by Lili Valente
I threw the next, he stumbled over on the sand and stayed there, and that was that.
The second time was at a bachelor party. The bachelor, a poorly chosen friend from my investment banking days, got handsy with the stripper and punched me when I tried to intervene. I gave him a black eye that ruined the wedding photos the next day.
Or so I was told.
I was uninvited after I wrapped the stripper in my coat and gave her a ride to her flat.
I’m not a violent man and have never thrown the first punch, but for some reason, I desperately want to hit Hawley. And not just because he’s apparently fucking with the equipment in an attempt to cheat his way to the top.
No, it’s because of Gigi.
Of what she said the other night.
You should be more kind and careful with a lover than a friend.
She’s so fucking right. And instead of being kind or careful with my sister, this man made Abby feel like she’s a fool who doesn’t deserve to be treasured or adored. And yes, Hawley’s been a piece of shit for a while now, but the way I feel for Gigi brings home in a new way just how nightmarish it is to accept a woman’s trust and then violate it so brutally.
And the fact that he did that to my sweet, smart, lovely sister…
Smash.
I want to smash his face and worry about the consequences later.
Thankfully, Willow pops into my line of sight before I can do anything rash.
“Hey, West,” she says with an only slightly shy smile. “I saw the crowd outside your place this morning. Congratulations on the amazing opening!”
“Thank you.” I divide my attention between Hawley, who’s now placing the device he was tampering with on the countertop in front of him, and Willow, in front of me. “It was a wonderful surprise. My sister was very excited. And relieved. She’s been more worried about the bottom line.”
“That’s great, though, to have someone focused on that,” Willow says, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I wish I had a money person. And I wish it wasn’t so hot.”
“Boiling,” Gigi agrees as she joins us, hooking her arm through my elbow and shooting a curious look up at me that asks Are you okay?
I sigh. “I’m fine. Willow saved me from myself.” Willow frowns and I explain, “I was on my way to punch Hawley. Or perhaps something slightly less violent, but still inappropriate.”
“It seemed like he was tampering with some of the equipment,” Gigi explains. “But it looks like it’s for his station, so…”
Willow glances over her shoulder and turns back with a thoughtful expression. “Yes, that is his station. He borrowed a screwdriver from one of the organizers so he could slow down the churn speed on his machine. He’s doing a custard.”
Gigi pats my arm. “See there. It’s all good.”
“Well…” Willow tugs a lock of her hair.
“Well?” I prompt. “Has he been bothering you? If so, that face-smashing offer is still on the table.”
She shakes her head. “No, I was just…thinking about the fire at the last event. That hot plate that caught my apron wasn’t plugged in when I got to my station. I know because I checked to make sure I’d have enough room for my mixer and my submersion blender, and nothing else was plugged in. So maybe someone else plugged it in? And I’m not sure, but I think Hawley was the only other person who was ever behind the counter at my station. He was walking around—”
“Sticking his nose into everyone’s business,” I finish with a nod. “I saw that too. And I wouldn’t put sabotage past him. His moral fiber is about as firm as a cookie dunked in milk one too many times.”
Gigi hums beneath her breath. “Or graham crackers. They really do fall to pieces in a cup of milk.”
I glance down at her, a smile breaking across my face at the sight of my earrings glittering against her red curls. Even when I’m in the mood to smash faces, she just gets to me. She’s so damn adorable and beautiful and correct about graham crackers.
I tell her so, then add to Willow, “So be sure to check your station closely and don’t leave it unattended after you do. And Gigi and I have your back, of course.”
“Absolutely,” Gigi agrees.
“But if he did do that…why me?” Willow wonders, her brow furrowing as she fans her flushed face. “I’m not much of a threat.”
Gigi wags a finger her way. “Stop it. You came in second last time, woman! You’re a talent and a force to be reckoned with. If I were into winning via foul play, I’d totally sneak salt into your sugar canister.”
Willow smiles, but it’s almost immediately replaced by a grimace. “I’m going to go check my sugar and salt right now. Just in case.”
“Good thinking,” I say. “And good luck.” As she scurries off, I turn to Gigi and whisper, “Last chance to tell me to stand down. Speak now, or don’t be sad when my melted ice cream disaster is slightly less awful than your melted ice cream disaster.”
She grins and tips her head back. “Never. Hit me with your best shot, buddy, and I’ll see you after the judging.”
“See you soon,” I murmur, watching her move to meet the staff member approaching through the shaded tent.
For a moment, I dare to hope it might be cool enough in the shade to make a difference, but as my own helpful staff member shows me to my station, it becomes clear it’s actually more stifling under here. The flap on one side of the tent blocks the sea breeze—good for keeping sand out of our sweets, but bad for air flow.
Very bad.
By the time Mr. Skips has welcomed the onlookers and explained we’ll each have forty minutes to create our ice-cream inspired offering, the back of my shirt is sticking to my skin and I know modifications must be made. Removing my cufflinks and tucking them into my pants pocket, I roll up my sleeves and remove my vest, draping it over the stool at the back of my station.
I turn back to the shelves below my counter.
That’s when I see the red ice cream machine tucked behind the silver one on the top shelf. If I weren’t a good three feet away, I wouldn’t have noticed the second one, I’m sure. I would have snatched up the silver and gotten down to business. It’s going to take at least twenty-five minutes for the ice cream to freeze in the machine, after all, so there’s no time to waste getting my recipe assembled. And who would imagine there was more than one maker on offer?
Glancing around the stations as the other contestants set to work, I see that almost everyone seems to have a red or blue machine. No silver. And on the shelves in my line of sight, it appears each chef has only one maker to choose from.
