As Maeve prowled through the room like a wolf sizing up her prey, I felt the weight of the moment settle over me like a lead apron. The faint, metallic hum of the clock above us ticked away the seconds, each one a reminder that my turn was drawing closer.
My hands rested on the counter beside my Beef Wellington, steady but tingling with adrenaline. The pastry glistened under the kitchen lights, golden and perfect. I knew it was good—no, I knew it was excellent—but this wasn't just about skill. It was about her.
Her. Maeve.
Her purple hair fell in a sleek wave as she leaned over the next dish, her sharp eyes narrowing at a plate that dared not meet her standards.
My pulse quickened as I tried to block out the image of her from that night over the summer the low light in the hotel room, the curve of her smirk, the way her hands...
