Chapter Two
M ac ambled into the apartment, trailing along in the wake of Magda’s anger—pointedly not thinking about her… attributes. Which, with all the talk about breast exams, was like trying not to think of pink elephants. They were very nice… attributes . But she’d always fallen very firmly in the oh- hell -no category when it came to dating. She’d hated him for ages because he was a dick to her when she was eighteen—and no one could hold a grudge like Magda Miller.
He certainly didn’t want to find her attractive, but he’d always been excruciatingly aware of her. There was no denying she was hot when she was mad—her cornflower-blue eyes flashing and her all-too-angelic face flushed. It would have been easier if she wasn’t. If she could just be invisible.
So he tried to pretend she was and focused on getting the cat and getting out as fast as possible.
The oversized tabby lolled arrogantly in the middle of the much-too-big dog bed. “You proud of yourself?” he asked the cat as he approached.
The cat stretched, looking even smugger, if possible. Mac had thought for months now that the thing understood English—and had a definite tendency toward sadism. Or at least took entirely too much pleasure in being contrary. His obsession with Magda’s place was a prime example.
For the last decade, Mac had avoided ever needing to go to Magda’s bakery or—worse—her apartment. But in the six months since the cat had wandered into his life, claiming him as his personal slave and making himself at home in his house, Mac had been summoned to Magda’s to fetch the cat more times than he could count.
It was like the cat knew how much they rubbed each other the wrong way and took particular delight in it.
Though it might have been the dog that he loved torturing the most.
The pit bull whimpered pathetically in a corner, ceding all territory to the cat. “She does know she’s bigger than he is, right?”
“She’s a gentle soul,” Magda said—with something distinctly un gentle in her tone. “A lover, not a fighter. And your asshole cat takes swipes at her whenever she gets close. And at me. Can you please just get him out of here?”
“I came, didn’t I? C’mon, Cat.” He scooped up the animal, who thankfully decided he was willing to be relocated. Mac had more than a few half-healed scratches on his arms from times when the cat had decided he did not want to be picked up. This time, however, the tabby snuggled into his arms, glaring balefully over Mac’s biceps at the dog.
He turned back toward the door—get in, get out, get back to the Cup and focus on what needed to be done, that was the plan. But then he saw the bag sitting next to the door and his steps faltered.
He shouldn’t say anything. He really shouldn’t say anything.
“Going somewhere?”
“What?” Magda asked a little too sharply, before following the direction of his gaze. “Oh. Right. Yeah, that’s Cupcake’s stuff. She’s going to be staying with Charlotte and George while I’m—” She broke off, her face flushing. “I’m going on a cruise. Europe. Pastry school friend.”
Mac blinked, nodding slowly. “Right.”
And the urge rose up to tell her he knew exactly where she was going. Because he was going, too.
He’d signed a million NDAs. If he told Magda the truth, he’d get sued into his next lifetime—his friend Connor doubled as his lawyer and had been very clear about that point. Cake-Off didn’t want anyone to know about their exciting new twist until they could reveal it on camera.
But still he found himself strangely tempted to tell her. Why? To get a reaction out of her? To piss her off? To warn her? He’d never been very good at deciphering his emotions when it came to Magda. Sometimes it was almost fun, sparring with her. And other times…
He’d never met anyone he couldn’t get along with. Until her.
But Mac would be the first to admit the feud had gotten out of hand.
It had started so long ago—a little misunderstanding on his part when she was eighteen, a small backstabbing on hers a few years later—and then it had just snowballed for the last decade. What had started as a harmless grudge, some slight bristling animosity, had somehow become a feud that involved the whole town.
They both owned businesses in Pine Hollow, Vermont—his espresso-shop-turned-cozy-local-eatery, and her frou-frou French bakery on the town square. The locals had chosen sides. He’d even seen a few #TeamMac T-shirts at a parade a few weeks back.
