Page 60 of Stupid Matchmaking Love

He points to his chest. “Me?”

“Did I stutter?” I cross my arms and dig my nails into my skin until it stings. “You.”

“Me, the person who wants to”—he looks around—“lose. Who doesn’t want the competition to look rigged. I cheated?”

“That’s right. You cheated.”

“And how do you suppose I did that?”

“You tell me.”

He rubs his hand down the scruff of his cheeks. It makes this sandpaper-scratching noise that hits me right in the gut. On top of that, he looks super handsome leaning against the station’s counter, all loose and relaxed, in a plaid shirt, like he’s two seconds away from spilling something on it so he can rip it off.

Yes, he definitely sabotaged this.

“I’ll tell you how you did it.”

“Please, I’d like to hear this.”

“When my back was turned, you swapped the containers.”

“While you were holding it, you mean.”

My eyes narrow. “Yes, while I was holding it.”

“Do you know how ridiculous you sound?”

“I don’t care. You rigged it so we’d win.”

“First of all, I don’t have magic, so there’s no way I could have stolen the canister from you—while you held it. Secondly, I want out of this thing as much as you do.”

I take a step forward, pushing myself into his space. “Do you?”

Rhett looks down at me, his scent wrapping me in a heady cloud of leather and musky soap. He stares at me for a long moment before he drags his gaze away.

“I didn’t do anything to sabotage this.”

“Just like you don’t sleepwalk,” I throw back.

His eyes harden to flint, and I’ve hit a nerve, a deep wound, something he keeps locked down so tight it can’t be used as a weapon against him.

Which is what I just did.

“I’ll do my best not to be such a nuisance,” he says coldly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

My belly cramps with guilt. I open my mouth to apologize, but he’s already gone.

I’m left alone, facing the weight of my choice, my shoulders heavy. Why did I have to say that to him? Why did I have to use that against him? We’d had such a good time baking.

This isn’t real, I remind myself. It’s fake.

I grab my purse and leave the tent, catching a glimpse of Jace at his station, talking to Holly, their heads together. My throat tightens at what I could have . . . if the quilt really had magical abilities and if I didn’t have Glen breathing down my neck.

Jace looks up as I walk by, his gaze meeting mine, and for a split second, he frowns.

Don’t worry, Jace. You may not have won this round, but you always win in the end.

And I wind up the loser.