Chapter 11 Off-Script
OFF-SCRIPT
Jack
The second whistle blows, and suddenly it feels like I’ve stepped into an entirely different competition.
Same table. Same gingerbread mansion. Same sugar-fueled crowd buzzing all around us. But Audrey? She’s not the same woman who barked orders at me for the first hour like Gordon Ramsay on a peppermint bender.
Something’s shifted.
“What do you think?” She holds a jar of candy canes in one hand and gumdrops in the other.
I blink, sure I misheard her. “You’re asking me?”
“Yes, you.” A laugh slips out of her, quick and real, like it escaped before she could stop it. “Don’t look so surprised.” She rattles the candies. “Candy canes or gumdrops?”
“Candy canes.” I draw out my answer, trying to figure out who flipped Audrey Nouel’s switch and how.
She nods like I’ve passed a test and presses one into place, the peppermint gleaming against the white icing. Then, without fanfare, she nudges the piping bag into my hands. “Your turn.”
I look at her, waiting for the punch line. “My turn for what?”
“For the boathouse dock.” She motions to the bare gingerbread slab jutting out like a pier. “You’re in charge of the boat.”
I almost laugh, convinced she’s messing with me. But when she continues to stare at me expectantly, the amusement fades to confusion. “You trust me with that?”
The same Audrey who nearly came unglued when I piped an uneven line of icing that would be hidden inside the house, lifts her shoulders with a shrug.
“Why not? You’ve got good hands.” She says it lightly, like she’s talking about my penmanship, but something in her voice takes me back to her apartment, our Christmas tree and last night’s kiss.
I clear my throat and dirty mind, worried I might inadvertently start competing with the candy canes for the stiffest line at the table. “Okay then.”
I start slapping gingerbread slabs together with icing mortar, fashioning something vaguely resembling a skiff.
My “boat” looks about as seaworthy as a shoebox, but Audrey’s not correcting, not critiquing, just steadies the bowl of icing when I reach for it or slides a gumdrop across the table without a word.
And when one of my licorice railings sags sideways, she snorts. Snorts.
“Don’t laugh,” I protest, trying to right it, but she’s already shaking with laughter, her hair falling over her shoulder.
“It’s charming,” she insists, eyes bright. “Authentic.” She dabs a fingertip in a blob of icing stuck to the back of my hand before it can slide onto our masterpiece. “Hideaway boats are supposed to look a little weathered.”
Her touch lingers for a beat too long on the edge of my knuckle before pulling back, eyes on the gingerbread like nothing happened.
Every time I fumble—licorice railings sagging, candy oars tilting—she covers the mistake with a sprinkle of sugar or a swirl of frosting, smoothing over my flaws like she’s been doing it forever.
And each time, her mouth curves in that restrained little smile, the one that tells me she’s enjoying this more than she’ll admit out loud.
Together we add a sheet of blue sugar glass for the “water,” the boat perched at the dock with a gummy fish leaping beside it. She anchors it with icing ropes while I pipe snowdrifts along the dock.
It doesn’t look as professional as Audrey’s painstakingly designed blueprint. But it looks… alive. Joyful.
I glance at her, hair slipping loose from her braid, face glowing in the warm overhead lights. She catches me staring, but instead of looking away, she stares back, smiling.
Someone across the room laughs, drawing her attention for a moment. When she looks back, her eyes are wide, her brows lifted. Hopeful. “Are you having fun?”
She has no idea.
“Big time.” My smile feels unnaturally large.
Somewhere between straight candy-cane railings and my sad gingerbread dinghy, it became less about supporting her and more about us spending time together.
And damn if I don’t want more.
Audrey
“We’ve got this.” Jack nudges his shoulder against mine, his cadet-straight posture comically at odds with the powdered sugar streaking his Henley.
Our mansion stands tall behind us as Jack and I—and all the teams—line up at the front of the community center with their builds displayed.
I may not agree with Jack’s certainty about winning the showcase, but even so, I nudge him back. “Yeah.” We share a smile that lasts a beat longer than friendly.
His eyes drop to my lips, and I—
“Testing.”
A nervous energy zings through me as Eileen taps the microphone.
But it isn’t about the competition. It’s about what I’ve been secretly planning to do with Jack after the competition.
To show him just how much I appreciate him.
For today, the past weeks at Making Whoopie, and last night in my apartment.
“Ladies and gentlemen, bakers and builders,” she begins, her voice carrying easily over the crowd, “what a Showcase this has been. I’ve seen gumdrop gardens, peppermint porches, chocolate chimneys, and one questionable jellybean outhouse.
” The crowd chuckles, and Eileen grins. “And I can honestly say this year’s creativity and teamwork has outdone them all. ”
She sweeps her arm toward the lineup of houses. “Now some of you will be leaving with ribbons today, and some with nothing more than a sugar hangover and sticky fingers. But every single one of you is taking home something sweeter—memories made right here in Hideaway Harbor.”
Eileen’s gaze lands on me, holding for a second before moving along.
“As for the prizes: first, second and third place winners will each receive gift certificates to the community center, good toward registration fees for spring sports and classes.” She pauses.
