Page 28 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

Like, so many release forms. I never realized fondue could require so much paperwork.

As I wait for the folks from CCI and the television station to see to the other contestants who are slowly trickling in at their scheduled time slots, I go over the recipe I’ll be making, even though I already know it like the back of my hand.

It’s my beer and bourbon cheese fondue, and not only is it my best creation, it’s also the one everyone back home asks me to make again and again. The fondue features fine Belgian beer, Edam and Gruyère cheeses, and smooth bourbon. I’ll also be prepping a sourdough loaf to dip in the fondue, as well as some other sides.

I try not to bite my nails, but with limited success. I’m nervous as hell.

In an attempt to distract myself, I survey the items lining my cook station counter. The college provided our requested ingredients, but we had to bring our own cooking tools.

I prefer it this way. With so much riding on my performance, I’m glad I’ve got the food processor, fondue pot, utensils, and other items that I’m familiar with.

The wide room is filling with more and more people, most of them either crew or audience members. But now most of the cook stations arranged in a horseshoe shape facing the audience seating at the far end of the room have a contestant sitting beside them just like I’m perched next to mine — and none of them look as petrified as I feel.

There are twelve of us in total competing in the cheese sauce category. I would’ve thought that my competitors would be mostly college-aged folks attending CCI, but the entire spectrum of ages is represented. There’s one girl who looks younger than me and a couple of folks in their twenties and thirties, with the majority of participants looking older than myself.

It’s the older competitors that I’m most worried about. They’ve potentially got years’ more experience than me. I wonder how my famous fondue will hold up against their sauces.

I turn back to my recipe to review it one more time when something catches my eye.

Glossy brown curls, tied up in a bun on the top of its owner’s head.

A man bun.

I suck in a sharp breath, the latte I’ve been sipping on all morning curdling in my belly.

It’s Colby, settling onto the stool at the last remaining cook station, straight across the room from me.

He hasn’t seen me yet. My first instinct is to run, to toss my coffee over my shoulder and get the hell out of here.

But I can’t. Not if I want to retain even a shred of self-respect. Not if I want to take care of my parents, and maybe invest in my own goals.

With my free hand I hold onto the stool I’m sitting on for dear life like if I let go I won’t be able to stop myself from fleeing.

I try not to stare, even though it’s so damn hard. Did he spend the night with the woman I saw him with? Probably. They probably had glorious, transcendent, incredible sex.

God, I’m jealous of that woman.

And Colby? I can’t wait to kick his ass in this competition.

Shit. He’s looking around the room, nodding and waving in greeting at the other competitors in that beautiful easy way he has.

His gaze grows closer and closer to me. I hold my breath and think invisible thoughts, keeping my eyes on my lap.

When I think it’s safe, that surely he must have passed over me, just the girl he discarded when a better option came along, I chance a glance across to his cook station.

I gasp, loud enough to make the middle-aged woman with the dancing green eyes sitting at the station to my left frowns at me in concern.

Because Colby? He’s staring right at me, blue eyes wide in his paper-white face. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, even like he’s hurt by the sight of me, but I can’t fathom why. He’s the one who rejected me.

Like he’s moving through a dream, he rises and floats across the room to me. My hands are shaking, not sure what he could possibly have to say to me, but I refuse to let him see. I set my jaw and jut out my chin.

“You’re here to compete?” he says like he can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

“That’s right,” I answer in a clipped voice.

He looks like I’ve kicked him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I laugh, a harsh, barking sound. “Why did you make plans with me only to give them up at the first sight of a woman in heels?” I retort. He doesn’t get to be the wronged party, and I don’t owe him a single answer to any of his questions.

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