by Poppy Parkes
Colby laughs, and the sound fills me like bubbly champagne. “You don’t need to be dark and mysterious, woman. You’re honey and spice and everything nice.”
If I was blushing before, now my face has got to be straight-up purple. I don’t know how to respond to his compliment, so I get back to business. “So are we on? See you on the patio in twenty minutes?”
He grins. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
When I head off for the elevators — down the correct corridor this time — I feel like I’m walking on air. I can’t remember the last time a guy made me feel like Colby does. Under his gaze, I feel sexy and funny and so damn turned on.
The elevator takes forever to come, so I give up and take the stairs, hauling my rolling suitcase awkwardly at my side. But I don’t mind. I’ve got a date with a guy that makes my pussy wetter than it ever has been just by talking to me, and nothing is going to keep me from it.
Colby
I walk out onto the fourteenth floor’s patio, and damn, it’s the perfect place to woo my woman. It boasts a killer view of the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge standing proudly over the water. There’s no fog at the moment, so the sun is pleasantly warm on my skin, cut by the breeze coming in off the ocean.
The patio itself is populated with posh but comfortable-looking outdoor couches, some of them protected from the elements by an overhang decorated with a cacophony of flowers. In one corner of the patio, also beneath the overhang, sits the wine bar, a serious-looking man dressed in a crisp black vest and tie behind its counter.
I waste no time in crossing to the bar and ordering two pinot noirs for Brie and I. Yeah, I’m short on cash, but she’s worth it. I’d give anything to have her in my life, for keeps.
The sommelier hands me two elegant glasses of the dark wine. I turn — and come face to face with a tall redhead in six-inch heels with cutting green eyes and legs for days.
“Oh my God,” she says, freckled nostrils flaring. “I thought it might be you, but I wasn’t sure.”
I frown. “I’m so sorry. Have we met?”
“Well, no,” she says, tittering a little, “not exactly. I know you very well, though. My name is Gretchen Cox. I’m a huge fan of Planet Yum. I’ve watched every upload at least twice. You make cooking so accessible.”
“That’s amazing to hear,” I say, relaxing. “Thank you for watching, it means the world to me.”
All of a sudden she steps so near that we practically bump foreheads. “You mean the world to me, Colby Jackson. Thanks to Planet Yum, I haven’t only fallen in love with cooking — I’ve fallen in love with you.”
My easy smile freezes on my face. Because what in the actual fuck?
“I’m sorry,” I say, putting some space between us. “I don’t think—“
I don’t get to finish my sentence because Gretchen practically pounces on me. “I know, it sounds crazy. But I feel like I know you on an intimate level.” She fixes me with a smirk. “I’d love to take that intimacy to a physical level, if you know what I mean.”
Yeah, I know what she means, and I have no appetite for what she’s offering.
She plucks one of the glasses of wine from my grip and tangles her free arm with mine. “I’m here at the CCI competition because of you, you know. As a spectator, of course. I’m a San Francisco local, and when you shared on your latest video that you’d be here to compete . . . well, I couldn’t resist finding out where contestants are staying and booking a room in the hopes of seeing you. And look! It’s definitely paid off.”
I try to extricate myself from our entanglement, but Gretchen simply scissors her elbow joint even harder on my arm. I won’t be able to get free without practically pushing the redhead off me.
“I’m sorry,” I try again. “I’m sure you’re wonderful, but I’m not looking for a, um, relationship right now.”
I think of Brie and guilt sears through me. I want a relationship with just one woman, and it’s not Gretchen. And while what Gretchen’s offering isn’t much crazier that me having already claimed Brie in my mind, for some reason my feelings about Brie seem so much more powerful and real. They don’t seem crazy at all.
Gretchen drops her head to one side so it almost rests on my shoulder. “Oh,” she purrs, looking up at me from beneath a thick fan of mascara-heavy lashes, “I’m not talking about a relationship. I’m talking about one night, maybe two, to make all our dreams come true.”
I don’t know what this woman’s been dreaming of, but it’s nowhere near what I want. Not with her anyway.
Tensing my shoulders, I get ready to yank free and make my escape. But then something draws my gaze to the patio’s entrance.
Maybe a flash of movement caught my eye.
Maybe it was a sixth sense.
Whatever the reason, all of a sudden my vision is filled with the sight of Brie gaping at me, those beautiful eyes brimming with hurt and betrayal.
Fuck.
I haul my arm out of the crook of Gretchen’s elbow, but it’s too late. Brie has already disappeared.
Running from the patio — and from Gretchen — I try to see where the woman of my dreams has gone. Wine sloshes out of my glass in my hurry, covering my hand with rich crimson liquid.
But it’s all to no avail — Brie is gone, leaving no hint of which direction she went or where I can find her to make things right.
My body sags against the hotel corridor wall. I pass a hand up my forehead and down my long curls. How is it that in the space of thirty minutes or less I went from feeling as high as a damn kite, certain that Brie was born to be mine, to having fucked it up so badly?
Throwing my head back, I tip the remainder of my pinot noir into my mouth, relishing the acrid burn it leaves behind as I swallow it down.
