“I’ll grab the shots.”
Instead of going to her side of the bar, I slouch up to the other bartender. Jared, I think his name is. I can’t stop thinking about the last time I met Bailey here, before things went to shit. I had her shoved up against the brick wall outside the second she got off, one hand palming her breast under her shirt and the other hand down her pants palming her pussy. Making her make those noises...
I shake my head and wave my card at Jared, making sure not to be visible to the other end of the bar. He raises a quick eyebrow when he sees me but pours the shots of Fireball I order without question.
I carry them back to the guys at the same time Zay walks up with a beer.
“Saw your girl,” he says, and he raises his glass to me.
I shake my head subtly. If Dylan gets word, he’ll go ape shit and make assholes of all of us. Zay just nods and takes one of the shots.
I wait until everyone has one and then raise mine. “Bottoms up, dickheads!” Everyone throws back their shots on my command, and then I’m met with cheers.
“More?” I shout. “More!”
I get another round of whoops from the guys as I turn back to the bar. This time, though, I go to the far end. To her.
When she sees me, she stops short and then immediately blows me off. She takes orders and makes about a dozen drinks before she finally looks back at me. When she sees I’m still there, waiting, she rolls her eyes and stomps up to me.
“Jesus,” she barks. “What do you want, Riggs?”
I flash her the same charming grin that I use on everyone else, false bravado leaking from my fucking pores.
“Look,” I begin, “I know you don’t want to hear my excuses or explanations regarding our past encounters,” I pause a moment and she narrows her eyes at me. “Right?”
“Right.”
“Right. So. Anyway, I got this email.”
I take the printed copy of the email invitation out of my back pocket and lay it out in front of her on the bar. As she looks it over, I continue talking.
“Since I won the Bakery On Main Cookie Contest, I’m automatically qualified for the Midwest Collegiate Holiday Bake Off that’s taking place in Chicago over winter break. It takes place the week before Christmas, and the winning team gets ten thousand dollars.”
Her eyes widen when I mention the prize money, but her mouth stays fixed in a flat line.
“So?” she questions. “You want me to wish you luck? Good luck.” She turns to walk away, but I lean over the bar and place my hand on her upper arm.
“No, Bailey. I want you to be my partner.”
She gapes at me. “What? No way. Why? No.”
“If I go solo, they could try to place me with one of the other solo contestants, but there’s no guarantee. And even if they do, I won’t know anything about my partner. But if I bring you, then I’m guaranteed to work with someone whose baking style I know and trust.”
“Are you forgetting that I lost, Riggs? Wouldn’t you rather team up with a winner?”
“Look. I think together, we could win this. Sure, your baking lacks finesse and you could use some lessons in proper technique—”
“Ha!” She cuts me off. “And you know about finesse and technique, huh?” I’ve hurt her pride, but I’m not going to tiptoe around her, so I give her a serious look.
“My mother is Odette Dupont Stanton. She’s a classically trained pastry chef. You can Google her. She has her Diplôme de Pâtisserie from Le Cordon Bleu. I learned from her. So yeah, I know a bit about finesse and technique.”
“Oh.” Yeah, oh.
“Anyway,” I continue, “you’re messy, but you’ve got an instinctive creative element that I’m lacking. I’ve been doing some research—past winners always win with something imaginative and unique. Finesse and technique matter, but they won’t be enough. We’ll need all of it to win.”
“I dunno...” She stares down at the paper, and I can tell she’s running through every possible scenario. “A week? I can’t take that long off work...but for five thou—”
“Ten.”
“Huh?” She snaps her eyes up to mine.
“Ten thousand, Bailey.”
“No, yeah, but I mean if we split—”
“No. We won’t split it. If you do this with me and we win, you can have it all. I don’t want any of it.”
“Are you crazy? That’s a fuck-ton of cash, and you just don’t want it?”