The competitiveness was only natural, and the edge beneath it might have been fun… if he’d been feuding with anyone else.
But Magda…
Magda got under his skin. Like a splinter. A festering infected splinter. And she seemed to feel the same way about him.
Lately it had been harder and harder to just avoid each other. All of his friends were her friends, and it definitely felt sometimes like Pine Hollow wasn’t big enough for the both of them.
They drove each other nuts—but Mac was mature now. He could bury the hatchet. Be the bigger person and extend a peace offering.
Hence, the Cake-Off .
When the producers had approached him after learning about their feud on social media, Mac had been wary.
He was a decent enough baker—he loved trying out dessert specials at the Cup and baking his own bread whenever he had the time—but reality television had never been his dream. That was Magda’s thing, and she’d made no secret of it.
But apparently this next season was going to have a gimmick—and only bakers with some sort of nemesis would be invited. Which meant Magda would only be able to compete if Mac went.
Peace offerings didn’t get any better than that.
Not to mention, the $250,000 first prize wouldn’t be terrible to win. And the free publicity for the Cup was nothing to scoff at. Mac wanted to expand, move into a bigger, better space, and if a month of being filmed smiling over a mixer could make that happen, he was game.
It was the definition of a win-win.
But a little whisper of misgiving in his gut told him she didn’t know what she would be walking into… that she deserved to know…
“You know, don’t you?”
At her words, Mac realized he’d been standing there staring at Cupcake’s puppy suitcase for far too long. “Know?”
“Did George tell you?” She shook her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Just don’t say anything, okay? I know I’m representing Pine Hollow, but I’d just as soon not have the entire town making a huge thing of it.”
Mac met her eyes, weighing whether he dared tell her, studying her face. Always so sweet—to everyone but him. She had one of those open, angelic faces that hid nothing. “Are you a good actress?”
“What?” Her pale blue eyes, such a startling contrast against her pitch-black curls, flared angrily. “This isn’t about acting. I don’t have to pretend to be a good baker.”
“I just mean, can you control your reactions? Like if you had to pretend to be shocked by some twist…”
“They don’t want me because I’m fake. They want me because I’m good ,” Magda snapped. “I don’t have to pretend to be someone else to—” She broke off, midsentence, her blue eyes firing. “Look, I know you auditioned, too. Kendall told me. And I’m sorry you didn’t get it,” she said without an ounce of regret. “I know they never take two people from the same town, and that sucks, but I have been working my butt off for this for the last three years, so maybe, just maybe, I deserve it. Did you think of that?”
Mac snapped his mouth shut. Now was definitely not the time to tell her that he’d helped her get in. “Okay. Good luck.”
It was a sign of how barbed every word between them always was that Magda’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Can’t I wish you luck?” He truly hadn’t meant it sarcastically.
“Oh, so you think I need it? Keep it. I am going to dominate that competition.”
“You don’t know who you’re competing against, cupcake.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can take anything they can dish out. Just watch.”
“I plan to,” Mac promised.
By the time Mac made it back to the Cup after dropping the cat back at the converted carriage house where he’d moved last year to be closer to his gran, he was regretting every word he’d said after he’d spotted the suitcase. He should have kept his effing mouth shut.
He was positive Magda hadn’t figured out the twist—so his danger of being sued into his next lifetime was nil—but he was also positive she was going to go after him with a flambé torch when she saw him at the competition. Which would probably make the producers deliriously happy.
But the show was tomorrow’s problem. Right now he needed to get through the Sunday rush and finish getting the Cup ready for his absence.
He had a great staff, but Mac always handled the specials himself, and he hadn’t done nearly enough in the last few weeks to prepare for being gone. He didn’t have to be in Burlington until tonight, so he had a few more hours to get his life in order and throw some clothes into a suitcase. The producers had warned him not to react if Magda said she was heading to Boston—apparently the surprise nemesis group was flying into a separate airport so their paths wouldn’t accidentally cross. The producers were leaving nothing to chance.