Huh…
I crouch to arrange the machines side by side and glace quickly at the specs for each. The silver one is an older model and requires a pre-frozen bowl—a bowl that is presently sitting in the machine in the sweltering heat, nowhere close to frozen. If I’d put my base in there, I would have had a lightly chilled soup forty-five minutes later, not anything close to ice cream.
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.”
I turn to the sweet and clever woman who’s becoming my friend and give her a silent yay. She smiles back, big and genuine, her cheeks flushed behind her red-framed-glasses.
“In second place, West Byron and Frederick James Ebenezer Hawley with eight and a half points each,” Mr. Skips says.
My heart slams to the ground.
Crushed like a cigarette butt beneath a boot on the Coney Island beach.
That means I didn’t even make the top three. I’m not going to stand a chance at being Mrs. Sweets.
I wince but lift my chin, saying strong.
Mr. Skips chuckles, a cheery sound, as he reads the final name. “And the winner of the round, with nine points, is Gigi James and her peach cobbler and goat cheese ice cream masterpiece. Congratulations, Gigi! Innovative and incredible work,” he says with a go-get-em-girl pump of his fist.
Wow. I did not expect that.
At all.
Glee rushes through me, along with a tingly sense that victory is in my grasp.
I’ve always loved games and challenges, competitions of any kind really, but I’d really love to lock this title down. For my family’s business. For what it can do for Sweetie Pies. And for what it says about me–that I can carry on the family legacy just fine.
The trouble is, victory is sweetest when it comes fair and square. And today’s triumph most decidedly did not.
Hawley doesn’t deserve second place. His stunt was total poppycock. No, I can’t prove he’s the one who sabotaged West’s machine, but I overheard some of the staff whispering while I was putting the finishing touches on my dish. Apparently, one of them spotted Hawley earlier coming out of the equipment truck with a duffle bag. If he wasn’t snatching the extra ice cream makers—after messing with West’s to make sure it wouldn’t work—I’ll drink an entire pot of tea without cream or sugar.
I didn’t call Nelson on his bullshit yesterday—and I stand by that choice—but that guy over there in the aqua shorts and a pastel yellow polo shirt? His hoodwinkery today?
Unacceptable.
He messed with my man. He damaged my boyfriend’s chances to win this thing. West might not care about the contest. But I do. And contests need to be won by playing by the rules.
I take off my earrings, set them in my purse, and march over to the prick in pastel, plastering a smile on my face. The best way to begin any confrontation? Kill them with kindness.
“Congratulations,” I coo. “You’re doing so well. And I wanted to tell you, I recently had one of your fabulous frozen eclairs. Absolutely delicious,” I tell him, wishing it were a lie, hating that it’s not.
The man does make tremendous treats.
Which only makes his cheating more unforgivable. It’s not like he needs an edge.
“Ah, thank you so much. You’re a doll.” His lips curve into a smug, entitled grin. “And so talented. I’ve actually been thinking of adding frozen pies to my product line. Maybe we could go into business together. What do you think? Would you consider letting me commission a few of your recipes?” he asks, throwing me for a loop.
For a split second, I’m flattered.
And a little tempted.
The man does run a food empire.
Yes, Sweetie Pies does very well with direct orders on our website, but our pies aren’t in grocery stores.
For several tantalizing seconds, I imagine my pies in his distribution network and how exciting it would be to see my recipes in the freezer section.
But then I picture West’s smoking ice cream maker, and I burn inside.
I am passionate about a lot of things, including my boyfriend.
I give a polite, yet crusty, “Thank you so much. But they’re family recipes. They’re not for sale, though I appreciate your interest.” I smile. “Speaking of interest, I’m sooo curious. What, exactly, were you doing in the equipment truck earlier?”
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
“The truck. One of the staff members saw you coming out with a duffle bag.”
He smiles, a sickly false one. “They must be mistaken. I’ve been here in the
tent since I arrived.”
“Huh. Really?” I press. “Seems hard to imagine there are that many men around wearing such nicely starched pastel.”
His eyes narrow. “We’re beachside. Pastel is a natural choice.”
“Is it?” I narrow my eyes back at him. “Look around and find one other person in that crowd wearing anything close to what you’re wearing. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
His lips curve in a meaner, harder smile. “As amusing as this conversation is, I’ve reached my limit on indulging paranoia today, buttercup.”
Oh no he didn’t.
He did not say that.
The kid gloves are coming off.
I park my hands on my hips. “One, I am not a buttercup. You don’t get to give me a nickname. Especially, a diminutive one. Two, it’s not paranoia. You committed ice cream subterfuge and you know it.”
He cackles, tossing his head back, his perfectly styled hair not even moving. Not a single hair. “Ice cream subterfuge? What next? Candy sabotage? Chocolate chicanery? Do you even hear yourself?”
I resist the urge to back down in the face of his scorn. People like him use shame as a weapon and I refuse to let Captain Buttercup land a blow.
“Ridiculous. I agree. But that’s what you were doing,” I say, mincing no words. “And you were messing with my boyfriend. You were trying to knock him out of the running.”
His brow pinches. “Your boyfriend? How interesting. How very interesting,” he murmurs. “Well, I hope you two enjoy exchanging kisses over paranoid conspiracy theories. Perhaps name your next ice cream flavor…subterfuge.”
“Perhaps I will.” I lean closer and whisper sweetly, “Also, you’re kind of a twat. And by ‘kind of,’ I mean you are definitely a twat.”
I spin on my heel and walk away.
I’m not a hater. But man, it felt incredibly good to tell off that frozen-food, easter-egg-impersonating prick.
I meet West at his station as he’s gathering the last of his things. He arches a brow at me before glancing over my shoulder at Hawley. “I trust whatever that was went well?”