THE FIRST SESSION

Monday morning, I arrived at five-thirty to prep the kitchen. If Nathan wanted to practice, fine, but this was still my territory.

He knocked at exactly seven, but instead of looking well-rested, he looked like he'd been up half the night. His hair was messier than usual, and he carried not just ingredients but a stack of cookbooks.

"Research?" I asked, nodding at the books.

"Preparation." He set them down with more force than necessary. "I'm not losing to you because I underestimated this."

So that's how we were playing it. Fine.

"Good. I'd hate to win because you didn't try hard enough."

We claimed our stations like boxers taking corners. The kitchen felt smaller with both of us in it, the air charged with competition.

I started my shortbread prep. He began breaking down vegetables with aggressive precision.

"You're chopping those like they insulted your mother," I said.

"I'm ensuring uniform cuts for even cooking." He didn't look up. "Some of us care about technique."

"And some of us care about whether the food actually tastes good."

His knife stilled. "You think I don't care about flavor?"

"I think you care more about impressing people than feeding them."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" I turned to face him. "Your whole career is built on finding flaws. On making sure everyone knows you have higher standards than everyone else."

"My whole career is built on honesty." He set down the knife. "Maybe that makes me the bad guy in your story, but someone has to maintain standards. Otherwise, mediocrity gets celebrated and actual excellence gets lost."

"Margot wasn't mediocre."

The name hung between us like smoke.

Nathan's jaw tightened. "No. She wasn't."

"Then why did you write that she was?"

"I didn't say, " He stopped. Rubbed his face. "I said her food was pretentious. That it tried too hard to be art and forgot to be dinner."

"Which destroyed her."

"Which was my honest assessment at the time." But his voice had lost its edge. "I was wrong about the impact. I thought I was just reviewing food. I didn't understand that I was reviewing someone's dream."

The vulnerability caught me off guard. I wanted to stay angry, but the regret in his voice was too real.

"She used to talk about food like it was poetry," I said quietly. "Like every dish told a story. And you said it was pretentious."

"Because I was twenty-five and terrified and trying to prove I belonged in a world that didn't want me." He met my eyes. "I grew up poor, Sloane. So poor that fancy restaurants felt like a foreign country. So when I got into food criticism, I was angry at everyone who made me feel like I didn't belong. And I took it out on people like Margot."

I hadn't expected that. Hadn't expected him to give me ammunition when we were supposed to be enemies.

"That doesn't excuse it."

"No. It doesn't." He picked up his knife again. "But it's the truth. And I'm trying to be better than the person who wrote that review."

We cooked in silence after that. But it wasn't comfortable, it was the silence of two people circling each other, waiting to see who'd strike next.

My shortbread came out perfect. His vegetable prep was flawless. We were both too good at this, and we both knew it.

"Let me taste yours," he said when my cookies cooled.

I almost refused. But curiosity won. I handed him one.

He bit, chewed, his expression giving nothing away. "The texture is excellent. The flavor is balanced. But the lavender is safe. You're not taking risks."

Heat rushed to my face. "They're shortbread, not a Michelin-starred tasting menu."

"Exactly. You're playing it safe because you're scared I'll criticize you." He set down the cookie. "That's not the baker who challenged me to a cook-off."

"Maybe I'm smart enough to know not everyone needs to reinvent the wheel."

"Or maybe you're scared to show me what you can really do."

The accusation stung because it was partially true. I had played it safe. I had chosen the safest recipe in my arsenal.

"Fine. What are you making?"

He gestured to his station. "Corn agnolotti with brown butter and sage. Followed by a chocolate soufflé."

Of course. Difficult, technical, designed to show off.

"Trying to intimidate me?"

"Trying to show you what I'm capable of." He started his pasta dough. "You're not the only one with something to prove."

I watched him work, the way his hands moved through the dough, confident and sure. He wasn't just good. He was really good. And the realization settled in my stomach like a stone.

This wasn't going to be easy.

By the time we finished, the kitchen smelled like butter and chocolate and burnt sugar from where I'd let my caramel go too long while watching him work.

"Wednesday?" he asked at the door.

"I'll be here."

"Sloane." He paused. "Bring your A-game next time. I want to beat the real you, not the version that's holding back."

After he left, I stood in my kitchen surrounded by safe shortbread and the ghost of his challenge.

Tessa emerged from the back. "That looked intense."

"He basically called me a coward."

"Were you being one?"

I looked at the cookies, perfectly acceptable, perfectly boring.

"Maybe."

"Then Wednesday, show him what happens when you stop being scared."

That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about Nathan's hands in pasta dough, the way he'd admitted his own fear while calling out mine. The way he'd looked at me like I was a puzzle he hadn't solved yet.

This competition was supposed to be simple. Beat the critic, save the bakery, prove my point.

But nothing about Nathan Pierce was turning out to be simple.