The Cake-Off never filmed in the same city twice, bouncing around the country with each new season, but they’d never filmed in Boston or Burlington, as far as he knew, so either site could be the one. Mac was secretly hoping it was Burlington—the home audience always loved the “local” chefs.
He slipped in the back door of the Cup—which creaked ominously on its hinges. The building was “historic”—which meant falling down around his ears, and keeping up with all the repairs often felt like trying to plug holes in a dam with his fingers. But that was a problem for another day.
He heard his staff moving around in the front of house, getting ready to open, and he headed back to the kitchen to finish the prep he was now even more behind on. He popped in his AirPods, pulled up his Broadway playlist on Spotify, and got into the zone.
He normally loved this part of the morning, when his breakfast crew was trickling in, but they all knew better than to bother him. When it was just him and the music and whatever random culinary creation his hands felt like making today.
He was whisking up a hollandaise when the music suddenly cut off, replaced by the sound of his phone ringing. He glanced down at the caller ID and grimaced—but he never declined this call.
“Hey, Gran.”
“Mackenzie.” Her voice was as curt and authoritative as ever. “Are you eloping with Magda Miller?”
Mac nearly choked on his own spit. “What?”
“You were seen leaving her apartment this morning, and apparently both of you have mysterious out-of-town trips planned. For a month . I just want you to know that I do not approve of eloping.”
“I promise I am not eloping with anyone, least of all Magda. I’m going to New York to catch some shows. Like I do every year,” he said, hating the lie. He never lied to his grandmother. Evade, sure, but outright lying made his chest feel tight.
“So you two are just, what’s the phrase now? Fuck buddies?”
“Jesus.” Mac nearly choked again, this time on air. Breathing and swallowing were suddenly incredibly challenging with his grandmother’s prim voice saying those words. “I am not now, nor have I ever, nor will I ever, sleep with Magda Miller.”
“Hm.”
“What?”
“That’s just a lot of protesting.”
“Gran. Magda and I hate each other. You know this.”
“Well, yes, but there’s a lot of passion there. I just want you to know that if you were to have some hate sex, as it were, you could tell me.”
“Gran. I love you. But there is no world in which I’m going to call you to talk about hate sex. Or any kind of sex.”
“I just want you to know you can. I’m not a stodgy old lady. Your generation didn’t invent bad decisions—”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Call me when you get there,” she said hurriedly before he could disconnect the call. “I hate when you drive to the city.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Hm,” she said—which was her version of “I love you too.”
His grandmother had raised him, and he hated lying to her. Magda might want to keep things quiet about Cake-Off , but Mac wanted to share it with the entire town. Maybe because he didn’t have that one special person to share it with.
The Cake-Off people had told him that he could tell his significant other and his lawyer, and only them. But Mac didn’t have a significant other. He never really had. He liked women. He liked relationships and sex and intimacy and all that. But whenever things started to get serious, something would happen, and he’d find himself single again.
He’d never really minded it. He had great friends. A great life. Until recently, he’d had a friend-with-benefits he visited whenever he was in New York. And his grandmother was the only high-maintenance woman he needed in his life. But these last few years, it was like everyone in his life had started getting married and having kids. Even his former hook-up in New York.
Things had shifted so slowly that it had taken him a while to realize what was happening. He still had his poker nights and a regular gig singing with his band, but these days it was rare for everyone to make it, and the conversations were often about spouses and kids. Mac didn’t mind it—he loved hearing about his honorary nieces and nephews—but all those assurances at bachelor parties over the years that nothing was going to change had been total bullshit. Everything had changed. Except him.
He loved his life. He loved his town, and his friends and his family. But when he’d had to fill out the forms for Cake-Off , he’d felt a little sad that his emergency contact was still his grandmother, and he hadn’t had anyone special to share the news with when they asked him to be on the show. It was funny how lonely good news could make you feel.
