Page 17 of Burning Rivalry

Goddammit. The paper crinkled in my hand once my fist began to tighten.

America’s Best Baker is cagey when asked for details about Sebastian Kennedy, long heralded as the genius behind Home’s beloved if slightly repetitive offerings. Then again, isn’t half the charm of going to Home knowing exactly what to expect? When viewed through that lens, it’s clear Mr. Kennedy gives his customers what they want.

Which is why it seems so out of character for him to bring a fresh, new face into his familiar and beloved establishment. With the opening of a second location in the coming months, a development long anticipated by critics and diners alike, one couldn’t be blamed for wondering if he wants to offer something new.

However, one has to wonder how many risks he’s willing to take when tried and true has worked for so long.

“Sebastian knows what he wants.” Claudia Granger’s ready smile is a familiar one to any fan. She approaches our sit-down with the same cheerfulness and professionalism she displayed through twelve weeks of grueling hell, pitted against bakers from around the world. “It’s a pleasure to work with someone who possesses such a strong, almost rigid vision. There’s no room for guessing, which means the focus can be left squarely on execution. It’s a gift, really.”

I get to the end of the first page and then realize the kitchen went silent. My head snapped up from the article—that was their cue to get moving, and they did, wasting no time in their prep work. Familiar aromas came back to me—onions, tomatoes, beef. Several prep cooks worked at rolling pasta sheets through a hand-cranked machine while another piped herbed ricotta, creating tortellini for tonight’s soup.

But always, they glanced my way from the corners of their eyes, ever aware of my presence.

Rather than put on a public show a minute longer, I retreated to my office, closed the door, tossed the magazine onto my desk, and dropped into my chair. I needed this like I needed a hole in the head. It wasn’t enough that one of my best friends was now using his connections to find out for sure whether or not I was being sabotaged, I needed the sabotage to come from my own kitchen?

I could see her in my mind’s eye. The wide, charming smile of hers that seemed to fool everyone else into believing she was genuine. So smug, sure of herself, affecting that aw-shucks persona everyone fell for.

I closed my eyes, practiced breathing slowly, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through pursed lips. There was no calming myself in a moment like this. I didn’t have a chance. Who the fuck did she think she was?

It was torture, and I knew it, but I couldn’t stay away. I had to know what else she said, meaning I opened my eyes and picked up the article, flipping the page in a twisted example of masochism.

When asked about working with someone like Sebastian Kennedy, specifically, the chef is noncommittal at best. “I love the fast pace of the kitchen, and the people are phenomenal,” she tells me before requesting I stick to the list of prepared questions forwarded to her by our editor. She offers nothing when asked about new pastries the public can look forward to, only hinting at subtle changes. “Why fix what isn’t broken?” she points out with a strained smile, then changes the subject.

It looks like Sebastian isn’t the only kitchen member afraid to riff and be spontaneous, though the jury is out on whether that’s due to his influence or not.

Crumpling the pages, I threw them across the room. A room that had gone red, a room now filled with my heavy breathing.

If anything, I should have been glad for this reminder of what this was all about and why she had come here in the first place. Not to intrigue me, not to arouse me, though she had done both, especially in the days since that near kiss earlier this week. I’d made it a point to steer clear of her since then, and she seemed to do the same. It had been a mistake, nothing more, and it hadn’t affected our working relationship. If anything, it meant giving her the space she craved since every time our eyes met, I couldn’t help but recall how hypnotic hers were in those final moments before I made the mistake of touching her.

It was too easy, letting my guard down, letting her get closer. We related too well to each other when it came to our work and passions. I couldn’t remember the last time a woman had interested me that way, if ever.

She had already given this interview at that point, hadn’t she? She fucking knew what that goddamn excuse for a reporter was going to say, and she hadn’t bothered giving me a heads-up. The snake in the grass. The backstabber.

The woman whose voice now rang out cheerfully in the kitchen. “Hi, hi,” Claudia called out, her voice getting louder as she drew closer to my door. “I just stopped in to make sure things are looking good before picking up my friend at the airport.”

She had no idea what she had walked into, but I was ready to show her. This was my reward for letting my guard down, for letting her know me a little better. She had taken a shit all over my trust. Grabbing for the ruined magazine, I then flung the door open.

“Granger.” My voice echoed in the kitchen once I stepped from my office, making her spin in place with her mouth hanging open and her eyes bulging. Didn’t she look like a breath of fresh air in a flowered sundress, her hair loose around her shoulders? Softer than she normally appeared at work, bringing to mind the pair of cutoffs she’d worn during our surprise encounter earlier in the week.

“Kennedy?” she murmured before releasing a soft, disbelieving laugh. “What did I do wrong this time?”

“You might think you’re being funny, but I’m not laughing.” Thrusting the crumpled article her way, I explained, “You got what you wanted. It wasn’t enough to go behind my back in the kitchen. You had to undermine me in the press too.”

She took it from me, smoothing it out somewhat as her eyes darted back and forth across the surface. “Wait a second. No, hold on.” With a groan, she dropped her arms to the sides, shaking her head. “I went out of my way⁠—”

“To make me look like an asshole!” I barked. “Making me out to be some castrated little bitch who’s strangling your precious creativity. Congratulations. You made sure the whole world knows what a piece of shit you think I am.”

Her face went red before she shouted back, “She intended to make you look like the bad guy before I ever sat down with her!” I had to be imagining this, the way she spoke to me in front of the rest of my employees. “If there’s any fault here, it’s with me for not warning you. I am sorry for that… it slipped my mind.”

“Oh, right. How convenient.” As if she had ever intended to do that.

“It’s the goddamn truth!”

“You know what, I don’t care about your idea of the truth. Get the hell out of here, pick up your friend, and don’t forget to tell her what a bastard I am when you do. Maybe she’ll believe your half-assed bullshit because I don’t.”

Retreating to my office, I slammed the door, but the sound did nothing to cool my boiling rage. She expected me to believe she’d forgotten to warn me about a potential hit piece, and I was supposed to believe it had nothing to do with her feeling put off by my attempted kiss?

The masochist in me reared its ugly head again, this time convincing me to peer through the closed blinds separating me from the kitchen. I rarely opened them since my time in this room was meant to be private. Nobody wanted the boss watching them through a window all day, either.