What in the bloody hell just happened?
James watches as the vivacious woman walks away. He's not sure if he's ever had a conversation that left him more stunned in his entire life. Ever since he can remember, men and women alike have given him more attention than he's known what to do with, so to have this woman —Miss Evans—walk into the competition and have the audacity to treat him as if he's the one in the wrong, is entirely foreign to James.
Being here today was not on his original list of things to do, but good old Slughorn 'falling ill' with a heart condition and bailing on judging the competition left him with no choice. His intention when he booked the event was to help spread Gourmet Gloucester's name in order to pave the way for expansion throughout the rest of the United Kingdom. When the plans were in place, he made it clear that he would not be in attendance. The company needed to stand alone without James playing the role of mascot.
If he is here for the Irish competition, there is no doubt that the upcoming Welsh and Scottish competitions will be knocking down his door in an attempt to book him as well. And judging is not his thing. He prefers to remain in the background as he continues to expand his influence in the culinary world. And though the spotlight still manages to find him, given his name and wealth, he made a pact with himself years ago to never exacerbate his place in the media. He shudders at the thought of yet another photo appearing in The Daily Mail.
No. There is no way he is judging any of the other events. The press is manageable, but to be roped into two other competitions with stuffy contestants who think much higher of their creations—and themselves—than reality allows? Absolutely not. He'd much prefer working in the kitchens with those who strive to be better, not those that are out to prove they are the best.
Like Evans.
James can feel the scowl on his face deepen, the lines on his forehead becoming more and more prominent in their threat of permanence. He can imagine his mother scolding him to not look so angry and miserable when in public, but Lily Evans tested the only patience he could muster for that afternoon.
It's just another stark reminder of how much has changed now that he's in his thirties. If he was still in the fun-loving, carefree years of his teens, James would have pursued the redhead because of her mysteriousness and unpredictability. Back then, he liked a challenge.
But his twenties have left his heart and mind hardened to the notion of true love. Being born into wealth has had its advantages, but he's grown tired of women chasing after him for his money. Time and time again, the women—and sometimes men— who have passed through his social circles have proven that they are only interested in using his wealth and good looks to maintain their superficial ways, leaving him to swear off the mere thought of marriage forever.
He'd rather die as a well-lived bachelor, leaving the family fortune to Dora—his eighteen-year-old goddaughter that he exerts full guardianship over after her parents died in a tragic boating accident off the coast of Wales—than to succumb to a loveless marriage for the sake of tradition. Thinking of the teenager softens his features a touch and reminds James of what is actually important in his life. Arguing with a strong-minded woman about what she prefers to be called is not important, and he needs to tear his eyes away from the retreating form of Miss Evans and carry on with judging.
Evans.
Much to his chagrin, her name floods his mind, and the desire to learn more about her threatens to distract him from the task at hand. He likes the way her name sounds in his mind, and even more so when it escapes his lips. Though, he could do without the 'Miss,' which makes the name far too pretentious. But given that James doesn't know her well at all, the formality of 'Miss' must stay, and he forces himself to let go of all pretenses of wanting to get to know her better.
You could always go back to calling her 'mint cheesecake brownie.'
It takes all of his willpower to keep his face impassive and not laugh at the recollection of her outburst. He'd been captivated by the mere sight of her, and after she stumbled into him, his intent of remaining cordial flew out the window. Asking the contestants for their name is a courtesy usually given when calling them up for judging, but she'd knocked the guidelines straight out of his mind with her stunning beauty. And as a result, his defense mechanism kicked in, and his cold demeanor was sharpened to keep his attraction at bay.
James couldn't blame himself for that. He'd walked out of the judge's quarters, and his eyes gravitated toward her like a fly to the light. Her gorgeous, long locks the shade of deep auburn, her pale, porcelain skin with a dusting of freckles over the bridge or her nose, and those eyes. Those bright, emerald green eyes that seemed to cut right through him with their piercing gaze. He wasn't sure if it was the lighting in the tent or the way her plum dress accentuated the color, making the green pop against the stark white walls of the tent around them, but there was no doubt that they drew him in.
