Chapter 26
Chapter
Twenty-Six
The afternoon suncasts a warm glow over the pavilion, the earlier storm now nothing more than a memory. I”m fussing with our baking station, trying to push away the thoughts of this morning”s unexpected, electrifying kiss, when Morgan approaches. There”s a hesitant step in his walk, a contrast to his usual confident stride.
”Hey,” he starts, his voice laced with an unfamiliar awkwardness. In his hand, he holds a small, wrapped package, the kind that suggests careful thought rather than an obligatory gesture. He extends it towards me, a tentative peace offering. ”I got this for you. Just a little something to say... I”m sorry about this morning.”
I accept the gift, curious fingers peeling back the wrapping to reveal a beautifully crafted pastry brush. Its handle is engraved with an intricate wildflower design that instantly makes me think of the meadow. The brush is perfect, so thoughtfully chosen, and for a moment, I”m lost for words.
”It”s beautiful, Morgan, thank you,” I manage, my voice tinged with genuine appreciation. It’s shocking that he already knows me so well as to pick out the perfect gift.
Morgan shifts uncomfortably, his gaze not quite meeting mine. ”About earlier... I didn”t mean to unload on you like that. I guess I just got caught up in the moment,” he says, his tone apologetic yet firm.
I nod, understanding the unspoken message behind his words. The kiss, the shared confidences—they”re being neatly filed away under ”moments of weakness,” never to be revisited.
”I get it,” I reply, forcing a smile that doesn”t quite reach my eyes. ”We”re friends, and that”s what friends do, right? They support each other.”
Morgan smiles, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. ”Right. Friends.” But the word hangs between us, heavy with unspoken regret and the ghost of what might have been.
“Well, I better get to it,” I say.
“Absolutely. Good luck,” he replies, backing away.
As Morgan retreats over to where Iris and Gigi are sitting, Eliza leans in, her curiosity piqued. ”So, what was that all about?” she whispers, her gaze flickering between Morgan and me.
I shake my head, brushing off her suspicion. “Nothing, really. He was just being nice,” I say, showing her the intricate pastry brush Morgan gifted me.
“Uh-huh,” she replies. Eliza gives me a look that says she”s not entirely convinced but decides to let it go.
Our focus shifts back to the competition as the judges announce the next challenge—the chocolate round. My heart leaps; chocolate is my forte.
”I”ve got the perfect thing,” I say, excitement bubbling within me. ”Chocolate raspberry mocha cupcakes. They”re a hit every time.”
Eliza”s eyes light up. ”Ooh, tell me more,” she whispers.
I describe the rich dark chocolate cupcakes, the luscious raspberry mousse filling, and the hint of espresso that ties it all together.
“That sounds like perfection,” Eliza agrees. She taps her chin in thought. “I got it! What if we…wait…no.” She scrunches her nose and looks away.
“Wait, what were you going to say?” I probe.
“It’s probably a bad idea…”
“Maybe not. What is it?”
Eliza cleared her throat. ”I was going to say, what if we try another emotion charm? This one could make people feel like they”re in love when they bite into the cupcakes, but I don”t want to, you know...”
”You don”t want my emotions getting in the way again?” I finish for her.
”Right.” Eliza doesn”t meet my eyes, and that”s okay because right at that moment, I lock eyes with Morgan. He smiles, and damn him, despite what he says, he makes me feel things that are clearly NOT in the friend zone. If he keeps looking at me that way, I’ll have no problem being in the right head space for the recipe.
“I think that’s a great idea,” I reply firmly.
“Are you sure?” Eliza looks skeptical. It doesn’t help that we can hear Tomas flirting with another contestant behind us. He’s all, what are you doing after this? Want to decompress together? I feel like I owe it to the woman to tell her to run. But not right now. Right now, I nod confidently. ” I am. Promise. I”ll start whipping up the cake batter right this instant. I know this recipe by heart.”
”Then I”ll work on the spell.”
As I set to work on the cupcakes, every glance in Morgan”s direction fuels my determination. There”s something about the way he watches me, a mix of admiration and something deeper, that makes every stir, every pour, feel like a step closer to something magical. Even if it only means magical cupcakes right this minute, I’m good with that. That’s all I should be looking for.
