Page 7 of Bittersweet Valentine

I watched as she purposefully set up her station. Her tools spoke of years of dedication: specialty spatulas from Brussels, worn smooth from use. Piping bags arranged by size, a mathematician's attention to detail. And there, placed carefully on her bench—that Belgian marble slab, its surface bearing the gentle scars of countless hours of practice.

"Good morning, everyone," I said, forcing myself into professional mode. "Welcome to the technical round of the tenth annual Kings Valley Valentine's Chocolate Competition. Today's challenge will test your fundamental skills—the backbone of chocolate craft."

I explained the rules, timing, and judging criteria. Three hours to create a dozen identical bonbons, demonstrating mastery of basic techniques. Each piece would need a tempered shell, ganache filling, and decorative finish. No unusual flavors or creative flourishes—this round was purely about execution.

"You may begin," I announced, starting the timer.

The kitchen came alive with activity. The hum of tempering machines, the soft scrape of spatulas, the occasional murmur of concentration. I moved between stations, making notes on technique and timing. James's tempering was exact butrushed, his movements betraying a city chef's ingrained sense of urgency. Maria worked with careful attention to detail, her shells elegantly thin. Thomas relied on classical methods, every motion textbook perfect if somewhat uninspired.

But it was Kandi's station that drew me back again and again.

She worked with a grace that made it look effortless, though I knew the skill involved. The way she tested the chocolate's temperature without a thermometer, judging by sight and touch alone. The unambiguous angle of her scraper as she worked the chocolate on marble—my marble. The fluid motion as she filled molds, each movement economical and sure.

"Beautiful technique," I said quietly, watching her pipe ganache into perfectly formed shells.

"I had a good teacher in Brussels," she replied without looking up. "Jean-Marc was a stickler for proper form."

"I remember the day you got your acceptance letter to his program." The words slipped out before I could stop them. "You were so excited you nearly burned a batch of caramel."

Her hands stilled for just a moment. "That was a lifetime ago."

"Not so long." I made a note on my clipboard, buying time. "Your technique has improved since then."

"Everything has improved since then." She began painting delicate designs on her shells with tinted cocoa butter. "That's what happens when you commit to something. When you stay."

The emphasis on that last word was subtle but clear. I forced myself to move on to the next station, but I could feel her presence behind me, as warm and distracting as the summer day I'd first kissed her in this very kitchen. We'd been practicingfor her culinary school applications, and she'd gotten so excited about a perfect temper that she'd grabbed my shirt, pulled me close, and kissed me right there between the copper pots and cooling racks. She'd tasted like sweet cocoa and dreams that day.

The three hours passed in a blur of technical evaluation and rising tension. I kept my comments professional, my observations focused purely on technique, but it was impossible not to notice how the other contestants kept glancing at Kandi's station. Her reputation preceded her—the local girl who'd trained with Europe's best, who'd chosen to bring those skills home to Kings Valley.

"Time," I called finally. "Please step away from your stations."

The judging would be blind—each contestant's work marked only with a number. But I knew I'd recognize Kandi's pieces instantly. There was something distinctive about her style, a precision that bordered on artistry even in the most technical tasks.

I wasn't wrong. Her bonbons were flawless—perfectly set candy shells with just the right snap, ganache smooth as silk, decoration elegant but not flashy. Classic technique elevated by expert execution. Even Jean-Marc would have approved.

As I tasted each entry, making careful notes, I found myself thinking about choices. About paths taken and not taken. About the way some skills—like tempering chocolate, like first love—never quite leave your muscle memory.

"Excellent work, everyone," I announced after the judging. "Results will be posted tomorrow morning. The innovation round begins next week, giving you time to prepare your creative entries."

As the contestants packed up their tools, I caught Kandi's eye. She was cleaning her station with the same deliberate care she'd shown in her confectionary work.

"A moment of your time?" I asked quietly.

She nodded, though her expression remained guarded. "Professional feedback only, I assume?"

"Of course." I waited until the others left, aware of Granny Mae watching us from her office. "Your technical skills are impressive. Jean-Marc taught you well."

"But?" She raised an eyebrow, challenging.

"No but...Just an observation," I hesitated, then added, "Though I am curious about your choice for the innovation round. Any hints?"

A smile played at her lips. "You'll have to wait and see, Mr. Archer. Though I suggest having water handy during the tasting."

Before I could respond, she'd gathered her tools and slipped out, leaving behind only the faint scent of chocolate and the sweetness of good memories.

I stood in the quiet kitchen, surrounded by the ghosts of our shared past. Tomorrow, I'd post the scores that would surprise no one—Kandi's technical perfection putting her firmly in the lead. Next week would bring the innovation round, where she'd undoubtedly challenge everything I thought I knew about chocolate and spice and second chances.

But tonight, I had reviews to write. Professional, objective reviews that couldn't possibly capture the way my hands shook when I'd tasted her work or how seeing her use that old marble slab had made my heart twist with a decade of regret.

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