Better With You (Better Love 2)

And that’s the ten-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?

“Pie tins?Today’s task is...pie tins?”

Riggs and I share a glance, then look back into our box, which only contains a variety of pie tins. Today there was no envelope telling us which baked good we’d be making. Instead, all we got was the box. And in it...

...pie tins.

“So, they want us to make a pie?” Riggs questions, and I shrug.

“If they want us to make a pie, then why not just put PIE in the envelope? Why do this all cryptic and shit?” I look around at the other three teams. They’ve all already started gathering their ingredients. “It looks like the others are doing pie.”

“We could do cherry pie.”

“We could.”

“Or something a little less common. Like...pear?”

“Hmm. Ginger pear? Chai spice pear.”

Hmm.

“What’s going on in that brain of yours, Sundance?” I can feel his eyes on me as I squint at the pie tins. “I can tell you’re coming up with something.”

I tap my fingers on the counter. “What if we just have to make something in the pie tin, but it doesn’t have to be actual pie?”

I look at him to find a big smile on his face, and immediately, a matching one stretches over mine. “Take the lead,” he says, and the words make my belly tingle and my chest tight. Take the lead, he says. So, I do.

We makea classic French fresh fruit tart.

The crust is made of buttery shortbread, the filling is crême pâtissière, which is just a sweet vanilla custard, and we top it with an assortment of berries and kiwi. Honestly, the trickiest part is making myself be patient, because our recipe requires a lot of cooling time between steps. If not for Riggs, I definitely would have rushed through and messed it all up.

Since we’re working with a pie tin and not a traditional tart pan, I show Riggs my trick of using parchment paper to carefully remove the tart crust from the pie tin. You learn a lot of hacks when your resources are limited.

I would have filled the tart with a mascarpone cream because it’s easy, but Riggs insists on making the custard. Which, good thing he does, because I have no idea how to do that shit. Then, when it comes to topping the tart with the berries, Riggs completely floors me with his attention to detail. He wasn’t kidding when he said he was a master of technique. After I arrange the strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries on the top, Riggs makes a kiwi flower for the middle. Like, an actual rose formed out of sliced kiwi. Watching him slice the fruit and shape the delicate flower with his big, dexterous fingers has me panting and sweating in a way that could have almost been embarrassing. Then, when he shows me how to use apricot preserves as a glaze, I almost come on the spot.

Why does he have to be so good at everything?

Well. Everything except telling the truth.

But...maybe I’ve jumped to conclusions? His mom calls him Alex. He says he and Talia aren’t together. As I stand back and watch him gently brush the glaze over the fruit topping, I wonder if maybe I’ve been overreacting.

I let Riggs hold my hand all through the judging process. When it’s announced that we’ve, once again, survived the chopping block, that we now have a chance to compete tomorrow and actually win the whole competition, I let Riggs lift me in a hug and spin me in a circle.

Then, when we’re in the car and he asks if we should stop by a drugstore, I enthusiastically tell him yes. Because what the hell, right? I’ve basically forgiven him. I might as well enjoy my last few nights in the city before we part ways for good. It’s not like I’m at risk of getting hurt again. It’s not like he’s Craig, anyway. It’s not like he’s done any real damage...

“Wanna grab food and then head back to my parents’ place to finish off plans for tomorrow?” Riggs asks after climbing back into the car, a brown paper bag peeking out of the pocket of his pea coat.

I can’t help it. I smirk at it.

“That’s a big bag for a twelve-pack, Butch.”

He arches an eyebrow, pulls the bag from his pocket, and tosses it into my lap.

“That’s because it’s not a twelve-pack, Sundance.”

Heat prickles my skin from the fire in his eyes. I take a breath, so my voice is steady, cool, and then cock my head to the side.

“You think you’re gonna need more than twelve condoms?”

His grin is wicked. “I think we’re going to find out, won’t we?”

I laugh it off, but my body is burning up, so I change the subject.

“Food sounds good, but I’m paying for my own this time, so it has to be like under eight bucks.”

He pulls out his phone and taps something out, then flashes me another heartbreaking smile.

“How about empanadas? There’s a food truck not too far from here. They’re not always out after it snows, so we’re lucky.”

“Empanadas sound amazing.”

“Driver! To West Town!”

I laugh when he taps on the roof of the car, and I laugh even harder when the driver laughs at his antics. Everyone likes Riggs, even when he’s being an ass, and it’s as annoying as it is charming.

We find the food truck in one of Chicago’s more residential neighborhoods and get a variety of empanadas to take back to the condo. After hanging our coats and stowing our shoes on the cute little shoe shelf in the foyer closet, he suggests we take our food out to the terrace. Apparently, rich people pay other not-as-rich people to clean the snow off their outdoor entertaining areas, and they also pay for heating lights and towers, just in case they decide that they want to sit outside in thirty-degree weather to eat their dinner.

Rich people convenience is fucking weird.

But of course, I agree. Because when else am I going to get to eat food truck empanadas on a thirty-second floor terrace in the middle of winter?

“Oh my god, this is amazing,” I say with my mouth full of a macaroni and cheese empanada. Mac and cheese is one of my favorite comfort foods. Mac and cheese wrapped in a warm and flaky handheld crust? Even freakin’ better.

“Right?” Riggs says between chews. “Here, try this one. It’s bacon, dates, and goat cheese.” He passes me the half-eaten empanada, and I take a bite.

“Oh my god, that’s amazing too. Like a tastebud orgasm. What else did we get?”

He digs through the bag. “Chicken curry, mushroom and blue cheese, something with egg, and...” He pulls one out and looks at it.

“Oh, banana and Nutella!” I make grabby hands at him. “Gimme.”

“Hold up, Barnes. This is a sweet one for dessert. You’ve not even finished a whole savory one yet.” He gestures to the plate on the lounge chair in front of me with three half-eaten empanadas on it.

“There’s too many good ones. I want to try them all.” I put my mac and cheese empanada down on the plate. “Besides, life is too short to abide by arbitrary sweet and savory meal course rules. If I want a dessert dish for dinner, that’s my prerogative as a grown-ass woman.”

His lips twitch with a smile. “You don’t even like banana.”