Still, I pull out my cell and text Gigi.
West: In the car. Going to be a few minutes late, but almost there.
She texts back quickly.
Gigi: Oh good. I want you to check your station very carefully when you get here. Hawley’s looking far too pleased with himself.
Grimacing, I reply.
West: Abby isn’t there, is she? She said she might swing by if things weren’t too crowded at the shop tonight. If she does, and Hawley says something awful to her, or so much as looks at her the wrong way, I might really have to punch him.
Gigi sends over an angry face emoji, then an explanation.
Gigi: I’ll hold his arms for you, but no. She’s not here. But I think she’ll be fine if she does show. The fling with the hot bus boy has been good for her self-esteem.
My eyes bulge.
West: What? She’s banging the hot busboy? You mean Eduardo? When did this happen?
My phone rings and I answer it to hear Gigi whisper softly, “Yes, Eduardo. Don’t pretend you don’t know which one is the hot busboy. And it’s been happening for a little over a week and she’s having amazing orgasms and he’s very generous and complimentary and makes her feel beautiful and everything is fine. But now you have to pretend I didn’t tell you. I thought you already knew, or I wouldn’t have said a word. I don’t share girl talk with people outside the girl-talk bubble, not even you.”
“He’s barely old enough to drink,” I grunt.
“And she’s still in her twenties, and it’s fine, and you can relax about that. But not about Hawley.” She makes a gagging sound. “Ugh. He’s giving off super oily vibes tonight, like the cat who pooped in the cocoa. Get here and go over everything in your area with a fine-tooth comb.”
I promise I will, whisper a few PG-rated things about how eager I am to see her in that dress again—my driver doesn’t seem to be listening, but it’s hard to tell—and end the call.
At the hotel, I bound out of the car and into the lobby, where I’m met by a frizzy-haired woman with kind brown eyes. “I’ll show you up. I’m with the contest organizers.”
We take the express elevator to the roof and step out into a sun-drenched fairyland.
This beer garden is truly a garden, filled with planters overflowing with flowers, potted hedges that form natural dividers between the seating areas, and even a few trees that seem to be growing straight out of the roof in the center of the space. The cooking stations are at the opposite end of the open area. Since there isn’t a tent this time, I easily spot Gigi standing next to Mr. Skips.
Her hair catches the sunset and glows a brilliant ruby red. The light shimmers on her dress too, making it look like she’s glittering all over, like a 1950’s movie star lit to her best advantage, destined to break a million hearts.
But not mine.
I know, as soon as she sees me, that bombshell smile of hers will make me feel like I’m the only man in the room. Or on the roof.
My lips are already curving up at the edges, but when I reach the pantry staging area where the other contestants are selecting their staple ingredients for tonight’s Death by Chocolate challenge, Gigi doesn’t turn my way.
And she doesn’t smile.
In fact, she looks like she’s about to be sick. She tips her head down, shoulders curling. She nods at something Mr. Skips is saying and presses two fingers between her eyebrows.
“What’s going on?” I ask Willow softly once I make my way to where she’s busy by the flour canisters. I nod toward Gigi and Mr. Skips, but she clearly already knows what I’m talking about.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Mr. Skips said he had to talk to Gigi and pulled her aside a few minutes ago. He looked really upset.”
“So does she,” I murmur.
“She should,” an oily voice announces behind me. It’s Hawley, of course, sticking his nose where it isn’t wanted. I turn to glare at him—eye to eye—and then turn back around without another word.
Unfortunately, the Cut Direct doesn’t work this time.
“Clearly, she thought she could get away with it,” he continues. “But cheaters always get theirs, sooner or later.”
I whirl back around. “Yes, they do. Is now a good time for yours?” I lift my fists. “I’ve got one for cheating on my sister like the sad, pitiful prick you are, and another for whatever you did to Gigi.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Hawley says, but he takes a step back. “Aside from a little digging on your girlfriend. And I didn’t have to dig very deep. She didn’t even try to cover her tracks. There’s a picture of her with Mr. Skips right on the community page of her website.” His eyes glitter with ugly satisfaction. “She’s holding his hand by a giant pie her mother made for some street fair twenty years ago.”