“And exclusive to our first place champions is their picture in Hideaway’s very own Almanac, and”—she draws it out, eyes sparkling—“in the Bangor regional paper, the Bangor Daily Chronicle.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd at the mention of the regional coverage. My pulse kicks up a notch.
I glance back at our mansion, standing tall with candy-cane columns, a winding gumdrop path, and Jack’s gingerbread boat bobbing off its licorice dock. It looks impressive.
But not perfect. Not the polished replica I envisioned in my carefully drafted blueprints. The kind of thing I never would’ve submitted when perfection was the only acceptable outcome.
Even so, I’ve never loved anything I made more.
Eileen hands over the microphone to Portia, whose vibrantly colored hair and tinsel extensions catch the overhead lights. Amanda, usually glued to her side, has slipped away so as not to upstage the competitors.
Portia smiles at the crowd, the hand holding the microphone stacked in a multitude of candy bracelets. “I’ll start with the honorable mention for most creative concept…”
I take Jack’s hand in mine.
Startled, he looks down at our hands before frowning at me. “You okay?” he whispers out the side of his mouth, trying not to draw attention.
Portia drones through the early awards.
Trying not to let the sudden rush of emotion show, I wink at him. “Win or lose, I had a great time with you today.”
That shocks him more than me holding his hand. “Yeah.” His posture loosens, shoulders relaxing as he twists toward me. “Me too.”
“And not just today.” I hesitate, then push through. “Every day since you arrived has been great. Fun, even.”
Jack arches a brow, disbelief tugging at his mouth. “Even the first day?”
I chuckle quietly. “Well, maybe not that first day.”
“Even last night?” His grin tilts, more sin than humor, his eyes locking on mine.
The room gets warmer.
“Yeah.” I squeeze his hand. “Even last—”
“Team Whoopie!” Portia’s shout reverberates across the community center, slicing through the moment.
For a second, it doesn’t even register. But then cheers erupt, claps echo off the rafters, and Eileen bustles toward us with the blue ribbon.
I won.
I actually won.
Jack engulfs me in a hug, his warmth crashing into the high already flooding my veins.
No—I squeeze him tighter—we won.
Joy bursts through me, impossible to contain, and I bounce in his arms like a cork popping free.
Not just because the Almanac photographer is on his way, or because the Bangor Daily Chronicle will run my bakery’s name for all of southern Maine to see—including the bakery that tried to steal it. And not just because it’s another notch of prestige to wave in my mother’s face.
It’s about more than that. About letting go. About joy without ROI.
I step back to accept the ribbon Eileen hands me. Jack bows extravagantly like he’s just accepted a Tony Award, making me roll my eyes so hard I lose my balance. Grinning, I shift toward him—straight into his chest.
“Careful.” Jack steadies me, his hand firm on my elbow. But it’s too late.
My Crocs betray me.
One sole catches on the custom charms I ordered on Etsy. Rubber catches on rubber, and I stutter-step backward, apron strings tangling around my legs.
I stumble—hard.
Jack grabs for me, but the skid-resistant Croc shall not be moved, and together we topple.
Backwards.
Right into our award-winning gingerbread mansion.
The destruction is spectacular. Glorious. Cinematic, even.
And while normally no one falling into rubble could note the details, I’m blessed—cursed?
—with an out-of-body experience enabling me to home in on every second of destruction: the foam board platform giving way under my elbow, an earthquake-like crack in the zigzagging beneath the mansion, the front wall collapsing, the gumdrops sinking into the fissure.
Jack hits the table next, the jolt collapsing the roof, frosting shattering like snow in slow motion. His lovingly constructed gingerbread boat catapults into the air, arching beneath the fluorescent lights like Icarus’ doomed wings flying too close to the sun.
Powdered sugar, blue Pop Rocks, and candy cane shards explode upward like fireworks, coating us—and everyone within five feet—in sweet broken debris.
Jack and I land with a thud, the platform cleaving in two, remnants of our masterpiece sliding in on us like a candy avalanche.
The entire room goes silent.
Blinking past the sugar mist, my eyes land on the Bangor photographer, camera frozen midair, mouth wide open.
A kid in the audience pauses mid-bite, cheeks bulging with contraband gumdrops.
Portia and Eileen stand frozen, clipboards dangling uselessly at their sides.
Jack’s arms are still around me, cushioning my fall. He stares down at me, eyes wide, sugar dusting his stubble—horror etched deeper than the day he accidentally became Blitzen’s side-piece.
No one moves. No one breathes. As if they’re all waiting for my cue.
Waiting for the pressure bubbling up inside me to erupt onto the stunned silence.
And yet even with the full impact of what happened sinking in, what overflows isn’t tears or anger.
It’s laughter.
It breaks free, sharp and loud, until my head is tipped back against the boathouse rubble, my braid tangled in licorice ropes.
Jack’s horrified expression cracks into a grin, and his laugh joins mine—low at first, then rich and unrestrained.
That’s all it takes.
The crowd erupts. Giggles from kids, chuckles from parents, a full belly laugh from Portia that rings over the loudspeaker.
Our masterpiece is rubble, but the joy is intact. Maybe more than intact—it’s doubled.
And for the first time in my life, losing doesn’t feel like losing at all.