Page 30 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

It’s hard because he’s so close, eyes still trained on me.

Clenching my jaw, I force myself to focus on what judges Basil Anderson and Saffron Davis are saying, welcoming us all and expressing their eagerness to see what we make.

I think, too, of my fondue. I know it’s amazing — even when I doubt myself, there’s no question in my mind that my beer and bourbon fondue is a prize-winner.

Basil gestures at a digital clock that’s affixed to the wall above the farthest cook station from the audience, making the portly bald man with the red cheeks and loud laugh it belongs to seem even shorter than he already is. Saffron counts us down, the clock begins to tick away the time we have to turn out our recipes, and we’re off.

Refusing to spare Colby even a single glance, I grab my cheeses and get them into my food processor, then set it to grate.

While that’s going, I rub a garlic side over the inside of a large saucepan, then grate the clove into the pan. I add the beer and a dry white wine, then turn up the stove’s heat.

Checking on my cheeses, I prep my cornstarch and some more white wine, whisking them together before pouring them into the saucepan once its contents reach a boil.

A camera zooms in close to me, pointing first at my face, then at what I’ve got going on my counter. I allow myself a small grin. My nerves have melted away, even so closely watched and recorded, because now I’m doing what I’m really damn good at — cooking.

Catching a whiff of the aroma that’s rising from the bubbling saucepan, I smile even wider, because I’m going to win this thing. I know it.

Colby

Ishould be watching my Mornay sauce more carefully. But even though I’ve got so much riding on this competition, all I can think of is the stunning woman across the room who’s trying to serve me my ass on a platter via her cheese sauce.

I can’t fucking believe that Brie is here, counting me as her newly sworn enemy in this competition.

I don’t want to be her enemy. I want to be her closest ally. I claimed her as mine the first moment I saw her, and nothing has changed that.

Brie is meant to be mine.

I know she feels it too. I think of the way she almost punched that producer in the face and smile to myself.

And promptly drop an egg on the floor. I look across the room to see if Brie noticed. My heart thumps when I see her raising a quizzical eyebrow across the way at me.

Like she’s asking if I’m okay.

Like she cares if I’m doing okay.

My heart feels suddenly too big for my chest. I could drop all my eggs and still be so damn happy.

Because despite what she said, Brie still wants me. I’m not out of the running yet. And I’m not talking about the competition.

Although if I get my act together, I can still be a front runner in that too.

Shaking my head as if to clear it, I order my brain to stop thinking about the sexy woman across the room and focus on not burning my béchamel.

My entry in the competition is a Mornay sauce, which is a buttery béchamel with Gruyère cheese melted into it. It’s quite a simple sauce, actually, with just a few ingredients: milk, butter, flour, and the cheese, with just a smidge of salt and pepper.

It’s not the most flashy sauce. But when you pour it over a Croque Madame fried egg sandwich made with from-scratch French bread? It’s to fucking die for.

My Croque Madame video is my most popular one yet on my YouTube channel because it’s pretty easy to make but tastes so damn good that it blows most folks away.

Eyeing Saffron and Basil as they saunter around the room, checking out what each chef is making and discussing their thoughts for the camera, I wonder if my Croque Madame will blow them away.

But the “madame” that’s most on my mind, in spite of myself, is blonde and beautiful and heartbreakingly far away.

She belongs in my arms.

Basil and Saffron are pointing at my cook station now, heading my way. I clear my throat and get ready to start talking about my Mornay even though what I really want to say is how taken I am with my cooking enemy. Brie Marsden.

I don’t want to get my girl in trouble, though, so I stick to the script — for now.

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