Chapter 10 Half-Baked
HALF-BAKED
Audrey
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
The words—on endless replay since last night’s kiss with Jack ended far too soon—are still beating against my skull harder than the Christmas carols blasting from the community center’s loudspeakers.
Only now they’re accompanied by the fact that I’m flustered, frazzled, and at least two gumdrops short of looking put-together.
Which is not how I wanted to show up for the gingerbread competition.
But this morning? I overslept. After spending half the night tossing and turning in bed, replaying a kiss I should’ve filed under one-and-done but instead kept analyzing from every conceivable angle.
And much to my dismay, fantasizing about how I wish the kiss would’ve ended— as in not until we were both naked and his Christmas playlist went on repeat—didn’t do anything to cool my downtown ovens, so to speak.
The result of my overactive imagination and unhelpful lusting? Puffy eyes, bedhead barely wrestled into a braid, and a heart and mind about to emotionally and physically collapse—especially after what one of the competition judges, Eileen Burrows, just told me.
“I’m sorry, what?” I blink at her as she smiles at me from behind the sign-in table, pen poised like she’s orchestrating a wedding rather than a bake-off.
“I could’ve sworn I told you, dear.” She frowns, but I swear there’s mischief in her eyes.
Taking a deep breath, I glance down the row of tables set up for the showdown, each one loaded with gingerbread slabs, piping bags, and more gumdrops than a dentist’s worst nightmare.
Every team is neatly paired off—husbands and wives, siblings, parent-and-kid duos.
All bright-eyed, sugar-hyped, and grinning like this is the most fun they’ll have all season.
Everyone except… me.
Because no. Eileen most definitely did not tell me about the partner requirement.
But arguing with Eileen Burrows is like arguing with Santa Claus—even if you win, you lose.
So instead of protesting, I paste on a polite smile, hoping it hides the flush creeping up my neck. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”
Eileen, cheeks rosy and Christmas tree brooch winking under the fluorescent lights, taps her pen on the clipboard. “I thought that might be the case when I was double-checking the sign-ups this morning.” She beams and makes a dramatic flourish next to my name. “So I arranged a partner for you.”
My stomach sinks. “A… partner?” I squint hard, trying to read her looping scrawl upside down.
“Mm-hm.” Eileen extends her arm, covering the clipboard, and pats my hand as though she’s bestowing a blessing from the love gods themselves. “Such a perfect fit, you’ll see.”
And right on cue, a familiar voice rumbles behind me.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
I freeze. My spine locks up, my braid feels too tight, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure the heat flooding my cheeks could melt my entire gumdrop stash.
Slowly, I turn.
And there he is. Jack Lourd in a Henley that clings to his chest in ways no fabric has a right to, dark stubble shadowing the jaw I’d spent half the night imagining beneath my lips.
He looks maddeningly awake, maddeningly put together, and not at all like a man who should have the power to unravel me in front of half the town.
My oh-my-gods multiply.
Eileen clasps her hands together like a fairy godmother who’s just orchestrated the ball. “Perfect,” she announces to no one in particular—except the hundred or so Hideaway residents already sneaking glances our way.
Perfect?
I want to argue. To insist this is the opposite of perfect. That I don’t need a partner—especially not this partner—to get through the competition.
But Jack’s gaze catches mine, a flicker of amusement in his eyes that tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking. And worse, he looks like he’s enjoying it.
“The competition will be in two forty-five-minute parts with a ten-minute break in-between.”
Eileen hands us our name badges—Team Whoopie—written above them. “Good luck!”
Jack
I almost didn’t come.
After the way Audrey shooed me out the door last night, showing up at a gingerbread free-for-all seemed like a surefire way to dig myself deeper into whatever hole I’m already in.
But then Eileen Burrows—the same woman who runs a matchmaking empire out of a coffee shop and thinks she can strong-arm anyone with a latte—called my room at The Haven while I was briefs-deep in legal research over my potential client’s movie deal, whose deadline suddenly got pushed up.
Eileen’s message was clear: Show up at the community center now or Audrey would have to forfeit the competition.
And apparently not all lawyers are complete bastards because I came.
Not that I should’ve been surprised to learn Audrey wasn’t the one who signed me up as her partner. I overheard Eileen at the sign-in desk, cheerfully announcing she had “solved Audrey’s problem.”
But instead of irritated, I find myself… relieved.
