A Serving of Forever (Lights Camera Insta-love 3)

You don’t have a type, you lima bean.

That’s right. I’ve been pushed into conversations with men—by my mother, of course—at gala openings, but made excuses to walk away before any dates could be made. Much to my mother’s disgust. Those men were suited, pedigreed and…boring.

Exactly like me.

I should really let one of them take me out, get married in a tasteful ceremony this spring, post our announcement in the Times and promptly have two children. That’s what I should do. That is what’s expected of me.

What would it be like to find myself in the strong arms of Desmond instead?

“Miss Quinn Beverley!” The host’s grating voice catches me off-guard and I almost fall out of my chair. Then my knees start to knock. I was warned that there would be a speaking component to being on this show, but I forgot as soon as I walked through the curtain and saw Desmond towering over his work station. “It’s such an honor to have you among our esteemed panel of judges this evening. At only twenty-four you have become a highly respected restaurant critic here in New York City. What made you decide to put yourself through this torture today?”

There are a million casual answers I could give. I’ve even got a joke knocking around in my noggin somewhere. But with Desmond’s eyes burning a hole in me, I accidentally blurt the truth instead. “I wanted to be unexpected.” Fire ants crawl over my cheeks and I can actually hear my knees striking one another now. “I hide at home…usually…in between appointments. I thought, maybe, this would make me uncomfortable and…”

Oh God, everyone is staring at me and I’m not making any sense.

Can they edit this part out? Will this go viral?

“It’s good to make yourself uncomfortable sometimes, right?” I finish, fidgeting furiously with my locket. “Not that I’d know. This is my first time doing it.”

The host is staring at me half perplexed, half thrilled that I’ve just word vomited and overshared while the cameras rolled. “Why yes,” he says, drawing the words out. “Great answer.”

I’m pretty sure when the host turns away, he rolls his eyes at the audience because laughter fills the studio. In an effort to ground myself, I return my attention to Desmond and find his death glare locked on the host, his jaw grinding ominously. His expression softens when he looks back at me, though and a tribe of butterflies whip around in my throat.

After that, time seems to move at an odd pace. My heart beats in time with the countdown clock while watching Desmond work. Occasionally, his sisters shout something insulting at him from the audience and he calls back without missing a beat. But he’s never mean, never biting. He’s been ambushed on a reality show and he’s simply amused. Taking it all in stride. I would be crying in a fetal position, if it were me.

The buzzer peels and I jump a foot in the air.

“All right, judges! Join me down in the kitchen, if you please. It’s time to test some cakes—and I use that term loosely!” The host waves us forward and I travel around the judges table on unsteady legs. Every step takes me closer to Desmond, making my palms dampen, my tongue feel knotted. Thank God all I have to do is put cake in my mouth—at that I am an expert.

When I reach the host’s side at center stage, Desmond is only a few yards away and he gives me a slow smile, crossing those beefy arms across his chest.

Can I have a bite of him instead?

“Ms. Beverley,” prompts the host. “It’s your turn.”

“Right.” Pasting on my unreadable critic’s expression, I take the offered fork and test all three cakes. The first wasn’t in the oven long enough and fairly leaks out onto the plate. Oh my. I give the blonde contestant a comforting smile. Next up is Desmond and a thrill races up my back. I’m eating something he prepared. With those huge, working man’s hands.

I fork a bite into my mouth and try not to be obvious about rolling it around on my tongue, but Desmond knows. He knows this is the closest I’ve ever come to sex and his smile disappears, replaced by something I don’t recognize. His features are tight, his tongue roving along his bottom lip.

“And the final cake?” The host gives me a playful elbow in the side and Desmond bares his teeth at the man. Hoping to keep the peace, I sample the final cake and set my fork down. “Now it’s time to vote! Sebastian Cove, would you like to cast yours first?”

The expert baker turned judge nods briskly at the blonde girl’s cake. “This one.”

“Erm—really?” The host chokes. “But it’s—”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Sebastian snaps back.

“Right.” The host scurries in the opposite direction, stopping in front of Aiden Tulane, the hockey player famous for fighting on the ice, and the third judge. “Mr. Tulane? Do you have a verdict?”