The contest had officially opened.

She took a deep breath as she skimmed the other alerts. They came from blogs and forums where internet foodies were already talking about the contest. After a few minutes of looking at all the links, she noticed that no one seemed to make a connection between her old blog and this. That was good, she supposed.

But still. Seeing her and Nadim’s names together turned her stomach upside down.

Reena Manji and fiancé, Nadim Remtulla.

She went back to the FoodTV site. The other contestants’ videos were all there. Should she watch them?

Her text rang. It was Nadim. Contest went live.

It was now too late to back out. Was that what he wanted?

She bit her lip and texted him a response: I know. I saw it. Do you want me to pull out?

He didn’t answer.

After Reena stared at her phone for about two minutes, the three little dots started flashing. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her leggings and waited.

Nadim: You wanted this so much. I am willing to continue. As your friend.

Why had he added that last sentence? To remind her or himself that they were only friends?

Also, why was this so complicated?

After seeing her name on the website, she realized that she did want it. Not just the prize, but also the recognition. The prestige. She wanted proof that even though her life was a steaming pile of turd, she was still a great cook worthy of a national contest. She just wasn’t sure how wise it was to do this with Nadim.

He wrote again before she could respond.

Nadim: Come for dinner tomorrow. I owe you a home-cooked meal. We can talk. Total honesty.

Reena finally exhaled.

Reena: OK. What can I bring?

Nadim: Just you is all I need.

Her Canadian manners wouldn’t let her go to a dinner party without bringing something, so despite the flock of butterflies using her stomach for flight practice, she still went to a local microbrewery on Friday afternoon to grab some craft beer. When she returned, the most unexpected smell overcame her as she entered the first-floor hallway.

Bread. Home-baked bread. And there was only one place it could be coming from.

Nerves be damned, she knocked on Nadim’s door, despite being two hours early for dinner. The smell couldn’t be from him, though. He should still be at work.

But he answered the door, eyes wide, wearing a red plaid apron.

“You’re early,” he said, quickly untying the apron and pulling it over his head. He tossed it on the couch.

She handed him the six-pack. “What’s that smell? Sourdough? What bakery is it from?”

“I made it.” His shoulders fell. “But I messed it up. I was just about to go out and buy another loaf. I should’ve waited for you to teach me.”

“You made bread?”

“I tried. It’s to go with dinner.”