The pavilion buzzes with anticipation and the rich aroma of chocolate. Iris and Gigi’s cheers blend with the sounds of the competition, but in my little bubble, it”s just me, the cupcakes, and the unspoken connection that seems to grow stronger with every passing moment. I”m in my element, and everything, from the blending of the frosting to the raspberry creme, feels like a piece of the happiness I”m beginning to find here in Mystic Hollow.
As the judges meander through the stations, their interest piqued by the myriad of scents and sights, I can”t help but eavesdrop on their conversations with the competitors. It”s all friendly and encouraging until they reach Tomas”s station. My ears perk up as I catch snippets of their exchange.
”...and the espresso really brings out the richness of the chocolate,” Tomas is saying, his voice oozing confidence. ”...and the raspberry adds just the right touch of tartness.”
I steal a glance back, seeing Gerard pipping raspberry cream into the center of chocolate cupcakes. I look down at the similar pipping bag I’m about to fill. With sickening clarity, I realize Tomas has replicated my recipe—my chocolate raspberry mocha cupcakes. The uniqueness of my creation, my secret weapon for this round, is now mirrored on his baking tray.
Panic sets in, a frenzied whisper in the back of my mind. How could this have happened? Did he overhear us? The unfairness of it all burns. I want to scream. Why does everyone keep stealing my recipes? And just like with Claudia, I can’t create a scene. I can’t confront Tomas and demand he make something else. I’m left with two choices: make identical desserts or pivot and fast.
Eliza senses the shift in my demeanor, furrowing her brow in concern. “What’s wrong?” she asks, her gaze following mine to where Tomas stands, basking in the judges” praise.
”He stole my recipe,” I hiss, the words tasting bitter. ”We have to change course.”
“What do you mean?” Eliza shakes her head.
“Look at their tray. Gerald is one step ahead of us, maybe two,” I say while surveying our ingredients and the time remaining on the clock. Every second is a reminder of the need for innovation, for a dessert that will not only impress but also stand apart from Tomas”s underhanded imitation.
Eliza stares at me and blinks, and I can tell she’s drawing a blank. I don’t blame her. The other teams have picked over the ingredients. We don’t have much to work with except for what we’ve already grabbed.
”What about this?” I throw out, grabbing a bottle of heavy whipping cream, only to second-guess myself a heartbeat later. From the corner of my eye, I catch a few onlookers whispering, their gazes flitting between us and the other contestants, adding pressure. “Ignore them,” Eliza mutters, her focus razor-sharp as she sifts through our options. “We”ve got this,” she reassures, but the weight of every speculative glance feels like a stone on my chest.
In a moment of inspiration, fueled by desperation and a touch of indignation, an idea sparks to life. ”What about a mocha raspberry chocolate layer cake? We can make a mocha filling with heavy cream and espresso powder and use the raspberries to make a compote with sugar and lemon juice,” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “Then maybe we could layer them?” I bite my lip, trying to visualize how it would all work out.
Eliza”s eyes light up, a grin spreading across her face. “Yes! And we can pour chocolate ganache on top! It’s brilliant!” she exclaims, already reaching for the necessary ingredients.
The transformation of our station is rapid, a whirlwind of activity as we dive into the creation of our new dessert. It”s a gamble, a shot in the dark, but it”s all we have. The tension is palpable, a thick fog of anticipation and anxiety that envelops us as we work.
The final moments tick away like the heartbeat of the competition itself, each second pulsing with the pressure of impending judgment.
We assemble the cake with seconds to spare. I plate one layer of cake, then spread a layer of mocha filling over it, then drizzle raspberry compote on top. Eliza repeats with a second layer. Once the cake is assembled, I pour the chocolate ganache over the top, allowing some to drip down the sides. Eliza decorates it with fresh raspberries and chocolate shavings. I wish we could pop in the fridge to set, but we are flat out of time.
“It looks great,” Eliza says, wiping her hands on her apron as the final second ticks by.
“You’re right, it does.” Yet, the knot in my stomach tightens as the judges make their final rounds, their expressions inscrutable.
I smile politely as the judges visit our station.
“And what do we have here?” Alberto inquires, his voice carrying a mix of authority and genuine interest. The room seems to hold its breath, awaiting our response.
