Page 26 of The Baker's Dozen

“Boss babe.”

“Boss babe,” I grumble.

“Besides, have I ever steered you wrong?”

I narrow my eyes as I consider the question.

“Don’t think too hard; you might hurt yourself,” Lisa says with a chuckle. “Last nightspecifically… did I steer you wrong then?”

At the mention of my one-night stand, an ache blooms in my chest, but I push it aside and try to breathe past the tightness left in its wake.

“Answer me.”

“No,” I say on a sigh. “Last night was incredible.”

“Exactly. This will be, too.” She opens the door and adds, “Tits up.”

I straighten my shoulders as we enter the massive room, but as soon as my eyes land on Michael sitting with the panel of judges, my footsteps falter. Lisa nudges me forward discreetly and whispers, “Badass boss babe, remember?”

I give her a curt nod and lift my chin as I approach the long table, repeating the words in my head because goddammit, Iama badass boss babe. And this ismyshow.

Only two seats remain, and, of course, they’re beside my ex.

I stop at the end of the table and look down at him. “Michael.”

He looks up and his eyebrows lift like he’s surprised to see me here.

At my fucking show.

Smug bastard.

“Ms. Carmichael, how are you?”

Ms. Carmichael?My teeth grind at the impersonal greeting, and I hate the way it chinks a little piece of my armor away, letting the pain of his betrayal rise up again.

When I don’t return his faux pleasantry, Michael motions to the chair beside him, and if I didn’t have so much invested in this project, I’d tell him to shove that chair right up his—

Lisa clears her throat behind me, snapping me out of it.

I settle into the seat beside Michael, ignoring the familiar musk of his cologne, the way his dark hair is styled too perfectly and begs to be mussed by my fingers, and that stupid, perfect face of his.

Instead, I focus on the paperwork in front of me.

My eyes land on the list of contestants and I do a doubletake.

The first name on the list isn’t one I picked yesterday.

Though itisfamiliar.

Biblically so.

Please God, no.This can’t be real.

Pulse racing, my muscles tense just as Michael leans over, placing his hand on my thigh like he has any goddamn right to do so, and whispers, “There’s been a bit of a change. I hope you don’t mind.”

My jaw is clenched so tight I’m likely to lose a crown, but I turn to him and force my expression into something pleasant.

Or, at least, pleasant adjacent.

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