Page 6 of Bittersweet Valentine

"That was your mistake," I said softly. "Thinking there was nothing amazing to be found in Kings Valley."

After he left, I stood at my workbench, staring at the spices lined up before me. The cayenne seemed to glow in the morning light, bold and challenging. Like a dare. Like a second chance.

Sophie emerged from the back room where she'd been pretending not to eavesdrop. "So... that was intense."

I laughed despite myself. "That wasn't intense. That was just the warm-up." I reached for the dark chocolate, already planning my competition pieces. "Wait until he tastes what I have planned for the innovation round."

"Are you really going to spike his chocolate with cayenne?"

"Not his specifically." I smiled, measuring out the cocoa. "But every judge will taste every entry. And I intend to make sure he remembers every bite."

The morning light streamed through my windows, catching on the gold lettering that spelled out The Chocolate Hart. My heart. My home. My choice.

Roman Archer might be back in Kings Valley, might even be judging my work, but I wasn't that starry-eyed teenager anymore. I was a chocolatier who knew exactly what she wanted.

And what I wanted was to win this competition on my own terms.

The fact that it might make Roman Archer's taste buds tingle in the process? Well, that was just the cherry on top.

Or in this case, the cayenne in the ganache.

Chapter Four

Roman

I arrived at Sugarplums two hours before the technical round began, needing time to center myself. Ten years of critiquing the finest restaurants in the country hadn't prepared me for this—judging a competition in the very kitchen where my love of food writing had begun, where Kandi and I had spent countless hours dreaming about our futures.

The morning light streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the newly renovated teaching kitchen. Granny Mae had expanded the space, but the heart of it

remained unchanged: the warm brick walls, the huge windows, the subtle scent of vanilla that seemed baked into the very foundations. Even the ancient copper pots still hung in their familiar places, polished to a soft gleam.

I ran my hand along the marble counter where I used to write my first restaurant reviews while watching Kandi practice tempering chocolate. The stone was worn smooth from years of use, holding memories of spilled ganache and stolen kisses and dreams that seemed possible only in the quiet hours before dawn.

"Everything's set up for the contestants," Meredith said, breaking into my reverie as she checked items off her clipboard. "Individual workstations, shared tempering machines, basic ingredients provided. They bring their own specialty items and tools."

I nodded, studying the layout. Six stations, six contestants, but my eyes kept drifting to the one in the corner by the window—Kandi's assigned spot. She'd always loved working in natural light, claimed it helped her see the chocolate's true colors better. Even in culinary school, she'd fight for the stations near windows. Some habits never changed.

The judging forms felt heavy in my hands as I reviewed them one last time. Each contestant would be evaluated on specific technical criteria: shell thickness, temper quality, ganache consistency, finishing work. Everything had to be correct, measurable, objective. I'd designed the scoring system myself, breaking down each element into clear metrics that left no room for personal bias.

"The judging criteria are clear?" Granny Mae asked, appearing at my elbow. She looked exactly as I remembered, though maybe a few more silver strands in her hair. Her eyes stillheld that knowing twinkle that had always made me feel like she could read my thoughts.

"Crystal clear." I held up my forms. "Technical skills only for this round. Tempering technique, shell formation, ganache consistency, finishing work. No points for creativity yet—that comes in round two."

"Hmm." She studied me for a moment. "And you're sure you can be objective?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" The words came out sharper than I intended. "I'm a professional food critic. I've judged dozens of competitions."

"But none featuring the girl you left behind," she said softly. "The one who used to practice tempering chocolate in my kitchen while you wrote your first restaurant reviews at that very counter. The one who still uses the marble slab you gave her for graduation."

I swallowed hard. I hadn't known Kandi had kept that. It had taken three months of summer jobs to afford it—Belgian marble, professionally cut and polished. She'd cried when I gave it to her, and said it was perfect. Just like us.

Except we hadn't been perfect. We'd been eighteen and scared and too stubborn to compromise. Or maybe I had been the stubborn one. The one who thought success only looked one way—the way that led out of Kings Valley.

The morning sun climbed higher as contestants began arriving, each carrying their personal tools and specialty ingredients. James Chen from Burlington, known for his fusion flavors, carefully unpacked a set of Japanese knives passed down through generations. Maria Santos from Stowe arranged her station with methodical precision, her six-month waiting list for custom orders a testament to her skill. Thomas Green,representing the old guard of traditional techniques, nodded to me as he set up, his reputation for classical perfection preceding him.

Then Kandi walked in.

She wore her professional whites, her long hair neatly tucked under a chef's cap, but it was her expression that caught me—focused, confident, ready. This wasn't the girl who'd practiced techniques while I wrote reviews. This was a master chocolatier who'd trained in Europe, who'd built her own successful business, who knew exactly what she was capable of.

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