Page 9 of Bittersweet Valentine

"That was a long time ago," I said, focusing on my work. The chocolate was reaching the perfect working temperature. "I've learned a lot since then."

"Clearly." He ate the caramel, and I couldn't help watching his expression. The way his eyes closed briefly, savoring. The slight smile as the maple notes hit. "The technical skill is impressive, but it's more than that. There's... heart in your work. Soul."

"That's what chocolate is supposed to be." I began filling molds confidently with the conditioned substance. "It's not just about technique. It's about creating moments, memories. Making people feel something."

"And what are you trying to make people feel with your innovation entry?"

I smiled, reaching for the cayenne. "You'll find out tomorrow, Mr. Archer. Just remember what I said about having water ready."

He watched me measure the spice, his expression curious. "You're really going to do it? The spicy chocolate?"

"Why not? Afraid your cosmopolitan palate can't handle a little heat?"

His laugh was unexpected, rich and warm. "I've eaten at some of the most experimental restaurants in the world, Kandi. I think I can handle whatever you dish out."

"We'll see." I began mixing the spiced ganache with my spatula. "Sometimes the simplest things have the most impact. Like coming home after ten years and finding everything different. And exactly the same."

His smile faded slightly. "Is that what this is about? Proving something?"

"This is about winning a competition," I said firmly. "About showing that traditional techniques can be innovative without losing their soul. That sometimes the best things are worth waiting for, worth coming home to."

"Like chocolate and chilies?"

"Like chocolate and chilies." I met his gaze steadily. "And other combinations that shouldn't work but somehow do."

The snow fell harder outside, creating a cocoon of quiet around us. For a moment, I could almost forget the years between us, the competition, everything except the familiar way he watched me work. The way he'd always watched me, like I was creating something magical.

Then my timer chimed, breaking the spell. I turned back to my chocolates, to the competition pieces that would either prove me brilliant or crazy. Maybe both.

"I should go," Roman said quietly. "Early day tomorrow."

I nodded, not trusting myself to look at him again. "Don't forget the water."

He paused at the door, snow swirling in as he opened it. "For what it's worth, Kandi? I always knew you'd be extraordinary. I just never expected to be the one judging exactly how extraordinary you've become."

After he left, I stood in my quiet kitchen, surrounded by Valentine candy and memories. Tomorrow, I'd push boundaries, take risks, maybe make a certain food critic sweat a little.

But tonight, I had chocolates to finish. Messages to craft in sugar and spice. A point to prove about coming home and finding your place and the way some flavors linger on the tongue like first love.

I picked up the cayenne again, measuring with newfound purpose. Each chocolate would tell part of our story—the sweetness of first love, the warmth of memory, the unexpected heat of reunion. The judges would taste my technical skill, my creativity, my heart.

But only one judge would understand the message hidden in the progression of flavors. Only one would recognize the story told in sugar and spice, in bitter and sweet, in the slow burn of cayenne that builds like regret, like possibility, like second chances.

I worked late into the night, perfecting each piece. The snow continued to fall outside, blanketing Kings Valley in white, while inside The Chocolate Hart, I crafted memories into chocolate, shaped feelings into flavor, and hoped that somewhere in town, a certain food critic was preparing his palate for tomorrow's tasting.

Let him judge my technique, my innovation, my skill. But the real judgment would come in those moments between flavors, in the space between bitter and sweet, in the lingering heat that, like love, refuses to be forgotten.

Tomorrow would tell if I'd succeeded. If my message in chocolate would reach its intended recipient. If ten years of practice, of perfecting my craft, of building something real, would finally prove that sometimes the sweetest success tastes like coming home.

I smiled as I poured the last ganache, watching the viscous confection swirl into perfect circles. Tomorrow would be interesting indeed.

Chapter Six

Roman

The Queens Inn ballroom glowed with early morning light as I reviewed my judging criteria one final time before the innovation round began. Unlike the technical challenge, where every element could be measured and scored objectively, innovation required a more nuanced approach. My years of food criticism had taught me to evaluate creativity and execution, but nothing had prepared me for judging the work of someone whose memory still tasted like summer kisses and faraway dreams.

I'd arrived two hours early, needing time

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