“Maintaining professionalism in unfriendly environments.”
“You think this is unfriendly? People have gathered just to cheer you on as you eat. You couldn’t have stronger support.”
“It’s a hostile work environment. Hostile cheese too.”
“You don’t know that. You haven’t tasted it yet.”
“Yeah.” I had been staring at the cheese the entire time, the fork poised in my hand. I couldn’t bring myself to actually make my arm and hand move down to touch the gelatinous mass. The air shifted a bit and I got a strong whiff of cooked rhubarb.
And goat cheese.
“You might want to get on with stabbing it,” he suggested. “You’re falling behind.”
I glanced down the table. All the judges had already moved on to new plates. One that looked suspiciously like macaroni and cheese. Pink macaroni and cheese.
I fought back my gag reflex. “Switch places?”
“I think they’d notice. Take a bite.”
“It’s rhubarb.”
“Only some of it is rhubarb. Some of it is cheese.”
“Don’t be reasonable with me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
His hand under the table pressed down on my knee and rubbed a gentle circle, fingertips dragging softly down the inside. Even through the heavy denim of my jeans, I could feel the heat, the pressure of his hand.
“One bite and I’ll make it worth it,” he murmured.
I might have been holding my breath. I didn’t look over at him, but from the corner of my eye, I could see his polite and interested expression as he stared down at the plate, and my fork hovering over it.
He was surprisingly good at hiding the truth behind that polite expression. Now where had he learned to do that?
“That’s a dirty move,” I said.
“Not yet it isn’t.”
He gently stroked my knee again, slowly letting his fingers drift upward along the inside of my thigh. It was only a couple of inches, but his hand drew my attention away from this room, these people, and that insult to the dairy aisle in front of me.
“You think that’s going to help?”
“I’m enjoying myself.”
“Delaney?” Bertie called out.
I swallowed a yelp of surprise. She stood in front of the stage, her back to the crowd.
“Problem?” I asked.
“Not with me, dear.” Her words were sharp as knives. “Is there something wrong with the entry?”
“No. I was just…admiring the…”
“Presentation,” Ryder provided. “High scores for presentation on this one.”
“Love the mangled chunks of rhubarb that doesn’t resemble raw hamburger mixed with curdled milk at all,” I said. “High points for that.”
