Chapter 4 Half-baked
HALF-BAKED
Jack
I’ve negotiated multi-million-dollar contracts under tight deadlines.
I’ve stood in the middle of milling extras, ignoring their barely contained hope that I’d pluck them from obscurity and turn them into the next big thing.
I’ve stared down a wall of paparazzi screaming inappropriate questions at my friends, fishing for a reaction they could turn into a six-figure tabloid payday without so much as blinking.
But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for a whoopie pie booth in a snowstorm.
And yet I stay.
Because somehow, despite the absolute insanity of it all—screaming fans, pie innuendo, and a frigid wind tunneling up the back of my very fashionable but very impractical coat—I can’t seem to walk away.
Not from her.
Audrey Nouel, who glares like it’s a competitive sport and moves behind that booth with the kind of speed that should violate at least three labor laws, is in the zone. Flushed. Flustered. Magnetic as hell.
And I’m the idiot with a law degree and a reputation for detached efficiency who just volunteered to work retail in a blizzard.
Why?
Because—like a jealous little brother watching the favorite son soak up all the praise—I couldn’t stand seeing Felix charm his way into her good graces with nothing but a Hollywood smile and a naked cat while she kept looking at me like I’d started a petition to cancel Christmas.
And maybe—just maybe—my ego, which is apparently more inflated than I realized, didn’t think it would be this hard.
I can practically hear the slow hiss of air as my overinflated hotshot balloon deflates in real time.
“Three Hot Cocoa & Chills and a Sleigh Me Softly!” a guy in a beanie yells like he’s ordering from a ski-through drive-thru.
I turn to Audrey, who’s already elbow-deep in a cooler. Without looking, she grabs a pastry bag with her other hand and slides the pies inside like she’s been doing this since birth.
Assuming she’s about to hand them to me, I reach in—and bump into her.
The cash in my hand flutters on the table like loose confetti.
She doesn’t say anything, just stares, eyes narrowed and full of unspoken judgment, before grabbing the next order with military precision.
I scramble to regather the bills. Beanie Guy makes to walk off, then pauses and passes back a five. “You gave me too much.”
I frown. “You’re giving it back?”
“Of course.” He looks at me like I’m the weirdo.
I watch him walk away, stunned, just as the next customer yells their order.
In LA, he’d be halfway down Melrose before I noticed—and probably halfway through leaving a two-star Yelp review claiming I shorted him.
Behind me, Audrey’s already packing up the next pies with the ruthless grace of someone who’s fought in frosting-stained trenches. Scoop. Stack. Seal.
Meanwhile, I’m over here fumbling through the primitive concept of exact change because according to the locals, no one in this town can run a card reader let alone get decent cell service without standing on a literal hill.
Still, when she wordlessly passes me another pie, I take it.
When she shoots me a look that could burn through snow, I meet it.
When she trips over a cooler lid and stumbles back into me, I catch her without thinking.
Her elbow brushes my chest.
My hand grazes the bare strip of wrist between her coat and glove.
We don’t look at each other, but the air between us snaps.
A camera flash goes off behind us.
Felix, grinning like he’s running for president, is now taking selfies with babies.
Audrey lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, and before I can stop myself, I swipe away a streak of frosting on her cheek with my thumb.
Her eyes meet mine.
A long beat passes.
“I didn’t need your help.” Audrey breaks the moment with a shot of pure-grade defensiveness.
I should back off. Let it drop.
Instead, I smile—because the glare she levels at me is fierce and, frankly, adorable. “I know.”
That earns me a huff and an eyeroll.
But as she turns to get the next order ready, a fraction of a smile plays on her lips.
The magic feeling returns.
Audrey
“Unwrap me slowly.” Jack’s voice is all velvet and wicked suggestion.
But it isn’t the way he makes my already perversely named pies sound ten times as decadent or the past twenty minutes of our shared, non-stop action—bakery sales action—that causes my brain to stutter.
It’s the lack of inventory.
The stark white bottom of the cooler burns into my eyes. “Damn.”
Jack’s charm falters. “What?”
