He had a small spoon and a jar of the compote, and he talked about the Cherokee Purple's flavor profile. The crowd listened with the attention of people who were there for the food and also there for the thing they expected to happen between him and Ivy.
Ivy cut a small piece of the blondie. She put it on a napkin. She held it out. She was not going to feed it to him. That was not what was happening. She was handing him a piece of blondie on a napkin. He didn't take it from her.
Once again, they spoke in that unspoken shared language of theirs. Ivy understood what he wanted. She took the treat from the napkin. Held it pinched between her index and thumb. He lifted it to his mouth.
He ate it.
He'd be lying if he said he didn't snag a taste of her fingers. He savored that more than he did the flour and sugar and compote.
"It's good."
He meant it's extraordinary. He meant that she was extraordinary. He meant that he couldn't stop thinking abouther, even though it was possible she was going to leave after they won this competition. He meant that he wanted her to ask her on a real date. One not in front of the camera. One that wasn't performance. One that was in a kitchen where they played in cookbooks and mixed ingredients and didn't use utensils when it was time to taste-test.
Instead, he said those two words.
Ivy laughed. Not the professional laugh, not the performance laugh. It was a genuine sound of delight; the sudden kind, the one that got out before she could organize it, full and real and slightly surprised. Like she'd expected something and gotten something else entirely.
The crowd ate it up. That, more than anything, told Finn they were going to win. So why did it feel like he was on the verge of losing it all?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ivy’s legs were not steady. She told them to be. They did not listen.
She took the first step down from the stage as if she had control over her body, as if she hadn’t just stood under lights and cameras and let a man taste from her fingers in front of a crowd. Like her pulse wasn’t still trying to outrun her.
She focused on the steps. On placing her foot carefully. On not thinking about Finn behind her.
Which was impossible. Because she had seen it. The hesitation. The fraction of a second where his weight shifted before he followed her down. The way he’d masked the pain in his knee.
The Purple Heart Ranch took in wounded warriors. Everyone knew that. Everyone there carried something—visible or not.
She had never asked Finn about what had brought him to the ranch, only what had brought him to the farm. The other part hadn’t felt like her place.
Did she get to ask now? Was it rude to ask? She wanted to know what had happened to him. She wanted to know how to make it better. She didn't like the idea of Finn hurting.
She wanted to know what he had been like before. She wanted… everything.
She wanted to cook with him again. Not for a competition. Not for a crowd. Just the two of them in a kitchen where time didn’t matter, and no one was watching.
She wanted to feed him again. Properly this time. Not a staged handoff. Not a napkin between them. No one was watching except the two of them.
His mouth.
Her fingers.
It wasn’t fair. He’d tasted her twice now.
Her gaze flicked, unbidden, to his hand where it still held hers. To his thumb. She knew exactly what it looked like when it disappeared between his lips. The slow, deliberate pull. What she didn't know was what it would taste like.
How could she — accidentally on purpose— find out?
What would his kisses taste like? Would they be slow like that? Intentional?
But this was fake. There was no need for them to kiss. Except for when they won. Because, of course, they would win. The crowd size and cheers assured them of that. A kiss would be necessary along with the prize. Right?
But then what? After the fake dating, the cameras, the crowd. She wanted something after that.
Ivy's grip tightened in his. Because it wasn’t fake for her. Not anymore. She wanted more.