But the Cup was opening and he didn’t have time to dwell on it. Not today.
He briefed his staff on the specials and ran through last checks before he flipped the sign on the front door, and the first rush began. There was invariably a line out the door when they opened—the Cup’s too-small seating area always filled up fast, and those who didn’t make the first seating always queued up at the to-go counter. When it got warm enough in the summer, the sidewalk out front would double the number of tables, but there still wouldn’t be an empty chair in the house for the first three hours they were open.
He needed a bigger space, but opening another location was expensive, and finding the right spot had proved challenging—and doing it all while still keeping the Cup afloat sounded like a Jenga tower about to fall.
But if he won Cake-Off …
That money could mean a new location. A bigger staff. Maybe even some of that work-life balance that Mac had been hearing such good things about.
They were slammed all day, and Mac flowed between the kitchen and the front of house as needed, cooking, chatting with the locals as he bussed tables, and quietly worrying about how the place would fare in his absence.
Not that he never took time off. Unlike Magda, who he didn’t think had taken more than two days off in a row in the last five years, Mac made a point of going down to New York to catch a few Broadway shows and unwind every year. And last year he’d gone on a ski trip to Alaska. He wasn’t all work and no play, but the Cup was his baby, and he always worried about it when he was gone.
Though he wouldn’t miss the gossip.
All morning the locals asked him where he was going, making not-so-subtle references to Magda and early morning visits. And all morning, Mac lied.
He kept a smile on his face the whole time, playing his part, but when Connor arrived to pick up a takeout order, Mac dragged him to the back office as soon as he walked through the door.
“I’m not cut out for this shit,” he grumbled when the door closed between them and the din of the restaurant.
Connor had a sleeping toddler in a neon tutu draped over one shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world—a sight that would have been alarmingly out of place for the rigid lawyer only a few years ago. “You mean reality television?” he asked, unfazed.
“The lying. Telling everyone I’m going to New York.”
“It’s just until the first press release,” Connor reminded him. “Which is while you’re filming, right? So by the time you get back, everyone will know.”
“Yeah. They’ll know I lied.”
“For good reason. Just focus on why you’re doing this.”
Except he couldn’t even remember right now why he’d thought this was a good idea. The money, obviously. And the exposure.
But the Cup didn’t really need extra exposure. They were always packed. No, the problem was that it was falling down. And too small. But either a major renovation or moving to a different location while staying open so he could afford a move or a renovation was a logistical nightmare he’d never had the time or mental space to tackle. He knew the problem. He just didn’t have a solution. But if he won…
Money solved a lot of problems.
“You all ready to go?” Connor asked. “When do you leave?”
“A few hours,” Mac said dismissively. “I’ll throw some stuff in a bag.”
“Throw some…? Mac. You gotta go pack.”
“We’re busy. And it’s not like I have much to pack. They have all these rules about what I’m supposed to wear on camera. No logos—I’m not sure I own five shirts that don’t have logos on them.”
Connor stood there staring at him for a moment, swaying slightly to soothe his sleeping daughter, and then a slow smile spread across his face. “You’re nervous.”
“What? Shut up.”
“No, I’m relieved. You’ve been so blasé about all this, I wondered sometimes if you knew you were about to go on national television.”
“With Magda.”
Connor’s eyebrow arched. “Is that what’s bugging you? She always did get under your skin.”
“It’s fine.”
“You can beat her. You know that, don’t you?”
Mac looked at one of his oldest friends. “Do I?” He’d started to wonder what the hell he’d been thinking. He wasn’t a baker. Not really. Not with the fancy French training that Magda had. He was creative and resourceful—but with the exception of a few classes at the King Arthur Baking School back in the day, he was mostly self-taught. Was he about to make a fool of himself?
“Trust me,” Connor said. “You can win the whole damn thing. You’ve got this.” Then he grinned. “Now can I pick up my wife’s breakfast before she sends a search party after me?”