by Abby Knox
Don’t say impossible, you nitwit. Of course it’s possible. You pulled every string to get her here. And now, she’s here.
She’s not supposed to be here, precisely. She’s supposed to be in the ballroom, waiting for me. “What the hell are you doing in my rose garden?”
The woman sits bolt upright, eyes wild, hair mussed, her dress covered in grass.
“What! Where am I!?”
Oh, dear. I’ve startled the poor girl. Perhaps I was a bit too gruff.
“You’re in my rose garden. And if I’m not mistaken, I believe you’re mine. I mean, I believe you’re my contestant. One of the contestants. For the show.”
Oh god. I’m making a complete fool of myself now.
She rubs her face and looks up at me, then her eyes widen.
“It’s you!”
I cross my arms in front of my chest. “You know me?” I try not to sound too pleased, sure that I’m failing at that miserably.
She grabs her chest. “It’s a good thing I’m sitting down because if I were standing, I would fall and pass right out!” She has a Southern American accent that’s even more pronounced than it was in the video, and I have to fight the urge to kiss her before she starts babbling.
“Sorry if I startled you. I’m not the best at introductions.”
She struggles to stand, and I feel like an idiot for not realizing right away that she needs help. I grip her arm and assist her to her feet, brushing off the grass from her skirts.
Looking her up and down, she’s even more lovely than I thought possible from her audition video. Her dark hair is done in an elaborate braid around her head. She wears a strange old-fashioned dress with a pinafore over top of it. Her deep brown eyes study me and still appear frightened. That’s the last thing I want. She’s also smaller than I assumed. Shorter and with a soft, feminine little body that I’d love to throw over my shoulder like a Pirate of Penzance and march up to my private rooms right the hell now.
“Chloe Williams?” I say, swallowing the emotions in my throat. Those feelings threaten to destroy me, destroy my entire persona, my reputation. I’m hurtling straight into an affair with a contestant, and no one in all the realm can stop me.
Her sweet, round face breaks into the most heartbreaking smile I’ve ever seen. She lights up the darkness in my soul and threatens to undo all the years I’ve spent building this armor around myself.
“You know me?”
No reason to lie. “Yes. Of course I know you, love. I found your audition video…well, unforgettable is a word that comes to mind. Welcome to Warwickshire.”
Is it possible for that smile to grow any wider? For her face to become even more lovely?
She looks so clueless and innocent; my heart will break if she finds out she didn’t get here on baking merit.
“I’ll have to break you in first.”
She blinks up at me, her lips turning dark pink.
“Excuse me?”
Oh fuck. I’ve said that out loud. I’ve been talking to myself too long.
She doubles over in a fit of giggles. “Be careful around me; I’m likely to use that in a bit.”
A bit? “Forget what I said.”
“I could never. I…I need to confess something. I’ve been watching your show for years and, well, it seems silly, I know, but the truth is…” Chloe’s cheeks blush a shade of pink that rivals my best roses. Her breasts rise and fall rapidly in her nervous, shallow breathing, tempting me with salacious ideas. The size and shape of them will fit perfectly in my hands. My greedy sausage fingers have itched to touch nothing but that glowing skin of hers, to trace my thumb over her lips…and use my other one to viciously strum her to completion. I could make that adorable, unguarded face go taut with lust with one solitary finger. I could grab those curvy birthing hips and make her beg. Oh, and I will. I’m going to ruin this cheery little American tart. She’ll be absolutely wrecked for anyone but me by the time I’m done with her.
Bollocks, where are my manners?
I can’t have her disqualified before the show even begins. “Don’t…don’t finish that sentence. You don’t want me knowing too much about you.”
Her smile never falters; she only takes on an air of curiosity. “Oh?”
“Yes. I am the judge, you know. We shouldn’t even be talking. No fraternizing until…after.”
Her lips part in either shock or disgust.
I reach out toward her and say, “I didn’t mean to offend you. Please don’t take it the wrong way.”