I point to the empty box between us. “We’re out.”
The way he raises a single brow feels extremely judgmental. “Of Santa’s Secret?”
“That and…” With jerky movements I open and close the lid of every cooler I stocked and dragged over to Town Square before the tree lighting ceremony. “… everything else, save for two Jingle My Berries and one Fireside Fling.”
The Santa’s Secret customer—a young mom with a baby on one hip and a toddler on his tip-toes peering over the counter—thrusts her twenty dollar bill at Jack. “I’ll take all three!”
My unwanted booth partner, charm resurrected, takes the money and counts out her change while I hesitate to hand over the bag of whoopie pies.
“You sure?” I hate not giving the customer what they want.
But instead of disappointment, the woman beams. “Whatever Felix Jones ate, I’m eating.” She pockets her change and adds, “Plus, these two”—she nods to the toddler beside her before adjusting the baby more securely on her hip and reaching out with her free hand—“don’t care as long as it’s sugar.”
Once the pies have been handed over, Jack clears his throat and raises his arms. “Ladies and gentlemen of Hideaway Harbor,” he booms like he’s delivering a closing argument to the jury, “Making Whoopie is officially sold out.”
The responding groan from the people still in line mirrors the one inside my head.
I should feel triumphant right now. Instead, I feel like someone just handed me a participation trophy and whispered “Nice try” in my ear.
I’d vastly overestimated how much I could prep solo. And underestimated what a celebrity appearance—plus Jack and his very helpful friends—could do to a crowd.
As the crowd trickles off to find their sugar fix elsewhere, I grab a rag and start wiping down the counter as if the leftover crumbs are somehow responsible for my failure to anticipate being swarmed.
“Hey.” Jack’s shoulder nudges mine, the contact light but annoyingly effective. “You don’t look thrilled for someone who just sold out.”
Before I can answer, or re-clean my counter, Felix Jones and Elizabeth Moore approach the booth like returning conquerors, red-nosed and glowing.
“Whew.” Felix shakes off the light dusting of snow from his shoulders. “Glad that’s finished.”
“Oh, get over yourself.” Elizabeth, arms wrapped tightly around the hairless cat, leans against the booth’s counter. “You know you loved it.”
All smiles, they go back and forth teasing each other while Felix reaches out to relieve his fiancée of her feline burden.
Their camaraderie is light and easy, and I hate that it makes me feel heavy.
I gather the last of the crumbs, snap out of my funk, and plaster on a smile. “Thank you both so much.” I meet their eyes. “Unlimited whoopie pies for life.”
“Yay!” Elizabeth laughs, shaking out her arms. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.” She nods toward Felix. “He’s got a mean sweet tooth.”
Felix, now holding Mike like he’s won an award, grins. “Big-time.”
“Am I included in this lifetime supply deal?” Jack, who’s been suspiciously quiet while I attempt to stop my self-recrimination, nudges me again. “Asking for a hungry friend.”
I press a palm to the shoulder he keeps leaning into, suddenly very aware of how warm that spot feels. “I—”
“Woof.”
As one, the four of us turn to find Skippy, Hideaway’s unofficial mascot, staring at the hairless cat curled up in Felix’s arms. But while Skippy’s barks are usually ‘got snacks?’ barks, this bark sounds more like a ‘there are enemies among us’ alert.
Mike Hunt hisses, thoroughly unimpressed.
Sensing impending doom, Felix, still holding a whoopie pie, tries to tuck Mike inside his coat only to find one hand isn’t enough to undo his buttons.
Skippy, shuffling forward, barks louder.
Mike, clearly over being threatened by the miniature yeti, decides to leap into action—literally.
Pushing off Felix’s chest with his back legs, Mike launches himself into the air.
Not away from the dog.
At the dog.
Elizabeth gasps Home Alone style.
Felix lunges, but all he catches is one sad cat bootie.
Skippy takes one look at the rapidly approaching demon in a birthday suit and makes the only rational choice.
He runs—tail tucked, paws skidding, snow flying.
