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“Nah,” he says, waving the thought away. “I’ve got her and the rest of the judges taken care of.”

“How?”

“Let’s just say they really like my company.” He winks.

“Whoa.” I laugh. “I don’t want you prostituting yourself on my account.”

“Funny. I have a full calendar. I’m taking Mrs. Helmsley to her doctor’s appointment next week, and I hired Eli, the handyman you met at the motel, to fix Miss Jessica’s porch. Those two pretty much run the whole Pie Palooza, and I have a few other ideas in the works.” He glances over with a warm, unreadable expression. “You seem tired.”

“Probably because I barely slept.”

He turns. “Because of me?”

“You could say that.” And even though I know better, I tell him, “I kept thinking about the way you kiss me.”

He huffs a deep laugh that does nothing to help me from wanting him more. “Lila.”

“Gideon.”

“Don’t start talking about me kissing you unless you want me to pull over.”

I stare directly at the windshield because if I turn, I might just crawl over the console, climb into his lap, and start sucking his neck. He smells too good. “Drive,” I manage. “I have a pie to perfect and a publisher to win back. I can’t do either if my fake fiancé keeps kissing me like he means it.”

“I did mean it.”

So did I. “That,” I say softly, “is the problem. I’m leaving right after the contest.”

Gideon doesn’t respond and if he does, I can’t understand it, he just grumbles under his breath as he pulls into the Grizzly Grind parking lot. The hand-painted sign is swinging, but there’s less wind today.

I square my shoulders when he opens the door for me, and loop my arm through his as we walk to the entrance in silence. The little bell on the door jingles like the start of a fighting match. The pressure to win this contest is getting more intense by the minute. If this doesn’t go well, I don’t have a backup plan.

Gideon rests his hand on the small of my back as we enter the cozy space. It’s a slight gesture but enough to make heads turn. It also makes my knees stupid.

“Slade and Zeph are here,” he murmurs, gesturing to the back area. “Looks like they pulled an ugly shift. I’ll catch up. You go claim your space before someone else does.”

“You’re leaving me?”

“I’ll be twenty feet away. If anyone glances at you sideways, I’ll know.” He tips his head down and drops his voice to a sexy rumble that makes me glad I’m wearing a thick sweater and a padded bra. “Bake. I’ll come steal a taste when you’re ready.”

He heads to the lounge area and Clara waves from behind the counter. Her eyes flick toward the kitchen. “Morning, honey,” she says. “Nell’s already in back. Play nice. We’ve got enough weather without extra storms in my workspace.”

A woman at the corner table lifts her eyes up from her coffee. Silver hair, silk scarf, the kind of posture that comes from decades of commanding attention. It’s Mrs. Helmsley. I know that for a fact because I checked Instagram after Maya’s warning. She gives me a smug, snooty once-over. It sure isn’t a friendly welcome. Her gaze drops to the flour dusted on my knuckles, leftover from when I was nervously checking my supplies in the truck. I see the small shake of her head before she returns to her newspaper.

As she leaves, she gives me another dismissive glance before folding the paper and dropping it off on the community table.

Even from here I can see the headline in the food section with my name. Clara follows my gaze, and her mouth tightens. My heart sinks.

I shouldn’t read it. It’s only going to mess with my head, but I take a few steps closer. Damn it. It’s nothing new, just the same regurgitated garbage about my downfall, recirculated from a larger paper. I scan the words. It’s all there: the Éclat gala, my name, the phrase unfortunate incident sitting there like a stain I’ll never be able to get rid of. I’m sure the judges have already decided I won’t be winning.

Fuck. I clutch my hard case like a shield and push through the swinging door.

Nell Tate turns from her pastry board as if she’s been waiting for the exact second I’d walk in. She’s pretty with her dark hair in a sleek knot, but her smile is superficial.

“Lila,” she says, pleasantly. “Morning. Did the cabin treat you well?”

“It did. Thanks.” I set my case on the empty end of the stainless table and keep my voice bright. “I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

“You’re not in it. Yet.” She doesn’t look up as her rolling pin glides across the dough in one long, even pass. The kind of move you only perfect after a few hundred pies. “Contest’s tight this year.” She dusts her palms, finally glancing up. “You actually practicing that pumpkin, or just talking about it?”