She closes her mouth, and her shining lips curve up in a small, knowing smile. “I could never take anything the wrong way with you, Mr. Wildwood. I think…I think you’re just…just…”
Her face goes slack all of a sudden, and it takes me half a second to realize she’s overcome. I catch her just as her knees give out.
“Are you all right, love?”
Her eyes flutter open, and she smiles up at me.
“Jet lag,” she replies absently, her eyes roving over my lips. God, she can probably see my mouth beginning to drool. I get the distinct impression she’d let me kiss her right now. I’d be a monster if I did it, but it might be worse if I let her go through with the competition.
A man’s voice cuts across the dreamy atmosphere rose garden, and I look up to see my assistant, the executive producer, the director, and my publicist all staring at us—me, with my arms around one of the contestants that I’m supposed to be judging.
“Phillip! They’re, er, all waiting for you in the ballroom,” says the director, Jamie.
“All except one, I see,” Harlow remarks with a smirk.
This doesn’t look good.
Chapter Five
Chloe
* * *
Today is day one of shooting: Cookie Day. Or, as I believe they’re called here: biscuits.
I’m so nervous.
I might have made myself more nervous by accidentally meeting the man himself yesterday in the rose garden.
Here’s hoping I didn’t make a terrible first impression. Imagine finding a strange woman asleep in the grass at your house! A contestant, no less, who was supposed to be somewhere else at the time.
My memory wanders back to yesterday, specifically when Phillip caught me in his arms. I’d blacked out from standing up too quickly. He’s bigger, thicker, and stronger than he looks on television. His hair and eyes were twice as vivid in the flesh. My obsession bloomed into real, animal attraction so powerful I could have climbed him like a tree. He and his strong, masculine fingers could have violated me ten ways right there in the grass, and I would have said, “Thank you, sir, may I have some more?”
He’s too big, too beautiful for me. How in the world did I make it this far on this esteemed competition of skill? He’s going to know I’m a fraud immediately, and then I will have lost my chance. He’ll be disappointed, and I can’t handle that.
The still-small voice inside my head, however, reminds me of who I am.
You are Chloe Williams. You belong here just as much as anyone else. And that man is your future husband. So let’s make some damn cookies.
All six of us wait at our stations in the ballroom, checking and double-checking our ingredients. I run my hands over my pink polka-dotted apron, examining the clothes I wore underneath. Is it sexy enough to get Phillip’s attention? Too sexy? Does it clash with my skin? Am I showing too much skin?
As if the clouds part and the heavens open up, he finally appears next to his fellow judge, Georgianne. The sight of Phillip makes my insides tumble with joy and my lady bits hum with longing.
Was it a terrible idea to have saved my virginity for a celebrity? Probably. I’m so damn horny; I know there’s no way I’ll be able to focus on the biscuit recipe.
“Bakers,” he grumbles. “Welcome to Warwickshire. For the sake of our American contest this week, we’ve changed some of the terminologies to avoid confusion. Cookies, instead of biscuits, for one thing. Some of the things we haven’
t changed, however. And that’s the way we measure ingredients. If you’re not used to the metric system, fear not.”
Great. I almost had a panic attack when he said “metric system.” I’m such an idiot that I completely forgot about that.
I think for a second that he’s going to tell us the recipes have been converted. But that’s not what’s happening here.
“Each of you at your station has a food scale, and a conversion chart. You’re welcome. And good luck.”
We all stare wide-eyed at Phillip until he growls, “Get on with it, then.”
This jolts me out of my stupor, and I immediately begin converting the measurements for the recipe, which is in American English. Already, I start to sweat.
The extra work takes up at least fifteen minutes that I don’t have to spare, but finally, I get the cookie dough mixed to my satisfaction.
As I’m spooning the dough onto my prepared cookie sheets, I have a strange feeling as though I’ve forgotten something.
