Page 42 of The Baking Games
She gives me a mock salute. "Yes, sir."
Eventually, we start to get a rhythm to moving around the kitchen. We mix up the dry ingredients—flour, baking powder, some sugar, and a pinch of salt—and before we know it, we have the batter ready to put into the waffle iron.
"Now we crumble the bacon into the batter,” I say as if that's not patently obvious. The smell of maple syrup and bacon fills the kitchen, making my stomach growl. "All right. Now, we need to pour them into the waffle iron. I've turned it on and preheated it. This is the easy part. Just pour in the batter, and we'll wait."
She looks at me, "Yes, I understand how a waffle iron works, Rhett. I'm not stupid."
I realize I’m not treating her like a trained pastry chef. I’m treating her like I’m teaching her something she doesn’t already know. And as bad as the challenge went, I know Savannah has skills. I saw them when we were in school. She made some stunning desserts, and she was highly focused. So far in the competition, she seems scared. Distracted. Worried.
I’m sure part of it is worrying about her sister, but I think a lot of it is Connor. I try to imagine what it’d be like to have one of my ex-girlfriends in the house, and I shudder a bit.
“What was that?” she asks me when I shake.
“Just got a chill.”
“Oh Lord, I hope you’re not getting a fever or something. I don’t want to get sick.”
I look at her. “Thanks for your overwhelming concern, but I’m fine. I was just thinking about something.”
“You literally shook. What were you thinking about?” she grins, obviously giddy with excitement to do a deep dive into my mind.
“None of your business.” I continue staring at the waffle iron as if that will speed up time.
“Come on! We have to spend a lot of time together. Tell me your deep, dark secret, Rhett.”
When she looks at me, I feel a wave of something. She’s smiling. Her teeth are so perfect and white. Her lips are naturally full, and she wears the perfect shade to highlight her red hair. There’s a smattering of freckles on her nose that some women would kill to have.
What is wrong with me?
This isn’t good. She’s my competition. My nemesis. My complete opposite. My body and mind are betraying me with these thoughts.
“Fine. I was thinking how awful it would be to have an ex in this house.”
She pauses for a moment. “It is awful.”
“Maybe he’ll leave soon,” I say, half wishing it for her and half wishing it for myself.
“Doubtful. As horrible as Connor is, he’s a talented pastry chef. I’ve seen him create amazing things.”
“Well, we can hope he’ll leave.”
“Agreed.”
We finish making the waffles and carry them to the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Neither of us wants to join the table full of people in the other room and listen to jokes about the chain between us.
“These are delicious, Rhett,” she says. Savannah is one of those people who can despise you and still compliment you. I don’t understand it. I don’t have a good poker face.
“Thanks. I’ve perfected them over years of being on my own, traveling all over the world.”
“Oh, that’s right. You work on celebrity yachts. Anyone I’d know?”
My mind scrambles. “Probably.”
She grins. It’s a nice grin. She could be on a toothpaste commercial. “Well, give me some names!”
“I really can’t. Non-disclosure agreement and all.” What a stupid excuse.
“You had to sign an NDA to make desserts on celebrity yachts?”