Her delayed reaction would have been more annoying if James weren't so captivated by her beauty. And if that wasn't enough, her clumsy feet broke James's strict no touching policy because it would have been rude to just let her fall. It was probably for the best that she was put off by his mere touch since it snapped him back to reality, but not before he wondered what could have put her in such a sour mood.
Whatever. It was all for the best. You're far too busy to be inquiring about the likes of her, no matter how attractive she is.
James refocuses his attention on the remaining contestants and the creations laid out in front of him. Reminding himself that he is here to do a job, and in addition to judging, he can now add damage control to that list after the mess that was Lily Evans's presentation. He side-eyes the next dessert on the table and calls up the contestant who has made the strawberry lemon bars.
The judging of this dessert is quite the opposite of the show he and Miss Evans just gave, lasting a mere two minutes after he determines that the flavors are far too tart for his taste. After 'strawberry lemon bars' retreats, James calls up the creator of the gooey salted caramel brownies, that contain just a touch too much salt. He can't quite put his finger on why he's become so nit-picky. Mistakes are how people become better; at least, that's what he tells the aspiring cooks and bakers who take the offered classes at Gourmet Gloucester. Yet, he struggles to give out any praise, or offer kindness in his suggestions as he judges dish after dish.
It's all Evans's fault. James nods as he forges on with his mission.
The plump woman standing next to Miss Evans takes a few strides toward him when he calls for the plum and thyme galette, and James can't help but notice the glare the spirited redhead shoots his way as his gaze rests on her and not the current contestant. Her face is flushed again, reminding him of her expression after she'd bent down to pick up his dropped napkin, giving him a glorious glimpse of that spectacular gold bra and what they cradled when she bent over and—
Oh, God.
His last statement to her echoes in his mind, making sense of the hurt look on her face that had confused him so.
It's a shame about the glitter, though.
James needed to sort out the misunderstanding with her. He couldn't have Miss Evans think he was a thoughtless, crude man, could he?
Wait. Why do I care so much?
It's not like he is going to see her ever again after this afternoon. He's never given much thought to what other people think. That's how he was raised, to expect criticism and not let it bother him. It was an occupational hazard of his surname. So why now?
James refocuses on the galette. A perfectly executed puff pastry with the right balance of fruit and herb. He knows without a doubt that this will be the winner, judging by the looks of the remaining entries. His suspicions are correct as he meets with the last three contestants and tastes their confections: a pineapple upside-down cake that is far too sweet, a dry chocolate bundt cake, and a traditional custard tart that is just a touch too runny.
He clears his throat and turns to all of the contestants surrounding the judging table. "If I could have everyone's attention, please."
The crowd of people settle down and once he's satisfied with the quiet, James continues, careful not to express too much gratitude and excitement for his role.
"Thank you all for participating in today's event. I am impressed with the variety of delicacies that were presented today. After careful consideration, I have made my decision for today's winner and runner-up in the amateur, semi-professional, and professional baking categories. As a reminder, the winners will receive a £5,000 prize and runners up a £1,000 prize, courtesy of the Potter Foundation. I will start first with the amateur competition."
James reaches into his jacket pocket to remind himself of the winners he's chosen for the earlier brackets.
"The runner up is the Chocolate Marshmallow Whoopie Pie, and the winner is the Gingerbread Spring Roll Cake with Vanilla Orange Buttercream."
Applause fills the tent with sound as the two individuals with the winning entries come up to receive their prize. A steward appears to hand James the envelopes and ribbons so he can present them to each excited winner.
As the amateurs return to their places at the edge of the tent, James moves on to the semi-professional group, which follows the same repetitious pattern. When he finishes with them, James's heart starts beating faster in his chest, though he doesn't understand why. Well, he does, but he refuses to let Miss Evans cast another line to hook him in with her non-demure ways.
