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Before I can stop myself, I rake an open gaze over him. The coffee has drenched the front of his white linen shirt, making itcling to his chest and the very impressive pecs that chest has. There’s not a hint of excess fat on him.

I meet his stare once more. “I guess. But unless you’re hiding it in your arse, I don’t know where it is.”

His eyebrows shoot up. Behind me, still at the kitchen door, Arlo snorts. Beside me, Imogen gasps.

Crap. Did I really just say that?

Something important to know about me is that my dad raised me alone. No help from relatives or family friends. We didn’t have any of those. Yes, he was the best pastry chef in Western Australia, and yes, he got work no matter where we went, but he was a loner, and I wasn’t kidding when I said Mum leaving us broke him. Dad dealt with his shock and grief by numbing himself with vodka. Sometimes he numbed himself so much he couldn’t stand up, and sometimes he numbed himself until he lost control of all the grief and anger and confusion inside him. And sometimes—allthe times—those numbing vodka bottles meant any work Dad did get didn’t last long. We travelled a lot. A lot. We were never in the same city or town for long. Which meant I really didn’t get the best schooling and really didn’t get a hang of social interactions.

Which means I now say things like “you’re hiding it in your arse” to someone like Jackson Maine.

If I wasn’t fired before, I was now.

On cue, Imogen huffs out a disgusted sigh. “I apologise, Mr. Maine. Aliana is no longer employed by Japher’s Patisserie. Now, let me get you a replacement coffee and something to clean up with. My d—Mr. Japher can be here in a matter of minutes to help you with any?—”

Jackson reaches out, plucks a chunk of blueberry and white-choc muffin from just below my collarbone, and deposits it into his mouth.

I stare at him.

“Ohshit,” Arlo says for a third time, this time with a this-is-fucked-up laugh.

Jackson arches an eyebrow at me and points at his mouth. “You made this?”

I blink.

“The muffin?” he clarifies with a slight grin that turns my heart into a ticking bomb. He plucks another chunk from my shirt and tosses it into his mouth. Chocolate ganache sticks to his fingers, and he licks it off. “You made the muffin?”

I nod.

He swings his attention to Imogen. “Why does she not work here anymore? What kind of idiot would fire someone who bakes like this?”

Imogen’s lips part and then come back together. She swallows, flicking me the quickest of looks. Embarrassment burns in that look. And malicious contempt. Returning her full attention to Jackson, she straightens her spine and lifts her chin. “She lied to get the position here. Misrepresented herself.”

My stomach sinks. Oh God, no.

“I didn’t—” I begin.

“How?” Jackson cuts me off, his slight grin fading. It’s his turn to slide me a look, and the ice in his eyes, eyes that only a second ago held playful mirth, cut me to the core.

“Said she was fully trained,” Imogen declares, and I don’t have to be an expert in human behaviour to know she’s enjoying the moment. I don’t know what her father has told her, but she hates me. With a venomous passion. “But it turns out, she has no training at all.”

The ice in Jackson Maine’s gaze grows colder. If a stare could have a sound, the stare he’s directing at me would be that of splintering glaciers. “She pretended to have studied?” His voice makes his icy stare seem like a warm hug. “Just because she’s good in the kitchen, she pretended to be something she’s not?”

My mouth falls open. Heat prickles all over me, hot and itchy and crawling, like I’m slowly being wrapped in molten wire. “I’m not just good in the kitchen,” I snap back. “I’m?—”

“Oh my God, Aliana,” Imogen snaps before I can say I’mamazingin the kitchen. “Don’t embarrass yourself anymore. Dad knew you weretroublewhen you threw yourself at him during the interview and kept shoving your b—cleavage in his face.”

It’s too much. Way too much.

My fists bunch at my sides, and my eyes burn. I glare at her. “That’s bullshit.”

“Where did you study?” Jackson asks with that same chilling flatness. “What school? Here in Australia? Or overseas? Who have you apprenticed to?”

And there it is. The end of the conversation. Because Ihaven’tstudied at a school, nor have I been anyone’sofficialapprentice, and Dad destroyed any worth to his name after my mum left. As far as the country’s most esteemed, revered, influential and gorgeous pastry chef goes, I’ve got nothing. Iamnothing.

Something hot stings my eyes and I blink.

Tears. Damn it, tears. I’m freaking crying. In front of people. In front of Imogen and Jackson Maine and— Oh God, is that…that…