Page 105 of Heart’s Cove Hunks

But Jen just gives him a curt nod, and the judges and Carrie move on to the station behind us. She lets out a long sigh and glances over at what I’m doing before giving a satisfied dip of her chin. We’ve always worked well together at Four Cups, and in the months that I’ve been gone, I’ve missed her.

I mean, obviously. Last year, when she told me she didn’t want to pursue anything with me because of Amanda and her book, it was a hard rejection to take. But can I really blame her? I’m a forty-six-year-old chef who’s never going to amount to anything. With my history, working in kitchens is all I have to offer. I’ll never be on her level.

Jen, on the other hand, is a brilliant computer whiz who was, by all accounts, amazing at her job until she decided to quit to pursue her pastry baking dream. She’s all class and education and brilliance, and I’m just the piece of shit who chops her bacon.

When she told me she had been working at a Michelin-starred restaurant under Guillaume Boucher, one of the most famous French chefs in the world, but quit to become a co-owner of the Four Cups Café, I thought she was crazy.

She’s got guts. She acts like her decisions are the most natural thing in the world, and I don’t know if she realizes that most people would never have the courage to quit a good job to pursue a dream with so few guarantees as becoming a pastry chef. Then, quit a great job at a renowned restaurant to strike out on her own.

She’s brave.

When we started working together, her talent was obvious. The fact that her new book is shortlisted for so many awards hasn’t surprised me.

And yes, I googled her after I left Heart’s Cove. How could I not?

It’s hard not to feel inadequate around someone like that. Someone who can create things that are so incredibly perfect, who’s intelligent and educated and driven. Talented beyond measure.

Is it any wonder she didn’t want to date me? What can I possibly offer a woman like Jen?

I chop half the bacon into small pieces and start rendering the fat before moving to make candied bacon with the rest of the meat. To be completely honest, apple-bacon muffins sound a bit weird to me, but judging by the fact that I’ve tasted all of Jen’s recipes and not one of them has been bad, she has my complete confidence.

As she should. We end up winning the first bite-sized competition, with the judges calling her sweet muffin “inspired.” Jen smiles again, and the sight of it makes me need to adjust the waistband of my pants. There’s just something about this woman that turns me on. She has no idea how hot she is. Or maybe she knows, but she doesn’t care.

There are more interviews and promo sequences to shoot, and by the end of the day we’re both wrung out and exhausted. Jen and I return to our room without speaking. It’s silent in the woods as we enter the cabin.

The cabin consists of one big room with a queen-sized bed, a dresser, and a closet in the corner. Opposite the bed, there’s a couch, an armchair, and—as of this morning—a single cot shoved in the corner by the big bay windows overlooking the lawn. Finally, along the wall shared with the bathroom is a small kitchenette. The bathroom is spacious. It’s probably designed for couples or honeymooners vacationing in Heart’s Cove.

Jen runs her fingers through her hair and casts a glance toward her bag.

“You nervous about filming in Heart’s Cove tomorrow?” I ask. We were informed by Gus that in the morning, we’d be shooting the last of the get-to-know-you sequences featuring Jen in the Four Cups Café. All the other competitors were visited in their hometown over the past few weeks.

Jen’s eyes lift to mine. She’s got a streak of dried batter in her hair and her eyes are hazy, and she’s never looked better.

“No,” she answers simply.

“No?”

She flops down onto the armchair by the window, looking up at the darkening sky. “Four Cups is where I feel most comfortable. It’ll be nice to be back there, even just for an hour or two.”

“I get that,” I answer quietly, moving to my half-unpacked suitcase on the bed and picking up where I left off this morning. “It was nice to go back there today. Felt like coming home.”

“So why did you leave?” Her eyes are still directed out the window, but her question feels pointed. Heavy.

And I can’t tell her the truth.

I can just imagine how that would go. How would I word it?

—I was in Nevada.

—What were you doing?

—Oh, I was going to prison every day to teach cooking classes.

—Huh, that’s weird. Why would you quit your job to do that?

—I wanted the men on the inside to learn some skills they could use to start over when they’re released. It’s a cause near and dear to my heart, because well, here’s the thing: I’m a convicted felon.

Yeah. That would go over well.

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