Page 3 of Sugar Lips

The forearms…and now the hug…shit.

I definitely have a thing for Jackson.

Chapter Two

Jackson

Son of a bitch. This is exactly what Idon’tneed, to lust over a woman.

I don’t even want to be here right now. The only reason I’m here is because of one too many drinks.

A couple months ago, I went out with the rest of the staff from Coast, the restaurant I work at. That night, we were especially in need of alcohol. Thanks to just being named the hottest new restaurant in the city by a local restaurant reviewer, it’d been one crazy night after another. To celebrate us making it through the week, our sous chef ordered a round of shots for everyone. And then another round. And then, somehow, we all found ourselves debating about which of us would be most likely to win one of those cooking competitions on TV.

Sober me would haveneverspoken up. I can’t stand big-mouthed chefs who think they’re God’s gift to the world. Drunk me, however, decided to declare that I could win a bake-off competition, no question about it. Because in that drunken moment, it made complete sense: I was the executive pastry chef for one of the newest, hottest restaurants in the city. Therefore, I would win.

Our sous chef, though, wasn’t having it. He scoffed. He said I might be damn good at making refined desserts, but win a baking show? No way in hell. In hindsight, I think he was probably just goading me on. It doesn’t matter, though. What matters is that being the drunk idiot that I was, I took offense to his comment. And then I took action. I pulled out my phone then and there, searched for a baking show seeking contestants, and filled out an application.

And with my colleagues as my witnesses, I hit Send.

I woke up the next day with a raging hangover, a vague recollection of the night before, and a vow to not drink again for at least…a while. I didn’t give another thought to the application I’d filled out. A few days later, though, I got a call from a producer of the show.

“We were really impressed by your application,” the producer said. “You’re the pastry chef at Coast, huh? Man. I’ve been dying to go there. Anyway. We’d love for you to be on the show.”

And what was I supposed to say to that? Oh, actually, I only applied because I was drunk, and I actually have zero interest in anything like that?

Instead, I gritted my teeth and told him that I’d love to come on the show.

It was only two days of filming, after all. I could survive two days of anything.

When I actually showed up on set, though, I quickly regretted my decision to go through with it. First, I was told by a wardrobe girl that I had to change, because the shirt I’d shown up in had a logo on it. Then a producer gave us this long spiel about how important it was for us to be as emotionally expressive as possible—that we might even be asked to redo a take if we weren’t expressive enough. And being told how to act? Especially by some cocky, young producer?

All I could think was:fuck this.

I tried to do my best, though. I didn’t want to have to redo any fucking takes. I even cheered and started hugging my fellow contestants after the remaining six of us made it through to the second round.

Which brings me to the moment at hand: Elizabeth in my arms and my heart beating like mad.

We simultaneously pull out of the hug and look at each other for a second. She looks as surprised as I feel. What the hellwasthat? It felt like there was a goddamn fire lit between us.

And all of a sudden, it’s like Elizabeth is the most beautiful woman in the world.

Shit. Maybe I’m coming down with something. This isn’t like me, being bowled over by some woman I just met. I mean, when I first met Elizabeth earlier today, it’s not like I thought shewasn’tpretty. But there wasn’t an electric spark. There wasn’t anything like there was just now.

I tear my eyes from her and give another contestant a quick hug. Then I force a big smile for the camera that’s moving up close to capture our reactions.

“Congratulations, everyone,” says Ben. “Don’t let the victory go to your heads, though. Because round two is about to start. And at the end of it, four more of you will be cut.”

After Ben says the line, there’s an awkward moment of silence.

“Shit,” calls out a producer. “Why didn’t the goddamn guillotine trigger?”

It’s only then that I notice the fake guillotine placed in the background behind Ben—which was apparently supposed to go off as soon as he saidcut.

A crew member rushes over to fix it, and they do the take again.

We get an hour-long break after that. I use the opportunity to call Coast’s manager and make sure that everything’s going smoothly without me there. She assures me that the pastry chef they temporarily brought in is doing just fine. Then she asks how filming is going.

“It’s…going,” I grunt.