spoil her rotten.”
Dad’s face, however, beams with irrepressible sunshine, just like mine. “Knock ‘em dead, princess.”
And now, here I am, getting ready to knock ‘em all dead.
I have been saving myself for Phillip Wildwood, and my day has finally come.
I am in London, on my way to meet the man himself. Well, according to my itinerary, I’m actually in the English countryside, somewhere near a place called Warwickshire. Don’t ask me to pronounce it.
After the butler shows me to my room in the wing where the six other American contestants are staying, I decide to explore. Sitting on a plane for that long has me ready to climb the walls. We’re all supposed to meet in the ballroom in thirty minutes to be briefed by the show’s producers, so I’m sure I can fit in a quick walk around the grounds. To get into the spirit, I’ve borrowed this kickass Victorian dress from my friend’s theater troupe. What other time in my life will I have the opportunity to roam around a place that looks like a historical film set, dressed as a noble lady? Never. And also? This thing makes my boobs look amazing.
The castle grounds do not disappoint. A stunning rose garden lies hidden beyond a hill at the back of the castle, facing a small lake that’s smooth as glass apart from a group of swans gliding across the surface. It occurs to me I might not be able to find my way back to the ballroom, but I don’t care. The scent of the enormous blooms overwhelms me, and I have the urge to lie down in the grass and take it all in.
The breeze is so lovely, the sky so blue, and I’m actually here, at the home of my one true love. He just doesn’t know it yet.
I close my eyes and inhale the scent of roses, wondering what I’m going to say when I finally meet my Phillip.
Chapter Four
Phillip
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Today’s the day, and a sudden panicky feeling has overwhelmed me that I’ve taken this whole thing too far.
As I pace back and forth in my room, I can’t think of a single word in the way of introduction.
When Chloe finds out that I’ve manipulated this entire process just to meet her, she’ll be running back to Heathrow. Justifiably.
A few weeks ago, I perused the audition videos, one after the other. About fifty unbearable videos in, I spotted her. Not a prize-winning baker with any domestic credentials to speak of, but a win
ner in all other immeasurable ways. Long dark hair framed a pair of deep soulful eyes, perky nose, and full lips turned up in an impish grin. She wore a frilly apron, joking and babbling her way through a disastrous cooking demonstration. At one point, she set a sauté pan on fire by accident. She put it out with the apron—while she was still wearing it—and continued on with her life story without missing a beat, as if nothing alarming was happening.
On that day, I didn’t know her name, and I didn’t care. She looked like a nightmare in the kitchen, and I didn’t care about that either. I just knew I had to have her.
Sure, I could have tracked her down instead of inviting her here under the pretense that she has any chance of winning a baking competition. Problem is, I’m so terrible at meeting women, I honestly don’t know which would be creepier.
I am so nervous about meeting the woman of my dreams that I have to walk off my anxiety. The director has scheduled me to meet the contestants in the ballroom in thirty minutes—enough time for a quick jaunt.
I’ve thought about nothing else since seeing Chloe’s audition tape.
I decide to take a stroll through the rose garden, as it always calms my nerves. As I reach the far end of the garden, I see a scene that looks straight out of a Victorian novel. A young woman in a long empire-waist dress lies in the tall grass.
As I get closer, I freeze in my tracks. It’s Chloe. But that’s…