Chapter 10 Half-Baked #2
The whistle shrieks, and the whole room surges with energy—bowls rattling, kids shrieking, couples elbowing each other over gumdrops.
I brace myself for having to waste time incorporating Jack into my carefully planned strategy.
But instead, he rolls his shoulders back, squeezes the piping bag once to test the flow, and gives me a sharp nod like he’s reporting for duty. “Walls first?”
“Yes.” Relief loosens my spine, and I’m suddenly extremely thankful for Jack inserting himself into my gingerbread competition prep this past week, even if it was just in between mooching off my Wi-Fi and juggling Hollywood emails.
He crouches to eye level with the slab, his hands rock-solid as he pipes a line of icing, while mine tremble slightly as I join the edges. The wall seals tightly, cleaner than if I’d done it alone.
“Next?” he prompts, calm and focused, and damn if my chest doesn’t squeeze.
I grab the next rectangle of perfectly baked gingerbread from my prep line-up. “Other wall.”
Piece by piece, we fall into a rhythm. I direct, he executes.
His piping is deliberate, his hands surprisingly deft for someone who spends most of his life with contracts instead of confections.
Every so often he throws me a glance, like he’s checking to see if I approve, and each time I have to swallow the ridiculous urge to tell him he could proudly add baker’s assistant to his résumé—and that he’s the best I’ve ever had.
Even at the Ritz, with properly trained assistants, I never felt as relaxed as I do with Jack by my side. He doesn’t try to outshine me or sneak in his own flair—he just… supports.
And for the first forty-five minutes of the competition, I give orders like a drill sergeant at the gingerbread Olympics, and Jack steadily complies.
By the time the halfway whistle blows, our house structure is standing tall. Undecorated, but with the hardest part behind us. For the first time since I overslept this morning, my shoulders unclench, my breath sliding out in something close to relief.
Letting out a sigh, Jack sits back in one of the chairs we’ve been given and scratches his neck while I circle our table like a building inspector with a clipboard.
“When they blow the whistle to start again, we’ll install the candy cane porch columns, followed by the gumdrop pathway.
” Moving to the cart, I double-check that I have all the required candy lined up in the correct order to mirror my instructions.
“We’ll leave the roof shingles for last to make sure the icing has time to fully cure so the roof can bear the weight. ”
“That sounds like a well-thought-out plan.” Portia, owner of the Sweetest Thing Candy Shop, stops by our table, Amanda Willis behind her.
“Oh, hey.” I straighten to attention, my old days of competing in international showcases coming back to me. “Thank you, judge.”
Portia rolls her eyes. “Thank you, judge? Really, Audrey?”
“Sorry.” I shrug, feeling sillier than I’d like. “I guess old habits are hard to break.”
“Yes, well, break this one. It feels weird for a friend to be so formal.”
Friend. Yes, I guess Portia and I are friends. I feel guilty even having to second-guess that. Portia has always been someone I can talk to since I moved to Hideaway. It started with me using her candy in my creations, and now sometimes when we talk, work doesn’t even come up.
Have I really been so busy that I haven’t noticed?
“Jack, what’s with the stiff shoulders?” Amanda whacks her agent on the back. “You getting old on me?”
“Nah.” Jack laughs, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes or smooth out the pinch between his brows. “Just making sure I don’t screw things up for Audrey.”
Heat hits my cheeks hard and fast, the truth sinking in—I’ve been less festive teammate and more sprinkle drill sergeant.
“Well, aren’t you the considerate one.” Amanda laughs, hers more natural. “Though I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” She gestures to our gingerbread compound. “No one else has gone this big or looks this perfect.”
I follow her hand, for the first time taking in the other tables.
And while Amanda is right—ours is the biggest and most professional looking—there’s something everyone else has that mine lacks: fun.
Across from us, a teenage girl fist-bumps her dad over their slightly cockeyed gingerbread lighthouse.
Next to them, a young married couple smear frosting on each other’s noses like it’s cake at their wedding.
And to our left, two women from the local garden club play rock-paper-scissors to decide the color of Pop Rocks for their gingerbread mulch.
All of them are smiling. None of them are worried about perfection.
“Get ready to restart in five minutes!” Eileen shouts from the loudspeaker at the front of the community center.
“I need to look at the other tables.” Portia hurries off, but Amanda stays.
Jack gets up. “I’m going to run to the restroom.” He glances at the clock. “Or should I not chance it?”
If everyone around me smiling and laughing wasn’t enough to knock some sense into me about how over-the-top I was being, the fact that Jack would worry about inconveniencing me enough to not use the bathroom does.
“Go.” I point him in the right direction. “No need to rush. It’s fine.”
He looks startled at that last word. “Okay.” He takes two steps and stops. “I’ll be right back, promise.” Then he jogs off.
“Talk about not wanting to leave your side.” Amanda snorts. “Sheesh. He’s got it bad.”
I blink once, trying to decode her meaning. “Got what bad?”
“His thing.” Amanda looks at me quizzically. “For you.”
“I’m sorry?” My fingers worry the hem of my chef’s coat.
“Girl.” Amanda tilts her head and gives me the look only best friends and exasperated older sisters perfect. “It’s pretty obvious.”
“What are you talking about?” Unless she knows about the kiss—and even then, I don’t think anything is obvious.
Amanda gives me the universal duh look. “Uh… he hasn’t left your side since we got to Hideaway.”
Not meeting her eyes, I rearrange my perfectly straight lines of edible glitter by color. “I hired him to take care of a legal issue for me.”
Her brows climb. “You did?”
“Yeah.” I flick a crumb off the table, as if that settles it. “And in return for payment, I let him use my Wi-Fi.”
Amanda snorts sharp and disbelieving, making a couple kids at the next table glance over. “He doesn’t need your Wi-Fi.”
My pulse hiccups. “He doesn’t?”
“Ah, no.” She taps her chin, thinking it over. “Well, maybe in the first few days, before the Ethernet cable he ordered arrived. But he’s had that for ages. He’s always working when he gets home from the bakery—in his room, what with Los Angeles being a few hours behind us.”
“Oh.” The sound around me thins, like all the oxygen’s been pulled out of the community center.
The time difference. I’d completely forgotten about that.
“Then why did he always show up right when the bakery opened if people were still sleeping in LA?”
Amanda cocks a hip, looking at me as if I asked why water is wet. “Seriously?”
Portia laughs at something Eileen says at the front of the room, drawing Amanda’s attention—and softening her gaze.
I’d be interested in that detail if I wasn’t still trying to work out what she just told me.
“Got to go be an epic judge sidekick.” Amanda winks at me. “Wish me luck.”
And I know she’s asking for more than just luck with judging. “Good luck.”
“You too.” And I know we both mean more than just luck with the gingerbread competition.
She saunters away, passing Jack as he jogs down the aisle toward our table.
He pulls up short at my look and checks his watch. “I made it, right?”
“Yes.” The word catches, and I clear my throat. “Plenty of time.”
“One minute!” Eileen bellows, causing teams to resettle around their tables.
“Hey.” Jack drops a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?” He glances behind him at my perfectly proportioned and executed gingerbread mansion with unattached boathouse. “I didn’t mess anything up, did I?”
“No.” I shake my head hard, for some reason finding it difficult to get the words out. “You did great.”
His chest puffs out, looking surprised but pleased. “Yeah.”
“Yeah.” I laugh, the escaping air loosening something else inside me. “Totally.”