Because Audrey Nouel—James Beard winner, Michelin darling, bakery owner with frosting in her veins—looks flustered. Not polished. Not untouchable. But cheeks pink, hair askew, eyes wide as she realizes she’s been cornered.
And if the look on her face is anything to go by, she wasn’t as unaffected by our kiss last night as she wanted me to believe when I took that phone call.
The call that took longer than I’d expected. The one that made the opportunity in LA so sweet it should’ve had me salivating.
And yet all I felt was annoyed—at it costing me an opportunity with Audrey.
Now standing here with a ‘Jack’ name tag to slap on my cashmere Henley, I can’t help thinking maybe this competition is my shot at getting a do-over.
“You two better hurry,” Eileen chirps, practically glowing with matchmaking glee. “The competition is about to begin.”
Audrey mutters something that sounds suspiciously like fuck it under her breath and grips the handle of her supply wagon like she’s about to march into battle.
I fall into step behind her because apparently that’s my role now—back-up gingerbread grunt. She yanks the wagon forward, but the thing wobbles and squeaks like it’s carrying bricks instead of flour and candy.
I plant a hand on the back of the cart and give it a shove. The load jerks forward, suddenly lighter, and she shoots me a startled look over her shoulder—braid swinging, cheeks pinker, looking equal parts flustered and furious.
“Relax,” I murmur, thinking that I’ve somehow been elbowed into a domestic fantasy I didn’t know I wanted. “I’m only here to keep the wagon from collapsing before the house does.”
The corner of her mouth twitches—half annoyance, half amusement—but she says nothing and lets me push the wagon. I count that as a win.
On our journey down the hall, people wave and call hellos to Audrey, who acknowledges with a nod but not much else. It’s like she’s already in battle mode.
I’m more than a little surprised when a few townspeople call out to me by name. I guess selling most of these people pies for the past week has made me more than Amanda Willis’ agent or Skippy’s dogwalker. I make sure to wave back with the hand not pushing the cart.
When we finally reach our assigned table, Audrey begins lining up supplies with the precision of a military general. Piping bags, candy bowls, sheets of gingerbread—all squared up, symmetrical, and waiting for her command.
“Do not touch anything until I tell you.” Still squaring bowls and piping bags, she doesn’t so much as spare me a glance.
I raise both hands in surrender. “Scout’s honor.”
She finally glances up, one brow arched. “I highly doubt you were ever a scout.”
She’s not wrong. But if she thinks I’m above sneaking a Red Hot the moment her back’s turned to get her to lighten up, she doesn’t know me at all.
I slide one from the bowl, pop it into my mouth, and bite down with exaggerated satisfaction.
Her head jerks at the sound, hair lashing around like a whip. “Are you serious right now?”
I grin, sugar and spice sticking to my tongue. “Just a little quality control.”
Her brows are still pinched, but I swear the corner of her lips soften. But before she can reprimand me or smile, a voice booms through the microphone at the front of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls—welcome to the Annual Hideaway Gingerbread Showdown!”
The crowd cheers, a mix of holiday sweaters and Santa hats bouncing as people clap. The energy is almost electric, festive chaos pressing in on all sides.
The announcer continues, “You’ll have two hours to create the most spectacular gingerbread structure you can dream up. Houses, castles, cathedrals—we’ve seen it all. Remember: teamwork makes the dream work!”
Audrey exhales like she’s about to enter the Hunger Games, then smooths a hand down the front of her pastry chef coat.
For a second, with her black slacks hugging her legs in a way that doesn’t feel regulation uniform and her eyes gleaming with deadly pastry intent, I forget that this is supposed to be a gingerbread competition and not a seductive gladiatorial combat demonstration.
The countdown begins. Ten, nine, eight…
She grips a piping bag and thrusts it at me like a weapon. “Don’t squeeze until I tell you to.”
I take it, resisting the urge to say ‘Yes, chef,’ and bump her with my shoulder. “You got this, Audrey.”
My sincerity catches her off-guard, and her eyes hold mine.
For a split second, I swear she’s remembering what happened the last time we were this close—that kiss, the one that’s been replaying in my head ever since.
Her mouth opens, then snaps shut. She turns back to the gingerbread slabs like they’re the only things that matter.
Three, two, one—
The whistle blows, and Audrey immediately gets to work, hands flying. Meanwhile, I’m still holding the piping bag like it’s a loaded gun and wondering if frosting someone’s apron counts as contempt of cake.
Audrey