Suddenly, a masculine scent tickles my senses. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Keep working, Chloe, I tell myself.
“Are you forgetting something?”
The man’s voice startles me out of my shoes.
Shrieking, I whirl around and see Phillip standing right in front of me. Shaking, I slip my sandals back onto my feet; the man instinctively reaches out to keep me steady as I do so.
“I don’t know. Did I forget something?”
Phillip stares at me. That wolffish, unreadable gaze that features heavily on every episode—and also in my dreams. Of course, he’s not going to tell me.
I don’t want to look away from his lovely face, but I have to get the cookies into the oven. I turn around, pick up one sheet, open the oven door…and realize what I’ve forgotten.
“Oh shit! I forgot to turn on the oven!”
Two of the nearby contestants make sympathetic noises. I fiddle with the unfamiliar dials. “What? These numbers don’t make any sense.”
“It’s a convection oven, love.”
I spin around again, and I see the slightest whisper of a smile in his eyes as he walks away. The devilish crow’s feet grow sexier by the year.
He called me “love.” Again. That’s the third or fourth time.
I don’t know, nor do I care, if that’s a common thing to call people you don’t necessarily love or even know well. I’m going to float on it for the rest of the week.
It’s enough to give me the confidence to figure out the temperature and get my mini-crisis under control. The timing is slightly off now—I’ve just placed cookies in an oven not all the way pre-heated. But at least they’ll be done on time. I think.
Chapter Six
Phillip
* * *
Who is she?
Apart from the silly girl I found asleep in the rose garden, of course. And apart from the hot mess in her audition video.
With her pink apron, sunny disposition, and warm, friendly eyes, she’s the antithesis of me.
I have scoured the internet for anything and everything about her, and I’ve come up woefully short. She’s an enigma.
Chloe flits around her workstation, making messes of flour and sugar. Measuring—with her little tongue poking out—as if that helps to concentrate. Then re-measuring because she’s not sure she converted everything correctly.
She hums while she works, talks to herself, scratches her head, tosses out two entire batches of biscuit dough, and still, she maintains that ineffable smile on her face. How? How does she do it?
The more she handles her pots and pans, the way she holds a mixer, the more I’m convinced she has no idea what she’s doing. What is she doing here? Why did she audition for a baking competition in the first place if she doesn’t even think to research the kinds of ovens we use on the show? She’s not only going to lose but she’ll also be humiliated. Her biscuits are going to come out terrible.
And whose fault is that, Phillip? You insisted on browsing all of the candidates, and she was the one who made your dick hard. You ensured that she would embarrass herself on television.
I have to remove her from the show. I can’t let her make a fool of herself.
I’d thought it might be fun to bring that charming American girl over the pond and make her submit to my will, but she’s winning me over with her sparkling personality. I love her, and I hate it.
Bloody hell, who taught this woman how to bake? And why is she topping those half-baked monstrosities with vivid blue icing?
Georgianne asks Chloe that very question when judgment time rolls around: “Why did you choose such a lurid color for the top? It adds nothing to the flavor.”
Chloe’s smile falters only a little, but then she answers—while staring straight at me. “I wanted to make cookies in a color that reminded me of Phillip’s eyes. And I don’t think they’re lurid at all. They’re like the clear sky on a cold winter day. That’s the kind of blue that cheers me right up when I’m feeling low.”
Other contestants titter at her bald-faced admission that she likes my eyes. To the casual observer, she’s trying to goad the surly judge. She wouldn’t be the first to try. But I see what’s happening here.
“I’m very sorry to tell you this, dear, but they’re just plain awful. Burnt edges. Soggy bottoms,” Georgianne remarks.
I cross my arms, then change my mind and hook my fingers in my belt loops. Then I switch again and simply stand with my balled-up fists leaning on the countertop in my signature stare-down. The editors will decide which posture to use.