"Our final winners today come from the Professional category. The runner-up title goes to Miss Evan's Mint Chocolate Cheesecake Brownie with the chocolate sandwich cookie crumble, and the winner goes to the Plum and Thyme Galette."
The final smattering of applause ripples across the crowd, and James's gaze falls on the runner-up. There is a mixture of shock and elation on her face as her mouth opens in a small gasp.
"Well done, Lily! Well done," the woman who's won—Ms. Sprout, he remembers—places her arm around Miss Evans in an effort to coax her to the center of the room.
This time her feet work properly, and James doesn't have to catch her fall, though he can't avoid the crippling desire to want to feel her in his arms again.
For the love of God, Potter, get a hold of yourself!
He takes the ribbon and envelope from the steward, and as is customary, steps forward to Evans first to present her with her winnings. James extends his right hand to shake hers as he passes her the envelope with his left. The moment their hands meet, a zap shoots through his arm straight to his heart, and James feels as though he's been electrocuted.
"Congratulations, Miss Evans."
"Thank you," she responds, pulling her arm away as if his touch has burned her.
The loss of contact disappoints James, but he dismisses the feeling. "May I?" he asks, holding up the ribbon.
The vibrant green of her eyes meets his when she gives him a miniscule nod. James releases the clasp of the pin as his hands reach up to affix the green ribbon to her chest. He does everything in his power to keep his hands steady and takes slow, deep breaths to keep his heart rate in check. As his knuckles graze the cowled material of her dress, the image of her gold bra becomes vivid in his memory once more, and it takes every additional inch of willpower to keep his eyes trained on the ribbon.
"Miss Evans, you do realize that my comment about the glitter dealt with the garnish of your confection?"
James's eyes drift back up to her face, watching her lips part as she breathes in a sharp intake of air, no doubt in surprise to his question. She recovers quickly, though, as she casts a stoic look over his shoulder.
"I do."
I do.
Images of her in a wedding dress overtake his mind at the sound of her words. A blinding rage of jealousy rips through him at the nonsensical thought of her walking down the aisle to be wed to a faceless prat. Irritation soon follows at the ridiculous notion, and he pushes the image aside.
"Good. As your judge, it is important for me to comment on the," he pauses, searching for the right words, "overall presentation you have brought forth today. I am by no means opposed to a bit of sparkle here and there, but the texture was a bit off-putting in conjunction with the smooth creaminess of the more prominent layer."
Once again, the image of that damned bra appears in his mind. Despite his effort to be clear that he was talking about the dessert all along, somehow, his words still managed to take on a double meaning.
Fuck. I need to get a grip.
Miss Evans's eyes narrow as her lip curls upward. "Thank you for the feedback, but while I respect your opinion, I do believe we can agree to disagree."
"Oh?" He really should move on to present Ms. Sprout with her winnings, but his feet are glued to the spot.
"I prefer to have a little fun and sparkle in my life. It's what helps inspire my creations and make them unique. I'm only sorry you don't feel the same way."
Against his better judgment, James raises his eyebrows and leans in closer, his voice no louder than a whisper so that only Miss Evans can hear.
"Ah, but who says that I don't?"
It is completely unprofessional, but James doesn't care as he turns to Ms. Sprout, presenting her with her awards before Miss Evans has a chance to respond. Out of the corner of his eye, he can tell by the shocked look of her expression that she is stunned, giving him the upper hand in their battle of wills.
Ms. Sprout thanks him after he's finished pinning her ribbon, and James steps away from the two women. He nods to the onlookers, insinuating that the contest has concluded. As people begin to disperse, James can't resist looking back at Miss Evans one more time. He gives her an imperceptible wink before turning on his heel and disappearing to the judges area.
Thankful that the obligation is over, James pushes all thoughts of Miss Evans and her delectable Mint Chocolate Cheesecake Brownie from his mind. He should feel guilty for the way he's just shamelessly flirted with her but refuses to be bothered. After all, the chances are slim to none that he'll ever see her again, so a bit of innocent flirting couldn't possibly be harmful, right?