Page 33 of Sweet Rucking Temptation
As I start crafting a heart in the foam of Nonna's latte, I feel a tiny spark reignite in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, it's time to rediscover the joy in my craft.
“Why not enter the competition?” she asks, casually, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
I blink, caught off guard. The competition she is talking about is local, well-known, and packed with top-tier bakers. The idea of competing feels like both a dream and a nightmare. Can I really stand up against those professionals? My hands tremble at the thought.
But Nonna’s words ring out clearly. “You’ve got the gift, Liv. You need to show them what you can do.”
She doesn’t give me room to argue. She believes in me more than I believe in myself. Entering would push me—force me to stop doubting my worth and actually prove something, not just to the world, but to myself. If I win, it could mean the financial boost I need and the recognition I crave. If I lose, well… it would just be another failure to add to my growing list. But what if I didn’t even try?
Her encouragement, that quiet faith in my abilities, makes me wonder if I have been holding myself back. Maybe this is the opportunity I need. I don’t know if I’m ready, but at least I have something to fight for again. The thought of competing lights a spark in me, something I haven’t felt in a long time.
The cool metal of the mixing bowl grounds me as I run my fingers along its rim. Nonna's words echo in my mind, and for the first time in weeks, I feel a flutter of excitement in my chest. I reach for the flour, letting it sift through my fingers like sand through an hourglass. This dream was about building a life Iwanted, but by living in fear that my mother could take it all away, I’d begun to let her control my life anyway. No more.
"Okay, Liv," I mutter to myself, tying my apron with a determined flourish. "Let's see what you've got."
I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. The scent of yeast and warm sugar fills my nostrils, transporting me back to lazy Sunday mornings in Nonna's kitchen. A smile tugs at my lips as I begin to mix the dough, my hands moving with a rhythm I'd forgotten I possessed.
As I knead, an idea starts to form. "What if..." I pause, flour dusting my cheek as I brush away a stray curl. "What if I combined Nonna's bolognese recipe with... rugby?"
The absurdity of the thought makes me giggle, but the more I consider it, the more it appeals to me. Elliott's passion for the sport has been rubbing off on me, and suddenly, I can't shake the image of a hearty meat pie shaped like a rugby ball.
"This is either going to be brilliant or a total disaster," I announce to the empty kitchen, already reaching for the ground beef. "But at least it'll be fun."
My movements become more confident as I brown the meat, adding Nonna's secret blend of herbs and a splash of red wine. The familiar scents mingle with my newfound excitement, creating a heady mixture that has me humming an old Italian folk song.
"Now for the twist," I murmur, eyeing the oddly shaped pie tin I'd impulse-bought months ago. "Let's see if we can make this bolognese bounce."
As I pour the rich, meaty sauce into the rugby ball-shaped crust, I laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. "Elliott's going to lovethis," I think, imagining his face when he sees it. "Or he'll think I've gone completely mad."
Either way, as I slide the creation into the oven, I realize I haven't felt this light, this joyful about baking in far too long. "Grazie, Nonna," I whisper, sending a silent thanks to my grandmother's wisdom. "You were right. Sometimes we just need to play with our food."
The bell chimes again, and this time, I catch a glimpse of tousled blond hair and broad shoulders. My heart does that silly little dance it always does when Elliott walks in.
"Something smells absolutely divine in here," he calls out, his voice carrying that hint of rural charm that never fails to make me grin.
I pop my head out from the kitchen. "That would be my latest masterpiece, Mr. Snow. Care for a taste test?"
Elliott's eyes light up as he spots me, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Well, if the chef insists. Though I hope it's not another one of your experimental beetroot and kale concoctions."
I gasp in mock offense. "I'll have you know that was a culinary breakthrough!"
"For the compost bin, maybe," he teases, leaning against the counter.
I grab a fork and slide a generous slice of the rugby pie onto a plate. "Just for that, you only get a small piece."
As Elliott takes his first bite, I hold my breath. His eyes widen, and he lets out a low whistle. "Liv, this is... incredible. What is it?"
"Bolognese pie," I announce proudly. "With a little rugby flair, of course. I was feeling inspired."
"By rugby?" Elliott raises an eyebrow, a grin spreading across his face. "I wonder who could've sparked that particular inspiration."
A hot blush creeps up my cheeks. "Oh, you know, just a certain Iceman who's been melting his way into my kitchen lately."
Elliott's expression softens, and he reaches across the counter to take my hand. "Speaking of melting, I've had a bit of a breakthrough myself today. Realized I need to ease up on the training, give myself time to heal properly."
"That's wonderful, Elliott," I squeeze his hand. "I'm proud of you for listening to your body."
As the evening settles in, we find ourselves cozied up in a corner booth, sharing the last of the bolognese pie. The café is quiet now, fairy lights twinkling outside the windows, casting a warm glow over us.
