the veranda. Before I could sprint over, Abby managed to swipe a drink from a passing waiter, then took a deep breath and headed into the crowd. Dillon, apparently forgetting he was dressed asa waiter, snagged a fancy-looking appetizer from another waiter, who frowned at him, and popped it in his mouth. I helped myself to what turned out to be a chocolate-dipped asparagus tip, which was oddly tasty. All I needed was something to wash it down with, like a giant glass of wine.
I made a beeline for the bar and surveyed the offerings. Besides the usual chardonnays and merlots, the choices included a chocolate red wine, a chocolate stout beer, a white chocolate champagne, and chocolate cordials in edible chocolate shot glasses. I opted for a chocolate chardonnay, took a sip, then felt hot breath on the back of my neck.
I whirled around to find Dillon standing right behind me.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just getting a drink like you.”
“Well, don’t sneak up on me like that,” I said.
“Why so jumpy?” he asked.
“I’m not jumpy,” I argued. But I was, and I knew why.
Jake. Where was he?
I took the glass of wine from the bartender and stuffed a dollar into the tip jar. Dillon asked for the chocolate stout, garnering another eyeballing—from the bartender this time—which he ignored. After I took a long sip of my drink, I stepped back into the shadows to observe the crowd. Dillon joined me and began pointing out the various judges and contestants.
“How do you know who’s who without reading their name tags?” I asked, squinting to see if I could make out any names.
“Their pictures are in the program,” he said, holding up a folded piece of paper I had somehow missed. He handed it to me.
I took another mouthful of wine. The drink had a weird aftertaste of chocolate, but the alcohol was beginning to do its trick. I felt more relaxed with every gulp.
Dillon nodded to a man with dark curly hair and a Mediterranean complexion who was talking to a blond woman with her hair up in a twist, wearing an eye-catching red velvet gown.
“That’s Frankie Nudo,” Dillon whispered, as if worried someone might hear us over the animated conversations coming from the crowd. “He owns the Choco-Cheese truck.”
I glanced at the paper Dillon had given me and read Frankie Nudo’s short bio. Most of it I already knew, thanks to Dillon’s Internet sleuthing. But the program included something even Dillon hadn’t been able to discover—Frankie Nudo’s entry in the chocolate competition.
“Chocolate Goat Cheese Truffles?” I made a face. “That doesn’t sound good at all.” I studied the man a moment. While he seemed to be talking animatedly with the blond woman, his eyes darted around the room, as if he were looking for someone.
Dillon’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s the woman he’s talking to? Her back is to us.”
“Looks more like flirting to me,” I said. “She keeps leaning in and putting a hand on his arm. Get a load of that ring on her finger. Is that a diamond?” The sparkler on the woman’s finger must have been the size ofa chocolate M&M—and about the same color. A chocolate diamond?
Frankie seemed to spot someone he recognized and frowned. Then he quickly downed his beer, gave the woman in red a superficial hug, and made his excuses. I watched as he headed into the crowd and disappeared.
As soon as he turned to go, the blonde looked around, no doubt for someone else to flirt with.
I recognized her immediately from her picture in the newspaper.
“Oh my God, that’s Polly!” I whispered to Dillon. “I hope she doesn’t spot me.”
Dillon frowned. “Why not?”
I filled him in on the negative review I’d given to one of her ex-husband’s restaurants.
“I doubt she cares or even remembers,” he said.
“I’m not so sure, and I don’t want to ruin Aunt Abby’s chances for winning if Polly is still holding a grudge against me.” I turned away
I made a beeline for the bar and surveyed the offerings. Besides the usual chardonnays and merlots, the choices included a chocolate red wine, a chocolate stout beer, a white chocolate champagne, and chocolate cordials in edible chocolate shot glasses. I opted for a chocolate chardonnay, took a sip, then felt hot breath on the back of my neck.
I whirled around to find Dillon standing right behind me.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just getting a drink like you.”
“Well, don’t sneak up on me like that,” I said.
“Why so jumpy?” he asked.
“I’m not jumpy,” I argued. But I was, and I knew why.
Jake. Where was he?
I took the glass of wine from the bartender and stuffed a dollar into the tip jar. Dillon asked for the chocolate stout, garnering another eyeballing—from the bartender this time—which he ignored. After I took a long sip of my drink, I stepped back into the shadows to observe the crowd. Dillon joined me and began pointing out the various judges and contestants.
“How do you know who’s who without reading their name tags?” I asked, squinting to see if I could make out any names.
“Their pictures are in the program,” he said, holding up a folded piece of paper I had somehow missed. He handed it to me.
I took another mouthful of wine. The drink had a weird aftertaste of chocolate, but the alcohol was beginning to do its trick. I felt more relaxed with every gulp.
Dillon nodded to a man with dark curly hair and a Mediterranean complexion who was talking to a blond woman with her hair up in a twist, wearing an eye-catching red velvet gown.
“That’s Frankie Nudo,” Dillon whispered, as if worried someone might hear us over the animated conversations coming from the crowd. “He owns the Choco-Cheese truck.”
I glanced at the paper Dillon had given me and read Frankie Nudo’s short bio. Most of it I already knew, thanks to Dillon’s Internet sleuthing. But the program included something even Dillon hadn’t been able to discover—Frankie Nudo’s entry in the chocolate competition.
“Chocolate Goat Cheese Truffles?” I made a face. “That doesn’t sound good at all.” I studied the man a moment. While he seemed to be talking animatedly with the blond woman, his eyes darted around the room, as if he were looking for someone.
Dillon’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s the woman he’s talking to? Her back is to us.”
“Looks more like flirting to me,” I said. “She keeps leaning in and putting a hand on his arm. Get a load of that ring on her finger. Is that a diamond?” The sparkler on the woman’s finger must have been the size ofa chocolate M&M—and about the same color. A chocolate diamond?
Frankie seemed to spot someone he recognized and frowned. Then he quickly downed his beer, gave the woman in red a superficial hug, and made his excuses. I watched as he headed into the crowd and disappeared.
As soon as he turned to go, the blonde looked around, no doubt for someone else to flirt with.
I recognized her immediately from her picture in the newspaper.
“Oh my God, that’s Polly!” I whispered to Dillon. “I hope she doesn’t spot me.”
Dillon frowned. “Why not?”
I filled him in on the negative review I’d given to one of her ex-husband’s restaurants.
“I doubt she cares or even remembers,” he said.
“I’m not so sure, and I don’t want to ruin Aunt Abby’s chances for winning if Polly is still holding a grudge against me.” I turned away
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