Chapter 33
LUCAS
The first hour passes in a blur of precision and laughter.
Once our pans of cookies are in the fridge setting, I relax.
Everything is going exactly according to plan.
Around us, other teams are starting to stress.
Someone’s oven isn’t heating properly. Another team realizes they forgot a key ingredient.
Henry and his sister are bickering about timing. But Holiday and I are in perfect sync.
“Ninety minutes left!” the mayor calls out.
“Time to make the ice cream,” Holiday says, checking her watch.
“Almost.” I grab her hand and pull her away from the prep table. “First, we celebrate.”
“Lucas, what are you—”
I spin her around right there in our station, making her laugh. The crowd goes absolutely wild as we dance to “Jingle Bell Rock.”
“Keep it up and they’re going to think we’re showing off,” she says with a laugh.
“Babe, we are showing off. Who else can bake a masterpiece and dance like this?” I dip her dramatically and she squeals. “Might as well own it.”
When I pull her back up, she’s breathless as I spin her around. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you still love it,” I mutter.
“I really do.”
“This song is only three minutes; take the break with me,” I tell her.
I notice Dominic watching us from the judging table as we continue to dance. His expression has changed and his jaw is set. He’s watched us laughing, dancing, and being completely ourselves, and it’s eating him alive.
Good.
When the last guitar strum of the song plays out, she pulls away. “I needed that.”
“I know,” I say.
“Ice cream time,” Holiday says, pulling out our ingredients.
“Heavy cream, whole milk, sugar, vanilla bean, and a pinch of salt. That’s it. Simple and perfect.”
She measures everything while I get the ice cream maker ready. We’ve tested this recipe a dozen times at home. It’s foolproof.
She scrapes vanilla beans into the mixture, and I can’t help but admire her as she works. Holiday makes it look easy. While she’s concentrating, the confidence in her movements is undeniable.
This is what she was meant to do. Create. Bake. Bring joy to people through food.
We mix everything together and pour it into the ice cream maker. The machine hums to life, and Holiday sets a timer.
“Thirty minutes,” she says. “Then we assemble and we’re done.”
“We’re crushing this,” I tell her.
“I’m so happy to be doing this with you,” she confesses.
“Fuck, me too, Peaches.”
I glance down at the clock, knowing we have plenty of time. We’re right on schedule.
That’s when I see Dominic stand from the judging table and he’s heading straight toward us.
“Incoming,” I mutter to Holiday.
She follows my gaze, and her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t back down. She stands up straighter, lifting her chin.
Dominic stops in front of our table, looking at our setup. His eyes scan our ingredients, our timing sheet, and our ice cream maker churning away.
“Impressive,” he says. His accent seems thicker when he’s agitated. “You’re ahead of everyone else.”
“Aren’t I usually?” Holiday asks.
His eyes finally meet hers. “You always were talented. I didn’t give you enough credit.”
“It’s too late now,” Holiday says. “I don’t care what you think anymore.”
Something flickers in his expression. Regret? Anger? I can’t tell.
“Are you sure?” He leans against the edge of our station, too casual. Too familiar. “Or is he just making you believe that?”
“Don’t,” Holiday warns.
“I made you who you are,” Dominic continues, his voice dropping lower. “Everything you know, everything you do is because I gave you that opportunity.”
Holiday bursts into laughter, but she’s laughing at him. In front of everyone. And I just stand back and let her give him exactly what he deserves. “That’s hilarious. I was baking and winning competitions when I was a literal child. Try to steal someone else’s credit, not mine.”
His jaw clenches. “We had something special.”
“We had nothing.” Holiday’s voice is steady, strong. “You had control. You had someone to manipulate and use. That’s not love, Dominic. That’s abuse.”
The word hangs in the air between them. Around us, I can feel people watching, listening. I glance up at the TV and see that the cameras are focused on us. Did they catch every word?
“How dare you—” Dominic starts.
“Chef Laurent.” Patty Morrison is suddenly there, her voice firm but professional. “You need to return to the judging table. This is inappropriate.”
“I’m observing their technique,” Dominic says, but his mask is cracking. “As a judge.”
“You’re harassing a contestant. You’re wearing a microphone,” Patty tells him, pointing to the label on his chef coat. “Return to the table. Now.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. His hands are clenched at his sides, his face as red as a tomato. He looks at Holiday like she’s something he lost and desperately wants back.
“This isn’t over,” he warns.
“Yes, it is,” Holiday says.
