Page 32 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

I should be grateful that no one gets scalded by hot splattered cheese. But in this moment, under the unrelenting gaze of the cameras and audience members, all I can do is gaze miserably at my ruined fondue coating my cook station and quietly cry.

I’ve lost.

All my efforts have been for nothing. I’ve still got my sides, which are miraculously unsplattered, but I have nothing to serve them with.

The fondue I thought would win me the prize is everywhere but in a clean dish. None of it is salvageable.

And with the food processor’s broken bowl, I have no way to remake my fondue. Not in the scant time I have remaining. Not if I want to win. Fondue depends on the cheese being finely grated, something that I can’t possibly do by hand with my — I check the clock — thirty-five remaining minutes.

My eyes have a mind of their own. They travel across the room, searching out the man that I still ache for in spite of myself.

Colby is starting back at me, mouth dangling, spatula-carrying hand frozen in midair instead of stirring whatever white sauce he’s got brewing at his cook station.

Basil and Saffron materialize in front of me, blocking my view of my enemy and the man I want more than anything. Practically every camera in the room zooms in on me, capturing my anguish from every angle.

“This is awful,” Saffron says with real empathy, surveying my disaster. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” I say thickly, “it is.”

Basil speaks gently but gets right to the point. “You’ve got thirty-five minutes left on the clock. Are you going to try to salvage your sauce?”

I shrug helplessly. “My food processor.” My voice is too loud, echoing through the suddenly hushed room, but I don’t know how to manage it. I don’t know how to manage anything at this point. “Its bowl is broken. I can’t hand grate enough cheese and cook it. There’s no time.”

Saffron nods. As president of CCI, she knows her stuff. “The food processor’s grating blade is key to prepping cheese for the amount of sauce we’ve required of competitors.”

Basil turns to her. “Why is that?”

“Well,” she says, angling so she’s facing the cameras more than me, “if you want a smooth fondue, you need to grate your cheese, not chop it, which is a common mistake. And with the amount of time left for poor Brynn here, she needs to get it done fast if she’s got any hope of melting it in time to serve.”

“Is she out of the competition then?” Basil asks, giving the cameras a grave look.

“Not officially. But unless she happened to bring another food processor with her, yes, she effectively is.” Saffron looks at me sympathetically.

I heave a shuddering sigh. Saffron is right. I’m toast.

Turning away to head to the bathroom where I can sob in private, I think of how disappointed Mom is going to be. Fresh tears well in my eyes.

A loudclunkbehind me makes me jump. Spinning around, Colby fills my vision.

Colby and his food processor.

His unbroken, fully functioning food processor.

That sound? It was from him setting his food processor on my counter.

“What are you doing?” I ask, not meaning for my words to sound so sharp.

“Donating to the cause.” He gives me a sad smile.

Basil and Saffron are on him in an instant, a camera pushing to get a close-up of his face. His beautiful, beautiful face.

God, I’ve got it bad for this guy.

“Are you giving Brynn one of your tools?” Saffron asks, eyes darting between the two of us like I’ve got something to do with it.

“Yes,” Colby says firmly, “and her name isBrie.”

Saffron colors beneath her caramel skin. “My apologies,” she says, then mutters something under her breath about how she thought my name was a joke, given my competition category.

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