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“I know my way around a kitchen better than you ever will,” I retort, although the
words feel hollow even as I spit them out.
“Abby, Abby, Abby,” he tuts, pushing off from the counter to take another step
closer. “You can barely navigate your way out of a paper bag. This competition?
It’s not for the weak. It’s not for the passionless. And it’s definitely not for
someone who can’t tell nutmeg from cardamom.”
His words are like a slap to the face, a reminder of the humiliation on stage. Of
Logan’s disappointment. Of Vanessa’s confused expression. Of the tiramisu that
now represents my biggest failure, all on live television.
Enter title…
Follow on NovᴇlEnglish.nᴇtLogan turns to leave, his posture as casual as ever as he saunters over toward
the door, as if this is over.
But then, I suddenly have an epiphany.
“You’re scared,” I blurt out. “That’s why you’re trying to sabotage me. You’re
scared that I might outshine you. That a woman, of all people, might beat you in
this competition. And you can’t stand that.”
Daniel freezes for a moment, and for the briefest of seconds, I think I see a
slight tremble in his shoulders. It’s so quick that I almost miss it, but it’s there.
He slowly turns around, and there’s that signature smirk of his again, but I can
sense the hollowness behind it now.
“You wish,” he says, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. “As if I’d ever be scared of
someone like…”
“Like what?” I ask, placing my hands on my hips. “A woman?”
Daniel meets my gaze with a flash in his eyes. “Not just a woman. A slut.”
I can feel the tips of my fingers go cold from the sudden shock of his words.
“Excuse me?” I grit out through clenched teeth.
“It’s shameful, really,” he states, taking a step toward me. His posture almost
feels aggressive, and I find myself taking a shaky step back, my resolve
wavering. He chuckles. “A woman attempting to muscle her way into a space
where she’s clearly outmatched. It tarnishes the image of dedicated chefs—real
chefs—who have a genuine passion and talent for cooking.:
Follow on Novᴇl-Onlinᴇ.cᴏmAs Daniel speaks, he closes the distance between us. I find myself involuntarily
stepping back, trying to put space between us, until my back is up against the
counter. But Daniel just keeps coming until he’s mere inches away from my
face.
“You think because I’m a woman, I can’t be as good as any man in the kitchen?”
I ask, my voice trembling more than I would like.
There’s a tense silence for a moment, broken only by a chuckle from Daniel’s
lips. “Good? Abby, even if I had tampered with your station—which I assure you
I did not—you would have found some way to botch it up because, frankly, you
don’t know the first thing about cooking.
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