He walks back to the judging table, but I can see him seething. Marcus and Thomas are talking to him in low voices, clearly addressing what just happened. Mary is watching with concern.
“You okay?” I ask Holiday.
“Yeah.” She takes a deep breath and grins. “All is well in the world.”
“Yes, it is.”
The timer goes off, which means our ice cream is ready.
We work together to assemble everything. I pull the cookie bars from the fridge and they’re perfectly set. Holiday cuts them into perfect fat squares. I arrange them on the plates, then she scoops the ice cream, making sure each portion is identical.
We drizzle a bit of extra fudge sauce for presentation. She adds a sprinkle of sea salt on top.
We’re done with forty-five minutes to spare.
“Ready to turn it in?” Holiday asks.
“Let’s do this.”
We carry our plates carefully to the judging table. All five members of the panel stop what they’re doing to watch us approach.
“Team Jolly Holiday,” Mayor Thompson announces into the microphone. “First team to complete their dessert!”
The crowd applauds.
We set our five plates down in front of the panel. Patty, Marcus, Mary, and Thomas all look pleased and interested. Dominic’s expression is unreadable.
“Tell us about your creation,” Patty says, wearing a warm smile. She reminds me of Mawmaw.
Holiday takes a breath. “This is our signature holiday cookie bar called ‘The One.’ It’s a buttery shortbread base topped with rich pecan chocolate fudge, finished with sea salt, and served with homemade Philadelphia-style vanilla bean ice cream.”
“And the inspiration?” Mary asks.
“Holiday created it,” I explain, giving credit where credit is due. “She perfected the ratios, added the fudge layer with pecans, and created the ice cream pairing. This is all her talent. I’m just her partner in crime.” I waggle my brows at her.
“Lucas was my inspiration,” Holiday says, winking at me.
The panel picks up their forks and begins tasting. I watch their faces, looking for any tells.
Marcus takes a bite and his eyebrows raise. “This shortbread is perfectly executed. The texture is ideal.”
“The fudge layer,” Mary says, taking another bite. “It’s rich without being overwhelming. And the pecans add just the right amount of crunch.”
Thomas is focused on the ice cream. “This is incredible. Simple but perfect. The vanilla doesn’t overpower the other flavors.”
Patty takes her time, tasting each component separately, then together. When she looks up, she’s laughing. “This is exceptional. The balance of flavors, the textures, the temperature—everything works together beautifully. This is the work of someone who truly understands baking.”
Holiday’s face fills with pride. “Thank you so much.”
Dominic clears his throat, then speaks. “It’s rustic,” he says, his accent sharp. “Simple. Not particularly innovative. A kitchen sink dessert.”
The other four members of the panel turn to look at him like he’s grown a third head.
“With all due respect,” Marcus says carefully, “sometimes simple is exactly what’s needed. This dessert is comforting, elevated, and perfectly executed. That’s not a weakness.”
“I agree,” Mary adds. “Innovation for innovation’s sake isn’t always better. This is several classics with a twist and done exceptionally well.”
Dominic’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t argue. He makes a mark on his clipboard and doesn’t say anything else.
“Thank you for your presentation,” Patty says to us. “You can return to your station. Feel free to pass out the rest to those watching the competition.”
We walk back and I can see Holiday’s hands shaking slightly. I grab her hand and squeeze her fingers.
“Proud of you,” I whisper. Today, she stood up to Dominic twice. Our creation was praised by some of the best in the business.
“You were amazing,” she whispers to me.
“We were amazing,” I correct.
The two of us happily pass out the dessert with ice cream and people go wild for it.
“I want seconds,” someone yells.
“Me too!” another woman says.
Everyone laughs.
“That’s it! You know how it goes. Bakery is open tomorrow until we sell out,” Holiday announces.
We begin cleaning up our mess while the other teams continue working. Some are just now pulling things from the ovens. A few look defeated already, like they know their desserts didn’t turn out right.
“Thirty minutes left!” Mayor Thompson calls out over the speaker.
Right now, all I feel is relief. We did it.
Once our station looks pristine, all we can do is impatiently wait.
I pull her close, wrapping my arms around her from behind as we watch the chaos around us.
“No matter what happens,” I say against her ear, “I’m so fucking proud of you.”
“I owe Mawmaw a thank you,” she says, leaning back against me.
Over at the judging table, the other teams are turning in their desserts.
Henry and his sister present something that looks like it collapsed.
The couple in the ugly Christmas sweaters has a dessert that’s clearly burnt.
The teenager team brings them a chunky chocolate cookie that looks pretty impressive.