Page 36 of Sweet Rucking Temptation
I sprinkle the flakes into my sauce, tasting carefully. It's not quite the same, but it'll have to do. Take that, Ricky, you cheating swine.
"Game on," I mutter, a determined grin spreading across my face.
"Maia!" I hiss, grabbing my friend's arm. "The nutmeg - it's been swapped with cinnamon!"
Maia's eyes widen. "No! That sneaky cheating twat..."
"I know, right? My bolognese will taste like Christmas threw up in it!" I'm trying not to panic, but my heart's racing faster than Nonna chasing a runaway meatball.
Maia's face suddenly lights up. "Wait, I've got it! Remember that trick your Nonna taught us? The one with the red wine and..."
"...and the secret blend of herbs!" I finish, a grin spreading across my face. "Maia, you're a genius!"
We spring into action, moving around each other like we're in some kind of culinary ballet. I grab the wine while Maia raids the herb garden.
"You know," I say, chopping basil at lightning speed, "this reminds me of that time Elliott and I tried to make tiramisu in the dark."
Maia snorts. "Did you end up wearing more of it than eating it?"
"Let's just say coffee liqueur makes an interesting hair gel."
As we work, I wonder how Elliott's game is going. Is he facing his own challenges on the field? I hope he remembers what I told him - sometimes the best plays are the ones you improvise.
"Earth to Liv!" Maia waves a spoon in front of my face. "Less daydreaming about your rugby hunk, more sauce saving!"
I laugh, refocusing on our culinary rescue mission. "Right, sorry! Let's show these judges what a real Italian comeback looks like!" I toss a pinch of oregano into the simmering sauce, watching it dance on the bubbling surface. "You know, Maia, if this works, we should rename it 'The Phoenix Pie' - rising from the ashes of sabotage!"
Maia chuckles, her hands a blur as she grates Parmigiano-Reggiano. "More like 'The Panic Pie' if you ask me. But hey, panic makes perfect, right?"
"Oh, absolutely," I say, giving the sauce a dramatic stir. "Nothing says 'Michelin star' quite like last-minute hysteria."
We share a laugh, and the tension in my shoulders eases slightly. I take a deep breath, inhaling the rich aroma of tomatoes and herbs. It smells like home, like Nonna's kitchen on a Sunday afternoon. I can almost hear her voice: "Liv, tesoro, cooking is like love. Sometimes you have to improvise."
"Liv," Maia interrupts my nostalgia, "I think we're ready for the grand assembly. Shall we?"
I nod, determination settling over me like a warm blanket. "Let's do this. For Nonna, for Ponsonby, and for the honor of perfectly crispy crusts everywhere!"
The oven door closes with a soft thud, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. My bolognese pie, resurrected from the brink of disaster, now bakes away behind the smudged glass. I lean against the counter, my legs suddenly wobbly.
"Gosh," I mutter, wiping my flour-dusted hands on my apron. "That was closer than Nonna's secret ingredient to being discovered."
Maia shoots me a grin from her station. "You've got this, Liv. That pie's going to rise higher than Elliott's penalty kick."
I laugh, even as my heart does a little flip at the mention of Elliott. "Let's hope so. Though knowing him, he's probably already nailed it and is off celebrating with a protein shake."
My momentary mirth fades as I glance around the competition kitchen. The stakes here are higher than a triple-decker wedding cake. Winning could mean everything for my little Ponsonby café – exposure, expansion, maybe even my own cooking show. 'Liv's Kitchen: Where Every Meal is a Love Letter.' A way to afford a new location in Ponsonby so that my mother doesn’t hold my future in her perfectly manicured hands.
I shake my head, chuckling at my own daydream. "Focus, Garner," I whisper to myself. "You didn't come this far to let a little sabotage ruin everything."
The memory of discovering the tampered ingredients makes my blood boil. Ricky's smug face flashes in my mind, and I have to resist the urge to turn one of my rolling pins into an impromptu cricket bat.
"Hey," Maia calls out, snapping me from my revenge fantasy. "Your timer's about to go off. Want me to check on your pie?"
I straighten up, squaring my shoulders. "Grazie, but I've got this. Time to face the music... or in this case, the pie."
As I reach for my oven mitts, I send a silent prayer to the culinary gods. 'Please,' I think, 'let this pie be as perfect as one of Elliott's tackles.'
The timer on the oven dings, its cheerful sound a stark contrast to the knot in my stomach. I exchange a glance with Maia, her eyes wide with anticipation.