Mike Hunt gives chase, looking like a naked missile of vengeance.
People scatter. Squeals echo. Felix and Elizabeth take off after them.
“Holy shit.” Jack’s gaze follows the shrieking, flannel-clad trail of people parting like the Red Sea.
They’re heading for the Christmas tree—Hideaway’s enormous, thirty-foot symbol of peace, joy, and municipal liability.
Realizing Felix and Elizabeth are too far behind to catch up, I jump into action.
Fisting my pile of crumbs, I exit the booth and cut around the crowd, slipping through a gap near the cider stand and sprinting to the stage.
I reach it just in time to see Skippy gallop up and onto the platform, barreling around the tree in wide, frantic circles.
Mayor Locke dives to safety.
Meanwhile, Mike Hunt, possibly bored with the chase or finally realizing he’s a cat and not a predator drone, leaves Skippy to run in useless circles and leaps into the tree.
Branches shake. Lights flicker. And then—Fzzzt.
Half the tree goes dark.
The glowing star at the top flickers like it’s reconsidering its life choices.
Kind of like I am at the moment.
Mike’s bald little head pops out between two branches about twelve feet up, eyes wide and ears flat like an evil ornament.
Skippy, now untethered from pursuit but still in full panic, keeps running.
I drop to my knees just ahead of him. “Treat!”
His massive paws skid on the snow-dusted stage as he slams to a stop in front of me. Forgetting about the naked predator stalking, he snuffles my jacket, drooling onto my puffer coat with familiar affection.
“Hey, buddy.” I loop one arm under his chest and unfurl the other’s fist of crumbs. “You want a treat?”
They’re gone in one lick.
“I’ll get you more later.” I scratch under his chin with my newly slobbered hand. “A whole pie just for you, okay?”
Skippy gives me a full-body wiggle of agreement, his tail thumping against the snow like a drumroll. He’s still panting, his tongue flopping sideways, when something shifts overhead.
A twitch. A branch shakes.
I look up just in time to see Mike Hunt hurtling toward us like a hairless grenade.
I pull Skippy closer and brace for impact.
However, it doesn’t come in the form of a ten-pound cat, but rather a taller-than-average man in cashmere.
Jack, apparently having followed me, dives forward, arms outstretched like a wide receiver catching a Hail Mary pass made entirely of bad ideas.
The crowd gasps.
Jack’s city-boy loafers hit a pile of pine needles.
I curse.
And then everything happens at once.
“WOOF!”
“Fuck!”
“Meow!”
“What the—”
We’re a tangled mess of limbs, fur, puffer coat, and ornament carnage. Pine needles rain down like festive shrapnel.
There’s a long, stunned beat.
When my brain reboots, I find myself flat on my back, breath knocked out of me, and something heavy between my legs.
“Please tell me that was filmed,” Felix says from somewhere above, half-horrified, half-delighted.
“Do you see what I mean?” Eileen asks someone.
“Oh, yes,” a voice that oddly sounds like Amanda Willis answers. “You can count me in to help.”
Somewhere behind a tree limb, Elizabeth whispers, “Mayor Locke, I’ll cover the damage. All of it.”
But it all fades—because the weight between my thighs just shifted.
Jack Lourd, city-boy lawyer and expert whoopie pie salesman, pine needles tangled in his hair and a very grumpy, very naked cat clutched securely in his arms like a football made of vengeance, looks up at me from his eyes-to-my-chest vantage point.
“I caught him.” He drops his forehead to my shoulder. “But I think your dog broke my spleen.”
“He’s not my dog.”
“Well—” His laugh is low and winded. “For the record, this isn’t my cat.” He shifts, bracing himself, and it brings his hips snugly—very snugly—into contact with mine.
My brain stops functioning—completely.
Not because Jack Lourd is handsome. Well, not just because he’s handsome. I already knew that.
But what I didn’t know until this very second is that a man laughing while covered in tinsel and holding a pissed-off hairless cat as he’s pressed between my thighs like a holiday fever dream is my new kink.
Yeah. I’m gonna need a new set of ovaries.