Page 35 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

She pulls away to look up at me. “Thank you,” she says, breathless, “so much.”

I shake my head. “It was the only thing I could do,” I answer honestly. I didn’t give her my food processor as a ploy or a trick. I gave it to her because it was what everything in me demanded that I do, no matter what happened or didn’t as a result.

“It means everything.” Her voice trembles, eyes suddenly gleaming with tears. Her palms are flat on my chest and it feels like she’s cradling my heart.

I capture her face in my hands. “You mean everything,” I say fiercely. “And I know it sounds crazy, that we barely know each other, but—“

She cuts me off, words throaty and rich, vibrating with emotion. “I know exactly what you mean.”

Then she wraps her arms around my neck and pulls my face down so she can kiss me with fire and feeling. I hold her close, tasting and nibbling and exploring, massaging her soft lips with mine. She’s liquid honey and even though I’m devouring her, I know that I’ll never get enough. Brie is a delicacy that I could enjoy every day for the rest of my life and never grow tired of.

That’s exactly what I intend to do.

The cameras are shoving in close, and I hear Basil exclaiming loudly, but I don’t give a shit. All I care about is the woman who’s right in front of me, safe in my arms, reflecting the unexpected love I feel for her right back to me, making me the happiest damn man alive.

Brie

Iwon.

That’s what everyone crowding around me and Colby is saying.

I find I have difficulty caring, now that I’ve gotten a taste of Colby. He saved me with his sacrifice, and I saw that woman I’d caught him with on the balcony yesterday. She’s been glowering in the audience the whole time, and he’s barely given her a second glance.

What I’m feeling for Colby is real, not a figment of my lonely imagination — and the best part is that he feels it too. He feels it forme.

My fondue won the competition, and I’m so damn grateful and relieved that I’ll be able to help Mom get her surgery.

But the real prize is right in front of me.

Saffron and Basil practically have to physically pull us apart. They thrust a small golden trophy into my hand, a check tucked inside the cup. They congratulate me on my win, say that they’d like to offer me a partial scholarship to CCI because of how inspired they found my bourbon and beer fondue to be, that my crudités were perfectly on point.

My head is spinning. Thankfully, I’ve got Colby to keep me steady.

I lean back into him, marveling at his solidness, at how right his arms feel wrapped around my waist. I cover his hands with mine, thinking that I never want to be not touching this man.

The judges and producers and camera crew have a million questions for both of us. But I’m half-stunned at my win and half love drunk so that all I can manage are short, probably uninteresting answers. Colby doesn’t do much better, although I get the impression that his curt replies are by design, not by accident.

Before long, the audience thins and the questions stop. CCI workers start cleaning up the cook stations, packing up all the competitors’ tools so we don’t have to do that, thank goodness. I just have to sign some paperwork regarding my winnings and then I’m free to go.

Which makes me really happy. Because there’s just one thing I want to do.

Colby Jackson.

I grab his hand. “Let’s go.”

“No.”

My mouth drops open. That is not what I expected him to say.

Then Colby’s mouth curves into a smile, eyes dancing. “I want to taste your fondue before we go.”

That’s exactly why I want to get the hell out of here — so he can dip into the fondue pot between my legs.

But I also adore that he wants to taste my recipe. Besides, I wouldn’t mind showing off my skills to him. So we hurry to my cook station before the crews get to it. I slide the plate of dipping items close to him.

Colby selects a cube of sourdough and a pickle, dipping first one then the other and savoring them in turn.

His smile grows. “Yep,” he says with a nod, “this is fucking amazing.”

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