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I ease to the edge of the loft and peer down.

Gideon is sitting on the minuscule couch, completely absorbed in something on his phone. I almost forgot how massive he is; the small room only accentuates his size. He doesn’t look bad with all that tousled, thick chestnut hair.

The screen glow lights up his jaw, and I recognize the layout instantly. He’s on Instagram.

That’s my profile. Now I’m wide awake.

My heart is racing as I watch him slowly scroll through posts I barely remember sharing. His big thumb pauses on the chocolate-smeared apron shot Maya took of me, the one where the neckline dips much lower than it should. He mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like fuck me.

Heat floods my face and pools lower. He keeps going, lingering on the video of me tasting cherry filling, and the quiet, rough sound he makes ratchets up the temperature of my entire body. I’m burning up over here.

When I clear my throat, he shuts the app off so fast it’s almost comical, but the damage is done.

Our eyes meet. “Find anything interesting?” I ask on my way down the stairs.

He grins. “Yeah. All of it. You’re very talented. I had no idea you were such a big deal.”

“Key word: were. As in, past tense.” The easy compliment lands harder than an insult, a stark reminder of everything I’ve lost. “I was successful, I guess. Now … now I’m a pariah.” The word comes out thick, and my eyes start to sting. “That’s why I’m here. It’s why I have to win.” I turn away before he can see my chin start to tremble, and fumble for a chair at the kitchen table, just as Gideon’s phone rings.

“You’ve got cell service?”

“Unfortunately, yes, and this damn thing has been going off all morning.” Gideon stares down at his phone. “Some people just won’t take no for an answer.” He swipes and the ringing stops. Then he focuses his attention back on me. “So what happened? Why would you be a pariah? Some kind of foodie mafia?”

“I was sabotaged, that’s what happened, during the most important job of my life, with a pending cookbook deal.” Gideon shifts, turning fully to me, really listening, and I let go of whatever shred of ego I have left.

“Because my life went to hell,” I explain. “Because my dreams were shot up right when I was finally making it to the next level.” I scan the kitchen counters. “Any coffee up here?” I start to get up.

“Stay there. I’ve got this.” He walks to the kitchen and opens the fridge. “Do you like Mocha Frappuccino?”

“You guys have Starbucks in Passion Pines?” I rush to the kitchen and he passes the coffee to me. “This is my lucky day.”

“Yes, they stock Starbucks at the Mercantile, just like we have running water and electricity even way up here.” He twists the top of his bottle and takes a swig with a smile. “But I’m more interested in who sabotaged you. Another chef?”

I slump, staring into my coffee. “My assistant. My sous chef.” I shake my head; the memory still lands like a fresh cut, every time. “I never fully trusted her, but she was desperate … rent, bills, the whole sob story. So I kept her on.”

“And she repaid you by …” he gently prompts.

“By ruining me. Just Google my name. The whole disaster is right there in high-def.” I take a sip of coffee, hating sounding so bitter. “But I’m getting my reputation back. I have to win this contest, and get that book contract. The publisher is still on the hook, just barely.”

Gideon frowns when his phone rings again. It’s been pinging with notifications nonstop.

“So you desperately need to win.” He turns the ringer off.

“Yes.” We move to the couch and I sit next to him, fighting back tears, which I hate. But the subject of my downfall is so pathetically depressing, unfair, and sad, I can’t help it. He smells like the jacket he let me borrow, fresh clean soap, spicy pine, and the faint leftover scent of the wood stove, so good I lean closer.

Gideon turns to me with a gentle expression. He narrows his eyes when he sees my tears and nonchalantly brushes the single tear rolling down my cheek with his thumb.

“I have an idea.” He pulls his hand back, settling into the couch and putting a careful distance between us. His expression shifts, becoming serious. “But it would be a deal with rules. Boundaries. We’d have to be clear it’s nothing else.”

“What kind of arrangement are we talking?”

“I’ll help you win the contest.” He says it like we’re negotiating a contract.

“I’m intrigued, but I’m not sure you can assist me with pie, and I sincerely doubt I can do anything that would be helpful to you and your brothers out there in the wilderness.”

He eyes me slowly, taking his time, not trying to hide it. “You need media attention to get that book deal, right?”

I nod. “You are correct, sir.”