The Last Autograph (A Reluctant Kiss #3)

Chapter 13

13

Early the following morning, with the windows of her Vitara down and a Brandi Carlile CD playing from the slot in the dash, an anxious Molly drove to Petrie Bay, a favorite stretch of surf beach where the Parker/Dobson families would often congregate when she visited Clifton Falls as a child.

Despite the incessant chatter in her head surrounding Jake Sinclair, Molly had enjoyed the previous afternoon much more than the morning. Even so, after leaving the zest out of her lemon bundt cake, she’d only just scraped through to Sunday’s round by a whisper, according to Chef Sinclair.

The dawn was fine, a warm breeze ruffling the pines as she parked adjacent to the pancake rocks. At nine, she’d return to the wine and food festival to compete in the morning round, but right at that moment, Molly longed to ground herself in the damp sand and feel the swash warm and brackish on her feet.

With her penchant for perfect hair and makeup and breasts that struggled to fit into a double D-cup on a good day, the younger Molly had never been much of a swimmer. Now, it was one of her passions.

And yet, as Molly strolled down the path and onto the beach, a strange sense of unease gripped her. Late last year, her goal had been to return from the States with a new enthusiasm for life and reimmerse herself in Kiwi culture while she coaxed her savings back to life. Secretly, she’d dreamed of falling in love with that quintessential guy who lived rent-free in her head—the guy who wanted what she did: commitment, and kids, and lots of laughter. Great sex would be a much-longed-for bonus.

However, she hadn’t factored in how hard it was to meet someone in a new city. New York, while on a much larger scale, had been similar, and the entire time she lived there, Molly seldom dated. And now, the thought of wading through the quagmire of dating apps in search of a swipe-right match didn’t appeal in the slightest.

Molly sat on a large log of driftwood, kicked off her flip-flops, and burrowed her feet into the sand, the early morning sunshine tender against her skin. At the northern end of the bay, a scattering of clouds swirled and mingled in greeting, and as she closed her eyes, thoughts of the day ahead did the same. Mingled.

Moments later, with the voile of her dress fluid around her thighs, she stepped into the swash and stood with her arms stretched out behind her back as she watched surfers bob up and down on the swell.

CeCe had once offered to teach her to surf, but like other sports, Molly had never been interested. However, lately, the more time she spent at the beach, the more she wanted to learn—to join that saltwater world where thoughts and feelings played a lesser part and being at one with nature fed the soul.

Molly was about to return to her vehicle when she noticed a surfer walking toward her. He looked strangely familiar, but from a distance, she couldn’t tell who it was until… “Shit.”

With his surfboard tucked under one arm, a now easily recognizable Jake Sinclair strolled along the beach as if he had all the time in the world. Molly wanted to turn and sprint across the sand, back to the safety of her car, but he’d obviously noticed her, so she had no option but to stay.

His hair was slightly longer than the first time she’d spotted him on his Vespa, and with it dripping wet and slicked back from his face, Molly’s thoughts shifted into overdrive. That air of confidence he carried solidified his place in the upper echelons of the attractive male scale—setting him a smidge above the rest—but she reminded herself that a man’s pleasing physical appearance didn’t necessarily equate to an agreeable personality. A lesson Molly had often disregarded when younger.

“Morning,” Jake greeted, as if they were friends who’d just met for coffee the day before.

Molly removed her sunglasses and took a step back as she said his name. Jake. Solid and to the point, it suited his no-nonsense persona.

“Cooling off before today’s heat?” he asked, his expression serious with just a hint of curiosity as he gave her the up-down shuffle.

“What, you mean in the kitchen?”

“Yes. The pressure will be more intense today.”

Great. That’s all she needed to hear. “Thanks for that little snippet of insider information. I was nervous enough before. Now I’m petrified.”

He smiled—a gentle lift of his lips, nothing too dramatic, but it still caught Molly off guard. With those deep brown eyes holding her attention and his pecs and shoulders so defined under the neoprene, there was no denying he looked sexy as hell, and that continued to confuse her. She mentally batted her impure thoughts away with a determined hand.

“Don’t be. It’s all just a bit of fun.”

Molly almost laughed in his face. A bit of fun—with Jake the Judge watching her every move as she addressed him as “Chef” while her hummingbird cake spent a minute longer in the oven than it should have? How ridiculous .

Jake reached around to his back and tugged at his wetsuit zipper, and Molly struggled to look away as he peeled the top half down his torso and left it hanging. There was something about a man with long, lean muscles glistening with salt water. Her favorite look. But on Jake Sinclair?

She dug her toes into the sand. “Isn’t talking to contestants outside of competition against the rules?”

His expression shifted a notch toward annoyance. “Is it? But I could hardly ignore you, could I?”

Molly stared at him, the words “No, Chef” on the tip of her tongue, but she held them still in favor of a polite “No, I suppose not.”

He hesitated. “One thing I noticed yesterday, you seem overly anxious about the competition. Stay focused, and the process will be much easier.”

Molly put her sunglasses back on and managed to keep her cool. She’d had enough of his critique yesterday; she didn’t need a repeat performance today, not until she was back behind her workstation, anyway. “I’ll bare that in mind.” She looked away. “Right, I’d better go and get my apron on.”

She’d taken several unsteady steps toward her car when he called out, “Hey, Molly?” She turned, her stomach looping into that tight knot she’d come to expect in the few times they’d talked. Jake gave her a half smile, the kind that says so much but isn’t definable in the English language. “Don’t let me intimidate you. As I said, it’s just a bit of fun.”