I just have to think of something to say and then move on to the next contestant. My mouth goes dry. I can’t say what I think. It’s true; her biscuits are dreadful. But I’m moved by her sweetness, in new and strange ways.
What is she doing to me? “Your…your biscuits. They do have issues. But—oh god, hold on.”
Cameramen murmur and give their shoulders a break while I reach for a bottle of water. I gulp it down and hand it back to the production assistant, and the camera begins filming again. I can’t say what I want to say, so I hope to god the silly girl can read between the lines. “It’s not a hopeless cause. You’re very charming, but you’re overthinking it.”
Out of politeness, I try not to appear as if I’m suffering to get through the remaining contestant’s biscuits.
The second we wrap shooting for the day, I’m off to find Chloe.
I don’t even care who overhears me call after her as she makes her way toward the elevators to the guest wing. She tugs at the string in her apron, her head slightly bent, her shoulders hunched.
“Chloe!”
She spins around. “Y…yes?” My hand darts out to hold the door.
The rest of the contestants trickle away up the stairs and other elevators, and I don’t say another word until they’re gone.
“Would you like for me to show you what you did wrong?”
Her brown eyes sparkle, and she bites her lip.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she says. “I nailed you. I mean, your eyes. I nailed your eye color.”
Studying her face, I can’t decide if she’s messing with me or what. “The kitchen is yours if you want to practice for tomorrow.”
She blows out a breath. “Wow. Honestly, I’m tired, and I don’t want to look at an oven again until tomorrow.”
“Oh. You’re prepared for bread day, then?”
She shakes her head. “Not at all! Bread-making is the worst. No offense, I just don’t understand the appeal. Apart from the aroma—“
I can’t take anymore. I let go of the elevator door and step inside, towering over Chloe, backing her against the wall. My hands still her small, cheerful face, and I draw my lips over hers. Gently, at first. When her body jerks in surprise and she gasps against my mouth, a surge of desire overtakes me, and I clench my fists in her hair. Chloe emits a sexy, noisy little sigh. I deepen the kiss, and her sighs turn to a whimper, which crescen
dos into a needy moan that conjures up all sorts of filth in my pervy brain.
I pull away from the kiss because I know where this leads. This leads to tongues down throats and hands fondling naked flesh. I’m half out of breath with lust already.
“Why’d you stop?” Chloe asks, as breathless as I am and smiling in the face of my frustration.
I thought for sure she was going to smack me for not asking for a kiss first.
“Oh, little Chloe. You’re not ready for what happens if I don’t stop.”
Her pink tongue darts out, and she sucks her lips into her mouth. “If you only knew. You see,” she says, taking a second to swallow back her nervousness, “I’ve been saving myself for you.”
My ego is about to soar through the roof, but that can’t be what she means.
“You mean you’ve wanted to meet me. To be on the show. Saving money for a trip?”
She shakes her head and looks up at me knowingly. “I have a secret, and I’m about to tell you now. Come closer.”
Swallowing, heart pounding, I lean in low so she needn’t rise to her toes to reach my ear. Her breath against my skin sends gooseflesh spreading like wildfire everywhere, and blood rushes to my cock. “You were my first kiss, Phillip.”
I jolt backward. “How old are you?”
She blinks at me. “I’m twenty-three. Is that important?”
I can see the headline in the Daily Mail already.
“I’m forty-eight.”
Chloe smiles. “And?”
I smile and brush a lock of hair, letting it spill over my hand, conjuring up a picture of this gorgeous mane splayed out across my pillows. Better yet, matted with sweat after a spirited, bed-breaking screw. “And it doesn’t bother you that I’m old enough to be your father?”
She glances down and then bats her long, luscious eyelashes at me. “You’re older than my father. My parents married young.”
“Jesus.”
Her shrug is too dismissive. I have to be careful here.
“Look,” she says. “Nothing was ever going to stand in my way. I might be the only virgin stand-up comedian in the entire United States. Do you think I’m scared of anything? And look. Here we are.”
