Page 26 of My Irresistible Enemy

Nolan barked a laugh. “Sure.”

“No, really. It wasn’t. I just didn’t see you, and I was in such a rush that—” I cut myself off. I hated how desperate I sounded. Like I was pleading with him to like me.

I’d promised myself years ago I’d never beg for that.

“It was an accident, I swear,” I said faintly.

It was almost comical, how badly I’d fucked up. Everything that could have possibly gone wrong with my own bake, had, and on top of that, I’d managed to screw up someone else’s, too? And not just anyone’s, but the person who already hated me most on the show?

Little bits of sugar sculpture decorated Nolan’s hair like shattered glass, and there was frosting smeared right where his ear met his neck. In another world—one where he didn’t hate me—I would have volunteered to clean him up with my mouth. The thought of offering to do that now sent me over the edge, a panicked giggle rising from my throat.

“Are youlaughing?” Nolan asked, incredulous.

He looked even more offended now, which I hadn’t realized was possible. But then again, with the way my day was going, I shouldn’t have been surprised. I looked around. Of course, there were cameras on us. Just to make this even more ridiculous.

“I’m not laughing atyou,” I said, trying to stop the tears that were leaking from the corners of my eyes. It was a laugh of desperation. I sounded completely unhinged, but I was helpless against it. “I’m laughing atme. I’ve doneeverythingwrong today, and I can’t—can’t believe I—God, I’m sorry, I’m really not trying to—”

“Save it for the confessional.” Nolan sounded disgusted. “I don’t want to hear it.”

He began to pick up pieces of his cake, throwing them back onto the board in wet handfuls. I knelt down next to him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he whispered. I didn’t know it was possible to pack so much fury into such a soft sound.

“I’m just trying to help.”

“I think you’ve done more than enough.”

“But I—”

“Aiden, I amthisclose to losing control,” he hissed. “And since I don’t think either one of us wants you to get punched on camera, I would really recommend you getting away from me. Now.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. The tears that had welled up with my laughter were turning into tears of frustration. But there was nothing I could do. If Nolan wouldn’t even let me help him clean up, I had to accept that.

It was a subdued end to the challenge. I explained to the judges that what had happened was my fault, not Nolan’s, and they said they’d take it into account with their deliberations, but they couldn’t ignore the fact that he had nothing to present to them.

Nolan didn’t disagree with them. Didn’t tell them that wasn’t fair. When Tanner told him that it was important to always be aware of what was going on around you in a kitchen, Nolan stiffened, but he didn’t object.

I didn’t understand how he could be so calm. I would have been bubbling over with excuses if roles had been reversed. Or at least trying to make jokes about it, to get them to laugh. But Nolan barely spoke at all, not even to throw me—deservedly—under the bus.

Not that I needed any help there. My baking accomplished that on its own. Apparently, I’d not only forgotten to add egg whites to the batter for the top tier of my cake, but the bottom two tiers had eggshellsin them. That earned me a lecture about kitchen safety and taking things more seriously.

I couldn’t seem to get anything right with baking. No matter how much I tried to rehearse the ingredients and amounts, I couldn’t keep them straight in my head. My brain was just no good at that sort of thing. I’d been sure that I could manage the minimum I needed to scrape through, but I was beginning to see how naive I had been.

* * *

“I just think this whole thing was a mistake,” I told my brother Gabe that Thursday night.

I’d met him and Brooklyn, his husband, at a little cafe a few blocks from the Wisteria Inn. The summer air hung thick and sweet around us now that dusk had settled over the island. Across the street, kids played in a baseball field, chasing after fireflies. The scent of jasmine and salt drifted past us on the breeze.

It felt good to get away from the inn and the world of the show, even if it was only for an evening. I’d barely seen Nolan since the disaster in the tent on Monday, and I was giving myself an ulcer, wondering if I’d run into him every time I turned a corner up on the third floor.

“What are you talking about?” Gabe said, reaching forward to steal a French fry from me. “You can totally do this.”

“Can I, though?” I swirled a fry around my plate, carving ancient runes into a puddle of ketchup. “I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’m getting worse with each week, not better.”

“It’s only been two weeks, though,” Brooklyn said, leaning back in his chair on the other side of the table. “That’s not enough data to see a pattern, much less draw a conclusion.”

“It is when you’re terrible enough,” I said darkly. “The whole point was to hang on long enough to make an impression on viewers. But at the rate I’m going, I’ll be lucky if I even make it through to next week. Maybe I should just quit while I’m ahead. Or, well, behind. Go back to LA before the coffee shop refuses to give me any more shifts.”

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