Intimidate her? Did he mean for the next few hours or in general? But, no matter what he meant, it was already too late. The intimidation was real. Very real. “You think?”

“Course it is. And I’d wish you luck, but I don’t think you need it.”

With one hand shading her eyes from the sun, Molly nodded. “Thanks.”

Confused by his apparent interest and her response to it, both physically and emotionally, Molly turned again and walked to her car without once looking back. But when she slipped behind the wheel and gazed out over the bay, Jake hadn’t moved an inch, and it occurred to her that he’d said nothing about SpinWeb or his unwillingness to work with her on the job.

Back in the bake-off kitchen, Molly couldn’t get the image of a half-naked and dripping-wet Jake out of her mind. It had been a long time since lustful excitement set her insides on fire, and as she stood behind her station, trying to concentrate on Jake’s instructions, despite the inappropriateness of that excitement, she could think of little else.

Across the weekend, Molly had familiarized herself with his telltale facial expressions when tasting the other contestants’ offerings. If he really disliked something, he’d purse his lips to the right. When impressed, he would nod just a fraction, and when unimpressed, release a deep sigh.

Molly had been on the receiving end of the latter when her vegan brownies, the required first bake of the day, crumbled as she tried to slice them. Still, the morning couldn’t get any worse, right?

Welcome to the second bake of the day: chocolate éclairs.

Although she’d never made choux pastry before, Molly had seen it done on TV. Mix together butter, water, and flour. Beat, then add eggs and beat again. Pipe onto a tray and bake. Simple.

But under the constraints of the time clock, things didn’t go as planned, and Molly only just managed to meet the deadline. Waiting at her station for her number to be called felt like the longest ten minutes of her life.

As Jake picked up one of her misshapen éclairs and took a bite, Molly held her breath. She got the pursed lips, but not only that; Jake turned away from the audience and spat the offending mouthful of choux pastry into a tissue.

With the air in the room knife-cut humid, beads of sweat gathered on her nape, and when she glanced over at Gloria and Aunt Andrea in the second row and got the “you’ve blown it” look from both of them, she knew this was it. Home time.

“Who’s number eighteen?” Jake asked.

Mortified, Molly raised her hand slightly. Again, he sighed deeply, as if she’d personally offended him, leaving him with no choice but to reprimand her. She stepped forward, ready to accept her fate.

Chef Sinclair held her gaze for a second longer than necessary. “Choux pastry should be light and airy with a crisp outer shell. And with no chemical raising agent, it needs the correct amount of time in the oven to stabilize the shells or they flatten. This pastry’s too wet. Plus, your pastry cream let you down badly.” Jake hesitated, and as he did so, Molly wrestled with the urge to lower her head in subservience. But her head stayed high, her eyes fixed on the three judges before her.

“Such a shame,” he continued. “As Todd said, the only redeeming feature here is your presentation, and I must say, after yesterday, I expected more. Step back.”

Molly didn’t know whether to say thank you or fuck you , the latter seeming more appropriate. But much more than a fuck-you moment, she couldn’t quash the disappointment that surfaced. She was out. Aunt Andrea knew it, Gloria knew it, and Molly knew it too.

While watching the judges taste the other contestants’ offerings, she struggled to maintain her balance. The spinach smoothie she’d nervously downed for breakfast sat like a solid lump in her stomach, and the image of Jake spitting her éclair into a tissue hurt like a bitch.

Like yesterday, she observed Jake interacting with her fellow bakers, his smile warm and relaxed. He even flirted with Jackie in front of her, although the woman must have had at least thirty years on him, so Molly figured she was a safe bet. The only person he rarely engaged warmly with was her. And as thoughts of their interaction at the beach that morning surfaced, Molly craved a hit of fresh air. Jake Sinclair was like a band guy from her past—all rocked up and ready for trouble.

Todd’s voice brought her back to the present. “Contestants, we’ve had an interesting mix of offerings this morning, and I want to congratulate you all for stepping up and giving the competition a go.” He clapped, and the audience joined in with enthusiasm. “If you could please step forward when I call your name.”

Being the fifth person in the lineup, Molly instinctively knew she’d be eliminated that morning, leaving the other five contestants to fight it out for the title.

While she stood there rooted to the spot, outside the tent flaps, the wood chopping competition drowned out all other background noise. And as she waited to learn her fate, Molly watched as at least a dozen men straddled huge bark-free logs, their biceps and shoulders glistening with sweat against white tank tops. Physically, musclemen had never impressed her. She preferred the leaner form of a runner’s body: all sinew and raw determination. Jake.

As if on cue, Jake commandeered the mic and addressed the front row. “Baking under pressure is never easy, and I want to reiterate Todd’s thanks for your time and determination. Unfortunately, for the five of you in the front row, it’s time to leave the bake-off kitchen.” He smiled and shifted his focus to the remaining contestants. “Finalists, well done, and we’ll see you this afternoon.”

Without sparing Jake a second glance, Molly said her goodbyes to her fellow bakers, gathered her things and made her way to the Lime Tree Hill tent, where CeCe greeted her with a hug and her usual infectious smile.

“How’d it go?”

“I’m out. My éclairs didn’t make the cut.” Throughout the weekend, Molly had been forced to grab ahold of her emotions occasionally and give them a good slap. There was no point in taking the judging too personally, but that wasn’t easy when dealing with a pompous prick like Jake Sinclair.

“Seriously? But you’ve made choux pastry before, right?”

“No, never. First and, if I have my way, only time. Anyway, I’ll pop back later to watch the prize-giving, then I have to head home and change, but right now, what can I do to help?”