Brie
Stupid.
That’s what I am.
So, so stupid.
I came here to compete. I came here to win the CCI prize.
Within minutes of walking through the hotel’s front doors, I got sidetracked by a pretty face.
Okay, not just a pretty face. The most handsome face and kindest eyes I’ve ever seen on a man, with a molten body and hair that I long to tangle my fingers in.
Let’s not even get into how Colby made my insides feel so perfectly hot and bothered.
And then, a few minutes after that, he immediately proved to me why I don’t date, why I get one-hundred percent of my romance from tawdry novels.
Because guys don’t want girls like me, with lumpy bodies and greasy foreheads. They don’t want a regular human woman. They want the stick-thin model-esque women — like the one Colby had hanging off him by the time I got to the patio wine bar.
Men don’t fall in love with curvy girls. They might want to fuck us, sure, just for fun. But they don’t want us for keeps.
Not that I’ve experienced, anyway.
I’m mad, but I’m mostly mad at myself. I know all this far too well. I was stupid to let myself be conned.
But if I’m really honest as I lay here on my borrowed bed, body curled around a hotel pillow, I’m hurt too.
Colby felt different. He didn’t seem like other guys. He seemed special.
I guess special guys like the ones in my romance novels don’t exist. I won’t make the same mistake again.
Wiping the tears from my eyes with angry fists, I make a promise to myself. I vow to keep my head in the game and focus all of my attention on the competition.
Even if I see Colby again.
Especially if I see him again.
It’s been a long day of travel capped with heartache. What I’m going to do now is turn in for the night early so I’m rested and ready for tomorrow’s competition. I need to have my A-game on. Mom is depending on it.
But first I’m going to treat myself to a little comforting room service. Sitting up, I grab the hotel menu from next to the phone and peruse its offerings. The burgers all sound so amazing that I have a hard time choosing, but I finally decide on
a decadent mushroom creation tucked into a locally made sourdough bun.
And, I decide, I’m going to pair my dinner with that glass of pinot noir that I never got to have with Colby. That’ll make me feel better.
It does — for a little while.
But by the time I’ve set my empty plates outside the door and gotten ready for bed, the iron fist of pain is back in my gut, wringing at my heart.
Sliding beneath the covers and turning out the lights, it only takes a moment before I’ve found my clit with my fingers, trying to rub my hurt out with a few orgasms.
I end up falling into a restless sleep while masturbating to my imaginings of what tonight could have ended like had Colby not acted like every other guy our age I’ve ever met.
Brie
The next day, I wake up at an ungodly early hour so I can grab a massive latte before heading to CCI. There’s lots to do before the competition, from check-in to cook station prep to make-up to signing all the release forms.
Like, so many release forms. I never realized fondue could require so much paperwork.
As I wait for the folks from CCI and the television station to see to the other contestants who are slowly trickling in at their scheduled time slots, I go over the recipe I’ll be making, even though I already know it like the back of my hand.
It’s my beer and bourbon cheese fondue, and not only is it my best creation, it’s also the one everyone back home asks me to make again and again. The fondue features fine Belgian beer, Edam and Gruyère cheeses, and smooth bourbon. I’ll also be prepping a sourdough loaf to dip in the fondue, as well as some other sides.
I try not to bite my nails, but with limited success. I’m nervous as hell.
In an attempt to distract myself, I survey the items lining my cook station counter. The college provided our requested ingredients, but we had to bring our own cooking tools.
I prefer it this way. With so much riding on my performance, I’m glad I’ve got the food processor, fondue pot, utensils, and other items that I’m familiar with.
The wide room is filling with more and more people, most of them either crew or audience members. But now most of the cook stations arranged in a horseshoe shape facing the audience seating at the far end of the room have a contestant sitting beside them just like I’m perched next to mine — and none of them look as petrified as I feel.
There are twelve of us in total competing in the cheese sauce category. I would’ve thought that my competitors would be mostly college-aged folks attending CCI, but the entire spectrum of ages is represented. There’s one girl who looks younger than me and a couple of folks in their twenties and thirties, with the majority of participants looking older than myself.
It’s the older competitors that I’m most worried about. They’ve potentially got years’ more experience than me. I wonder how my famous fondue will hold up against their sauces.
I turn back to my recipe to review it one more time when something catches my eye.
Glossy brown curls, tied up in a bun on the top of its owner’s head.
A man bun.
I suck in a sharp breath, the latte I’ve been sipping on all morning curdling in my belly.
It’s Colby, settling onto the stool at the last remaining cook station, straight across the room from me.
He hasn’t seen me yet. My first instinct is to run, to toss my coffee over my shoulder and get the hell out of here.
But I can’t. Not if I want to retain even a shred of self-respect. Not if I want to take care of my parents, and maybe invest in my own goals.
With my free I hand hold onto the stool I’m sitting on for dear life like if I let go I won’t be able to stop myself from fleeing.
I try not to stare, even though it’s so damn hard. Did he spend the night with the woman I saw him with? Probably. They probably had glorious, transcendent, incredible sex.
