Good To Be Bad (Good Love #3) - Lili Valente Page 0,30

happen in kitchens all the time,” I reassure her. “Especially when you’re in an unfamiliar space.”

“Just a few weeks ago, I burned water,” Gigi offers.

“Water?” Willow asks, confused.

“Yes. On the stove. My wooden spoon handle caught fire while I was boiling water for pasta,” she says, then whispers. “But I was listening to Lady Gaga and singing along so it was mostly her fault. Plus, it was a good excuse to order out.”

Willow laughs, and Gigi squeezes her knee.

My heart does an odd sort of gymnastics in my chest.

Strange, that.

“Thank you,” Willow says to Gigi, then turns to me. “And you.”

“Anytime,” I say.

As we return to our stations to put the final touches on our dishes for the judges, Gigi’s eyes stay on mine. She mouths, So you’re a fireman too?

I answer her with a wink.

Because I’d like nothing more than to put out Gigi’s fire.

11

Gigi

I wait as patiently as I can, with perfect posture.

Good posture helps me deal with being judged.

I’ve always loved cooking, and adored baking even more than worshipping at fashion’s fickle altar—sorry, fashion, you know I love you. But I’m not a big fan of being judged.

Especially in public.

Reading reviews of the shop online gives me a rash, and when I entered a recipe for consideration in the “Brooklyn’s Best Eats” charity cookbook, I had to call Ruby over to open the email for me when it arrived. I knew I’d fall into the shame-pit if I was rejected without a friend around to hold my hand and tell me it wasn’t a big deal and there would be other cookbooks.

I just like things to be perfect and can’t help stressing out when someone thinks my best effort isn’t worthy of at least four out of five stars.

Growing up, perfection was one of the few things that seemed to make my parents happy. They loved that I got good grades, crafted exceptional macaroni artwork, and went out of my way to make special desserts for them on their birthdays. They never seemed happy with each other, so I worked to bring them joy in other ways. I was too young to be conscious of it at the time, but looking back, it’s clear being the perfect daughter was my plan for keeping my family together.

Too bad it didn’t work.

Or maybe not. My parents are happier now that they’re divorced and I’m happier now that I know they’re both deeply flawed people who probably shouldn’t have had children. I know they love me in their way, but it’s not really a way that feels like love very often.

Doesn’t take a degree in psychology to know that’s also probably part of the reason I’m sweating right now, silently willing the judging to wrap up as soon as possible.

No matter how grown up I am, or how much I know I’m loved by Gram and Harrison and my aunt and uncle and Ruby, having parents who don’t really care for you all that much can make a girl a little sensitive to criticism.

Two different chefs have already tasted my mini apple pies topped with hand-churned cinnamon ice cream and a caramel drizzle. I couldn’t think of anything more American—or New York, hello, Big Apple—than classic apple pie and my take on the recipe is unique, zesty, and packed with flavor. The addition of the ice cream and drizzle add another layer of pure decadent yumminess.

Until this moment, I’d been confident that I’d nailed the perfect offering for the first challenge, but now I’m starting to wonder if apple pie is too simple.

Too trite.

Too…apple flavored.

The final judge, the grouchy one with the goatee, takes another bite of the crust—just the crust—pauses, then nods.

He sets down the plate, scribbles in his notebook, then strides to Mr. Skips, the organizer of the competition and one of the sweetest men in the sweets business. He ran the best wedding cake bakery in Brooklyn until he retired a few years back, leaving the business to his grandson.

Too bad he’s not a judge this year. He’s good friends with Aunt Barb and a huge fan of pie. And me. When we were kids, he always brought Ruby and me kites when he came to pick up his Easter desserts, and he still pops into Sweetie Pies regularly.

Not that I’d want special treatment or anything, but at least I’d know at least one judge appreciates my medium.

Some people just don’t like pie.

Those people are obviously crazy, but…

After a few seconds that stretch on for an angst-filled