Judge Me, Abby Knox [i love reading txt] 📗

choose such a lurid color for the top? It adds nothing to the flavor.”

Chloe’s smile falters only a little, but then she answers—while staring straight at me. “I wanted to make cookies in a color that reminded me of Phillip’s eyes. And I don’t think they’re lurid at all. They’re like the clear sky on a cold winter day. That’s the kind of blue that cheers me right up when I’m feeling low.”

Other contestants titter at her bald-faced admission that she likes my eyes. To the casual observer, she’s trying to goad the surly judge. She wouldn’t be the first to try. But I see what’s happening here.

“I’m very sorry to tell you this, dear, but they’re just plain awful. Burnt edges. Soggy bottoms,” Georgianne remarks.

I cross my arms, then change my mind and hook my fingers in my belt loops. Then I switch again and simply stand with my balled-up fists leaning on the countertop in my signature stare-down. The editors will decide which posture to use.

I just have to think of something to say and then move on to the next contestant. My mouth goes dry. I can’t say what I think. It’s true; her biscuits are dreadful. But I’m moved by her sweetness, in new and strange ways.

What is she doing to me? “Your…your biscuits. They do have issues. But—oh god, hold on.”

Cameramen murmur and give their shoulders a break while I reach for a bottle of water. I gulp it down and hand it back to the production assistant, and the camera begins filming again. I can’t say what I want to say, so I hope to god the silly girl can read between the lines. “It’s not a hopeless cause. You’re very charming, but you’re overthinking it.”

Out of politeness, I try not to appear as if I’m suffering to get through the remaining contestant’s biscuits.

The second we wrap shooting for the day, I’m off to find Chloe.

I don’t even care who overhears me call after her as she makes her way toward the elevators to the guest wing. She tugs at the string in her apron, her head slightly bent, her shoulders hunched.

“Chloe!”

She spins around. “Y…yes?” My hand darts out to hold the door.

The rest of the contestants trickle away up the stairs and other elevators, and I don’t say another word until they’re gone.

“Would you like for me to show you what you did wrong?”

Her brown eyes sparkle, and she bites her lip.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she says. “I nailed you. I mean, your eyes. I nailed your eye color.”

Studying her face, I can’t decide if she’s messing with me or what. “The kitchen is yours if you want to practice for tomorrow.”

She blows out a breath. “Wow. Honestly, I’m tired, and I don’t want to look at an oven again until tomorrow.”

“Oh. You’re prepared for bread day, then?”

She shakes her head. “Not at all! Bread-making is the worst. No offense, I just don’t understand the appeal. Apart from the aroma—“

I can’t take anymore. I let go of the elevator door and step inside, towering over Chloe, backing her against the wall. My hands still her small, cheerful face, and I draw my lips over hers. Gently, at first. When her body jerks in surprise and she gasps against my mouth, a surge of desire overtakes me, and I clench my fists in her hair. Chloe emits a sexy, noisy little sigh. I deepen the kiss, and her sighs turn to a whimper, which crescendos into a needy moan that conjures up all sorts of filth in my pervy brain.

I pull away from the kiss because I know where this leads. This leads to tongues down throats and hands fondling naked flesh. I’m half out of breath with lust already.

“Why’d you stop?” Chloe asks, as breathless as I am and smiling in the face of my frustration.

I thought for sure she was going to smack me for not asking for a kiss first.

“Oh, little Chloe. You’re not ready for what happens if I don’t stop.”

Her pink tongue darts out, and she sucks her lips into her mouth. “If you only knew. You see,” she says, taking a second to swallow back her nervousness, “I’ve been saving myself for you.”

My ego is about to soar through the roof, but that can’t be what she means.

“You mean you’ve wanted to meet me. To be on the show. Saving money for a trip?”

She shakes her head and looks up at me knowingly. “I have a secret, and I’m about to tell you now. Come closer.”

Swallowing, heart pounding, I lean in low so she needn’t rise to her toes to reach my ear. Her breath against my skin sends gooseflesh spreading like wildfire everywhere, and blood rushes to my cock. “You were my first kiss, Phillip.”

I jolt backward. “How old are you?”

She blinks at me. “I’m twenty-three. Is that important?”

I can see the headline in the Daily Mail already.

“I’m forty-eight.”

Chloe smiles. “And?”

I smile and brush a lock of hair, letting it spill over my hand, conjuring up a picture of this gorgeous mane splayed out across my pillows. Better yet, matted with sweat after a spirited, bed-breaking screw. “And it doesn’t bother you that I’m old enough to be your father?”

She glances down and then bats her long, luscious eyelashes at me. “You’re older than my father. My parents married young.”

“Jesus.”

Her shrug is too dismissive. I have to be careful here.

“Look,” she says. “Nothing was ever going to stand in my way. I might be the only virgin stand-up comedian in the entire United States. Do you think I’m scared of anything? And look. Here we are.”

I study her face. So open, so vulnerable. This can’t be true.

“If you’re a stand-up, how come you have no internet presence to speak of?”

Her eyes light up. “You’ve been googling me!”

“Yes.”

“I perform under a fake name. The industry is crawling with creeps. Also, I’m astonishingly unsuccessful.”

I don’t know the first thing about the working conditions of comedians anywhere, but the