God, I’m jealous of that woman.
And Colby? I can’t wait to kick his ass in this competition.
Shit. He’s looking around the room, nodding and waving in greeting at the other competitors in that beautiful easy way he has.
His gaze grows closer and closer to me. I hold my breath and think invisible thoughts, keeping my eyes on my lap.
When I think it’s safe, that surely he must have passed over me, just the girl he discarded when a better option came along, I chance a glance across to his cook station.
I gasp, loud enough to make the middle-aged woman with the dancing green eyes sitting at the station to my left frowns at me in concern.
Because Colby? He’s staring right at me, blue eyes wide in his paper-white face. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, even like he’s hurt by the sight of me, but I can’t fathom why. He’s the one who rejected me.
Like he’s moving through a dream, he rises and floats across the room to me. My hands are shaking, not sure what he could possibly have to say to me, but I refuse to let him see. I set my jaw and jut out my chin.
“You’re here to compete?” he says like he can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.
“That’s right,” I answer in a clipped voice.
He looks like I’ve kicked him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I laugh, a harsh, barking sound. “Why did you make plans with me only to give them up at the first sight of a woman in heels?” I retort. He doesn’t get to be the wronged party, and I don’t owe him a single answer to any of his questions.
“I didn’t,” he says. “I know that’s what it looked like, but that’s not how it was.”
I can’t hold back a second laugh. “You know what my mom taught me?”
Colby shakes his head. “What?”
“If it looks like bullshit and smells like bullshit, it’s bullshit, no matter what anybody tries to tell you. And that excuse?” I raise a single eyebrow at him. “That sure smells like bullshit.”
His forehead furrows. “You won’t even hear me out?”
I consider his words for a moment. “I might’ve, under other circumstances,” I say at last. “But now the guy who sure looks like he ditched me without a second thought is competing against me in the contest I’m counting on winning so I can pay for my mom’s surgery. I’ve got to win this, for her, and I can’t have anything distracting me.” Like your stupidly beautiful eyes and how badly I want you to kiss me, I add silently.
Even though Colby betrayed me, and even though we’re now kind of arch-enemies, my clit is humming from being so close to him.
He’s silent, emotions I can’t name tumbling through his eyes. When he speaks, he’s gentle, quiet. “I’m so sorry, Brie. You deserve better than how I made you feel, even accidentally.’
I raise my chin to mask my surprise. “You’re right. I do.”
“Let me make it up to you? Later?”
None of this is what I expected him to say. I open my mouth, not sure what words are about to fall out of it.
We never get the chance to find out. One of the producers hurries up. “You can’t be over here,” she says to Colby. “No fraternizing between competitors before filming.”
Her eyes run down his long torso, hungry and appraising, and when she finds his face again, she’s wearing a little smirk. I’d like to fraternize with you, is what she’s saying without words.
A bolt of anger crashes through me, shocking and violent. I’m on my feet before I know what I’m doing, like I’m about to throw myself between the producer and Colby and claim him as mine, all mine.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
It might get me disqualified, considering the producer’s warning.
I can’t afford that. Mom can’t afford that.
So instead, very aware of Colby’s shocked gaze boring into my back, I turn on my heel and walk behind my cook station. I pretend to fiddle with my ingredients but I’m really just trying to distract myself from whatever the hell is going on inside me right now.
Colby starts backing away. The produce
r shoots me a grumpy look before taking off, and I wonder if my unspoken message was as clear as hers. I’ve never experienced that before.
Also new to me is the gaze Colby’s got trained on me as he settles back on the stool at his station. I sense tension and conflict there, but also a heat makes me practically start salivating.
I want to know everything he’s thinking and feeling.
I want him to wrap his arms around me and promise me that yesterday really was a big misunderstanding and I’m the only woman in the world for him.
Even though I shouldn’t. Even though I’m probably just setting my stupid self up for more rejection.
God, I want Colby so damn badly.
But I can’t think about that right now.
Not if I want to help Mom. Not if I want to win.
And I need to win. For the mother that’s always given everything for me. It’s my turn to take care of her.
So, as the producers and CCI judges step to the front of the room and start explaining the rules of the competition to the gathered audience, I shove all thoughts of Colby out of my mind.
Or try to.
It’s hard because he’s so close, eyes still trained on me.
Clenching my jaw, I force myself to focus on what judges Basil Anderson and Saffron Davis are saying, welcoming us all and expressing their eagerness to see what we make.
I think, too, of my fondue. I know it’s amazing — even when I doubt myself, there’s no question in my mind that my beer and bourbon fondue is a prize-winner.
Basil gestures at a digital clock that’s affixed to the wall above the farthest cook station from the audience, making the portly bald man with the red cheeks and loud laugh it belongs to seem even shorter than he already is. Saffron counts us down, the clock begins to tick away the time we have to turn out our recipes, and we’re off.
Refusing to spare Colby even a single glance, I grab my cheeses and get them into my food processor, then set it to grate.
While that’s going, I rub a garlic side over the inside of a large saucepan, then grate the clove into the pan. I add the beer and a dry white wine, then turn up the stove’s heat.