I open my mouth to answer, but the words catch in my throat, tangled in a web of nerves. ”Um…uh…” I stammer, desperately trying to recall the dessert we’ve thrown together.
Eliza steps in with confidence. ”A mocha raspberry chocolate cake. It’s divine,” she announces, her voice steady and clear. The words hang in the air as we wait for the judges to sample our submission.
Simon and Miranda exchange a glance, their eyebrows arching in unison. ”Seems to be a popular flavor combination,” Miranda comments, her tone laced with a hint of amusement. Her words send a chill down my spine, and I resist the urge to cast a scornful look at Tomas.
The judges all take a small bite.
”The balance between the chocolate and mocha is commendable,” Alberto begins, his tone measured, reflecting the depth of his experience. ”However, the chocolate layer could benefit from a bit more moisture to truly elevate its richness.”
Miranda interjects with a nod of agreement. ”Yes, and while the raspberry compote adds a delightful tang, it slightly overwhelms the subtlety of the mocha. A lighter hand could bring out a more nuanced interplay between the fruit and coffee notes.”
Simon chimes in. ”The presentation is visually striking, a true feast for the eyes. However, the texture of the mocha filling could be smoother. It”s slightly grainy, which detracts from the overall experience.”
Alberto picks up the thread of the conversation, ”The charm, the surprise element at the end, was indeed a stroke of genius. It”s those creative risks that can set a dessert apart. It was a bold move, and it paid off.”
”What was that charm? It”s lovely,” Miranda inquires, her eyes sparkling with intrigue.
“A love charm. Young love, to be exact. The kind that takes you by unexpectedly,” Eliza replies.
As the judges ask Eliza more about the charm, I find myself absentmindedly nodding along, only half-listening. My attention is diverted the moment my gaze finds Morgan”s across the room. It”s like the background noise dims, the chatter and clinking of cutlery fading into a distant hum. There”s an unspoken conversation happening in that look, a connection that seems to draw us closer despite the physical space between us.
The intensity in his eyes is something I”ve never quite experienced before. It”s not just admiration or affection; it”s deeper, more profound. It feels like he”s not just looking at me, but seeing into me, recognizing parts of myself I”ve barely acknowledged. My heart flutters, an odd mix of nervousness and exhilaration swirling within.
Alberto’s voice cuts through our silent reverie, a gentle tease in his tone, ”Ah, yes. Well, it seems to be an effective charm.”
I blink and suddenly realize all eyes are on me. I quickly turn my attention back to the judges, my cheeks warming with a flush that I hope isn”t too noticeable. ”Thank you,” I manage to say, trying to sound more composed than I feel. I steal another glance at Morgan, and even from this distance, I can feel the attraction, the undeniable connection that seems to have woven itself between us.
Miranda, her expression softening, leans in with a conspiratorial whisper, ”In a competition such as this, it”s the bold moves, the unexpected twists, that linger in our memories. Your dessert has that potential. With a few refinements, it could truly be unforgettable.”
The judges exchange another glance, this time with nods of respect, as they move on to Shelly and Michael’s station.
“Do you think it’s good enough to get us to the final?” I whisper to Eliza.
“I honestly have no idea,” I confess, still slightly flustered from locking eyes with Morgan.
Ten minutes later, we’re called to the front of the stage for the results. I absolutely hate this part. I’m pretty sure I could participate in a thousand cooking competitions, and I’d hate the judging part every single time.
Alberto steps forward, his gaze sweeping over us. ”This round proved challenging, with many innovative dishes presented. However, two, in particular, stood out for their similarity,” he begins, casting a pointed look at our station and then Tomas”s.
A wave of whispers washes over the pavilion. I force myself to keep my eyes forward. If I don’t acknowledge Tomas, the similarities are a mere coincidence. Calling him out as a thief right now would hardly earn Eliza and me brownie points with the judges.
Alberto’s voice cuts through the tension. “While both teams presented dishes with remarkable flavors that truly embraced the theme, the similarities were… notable.” The pause that follows is electric, putting every contestant on edge.
It’s Miranda who speaks up. “After much deliberation,” she finally says, ”we”ve decided that both teams will advance to the final round. Congratulations to Eliza and Claire, and Tomas and Gerad.”
A collective exhale, a murmur of relief and disbelief, sweeps through the pavilion. Eliza and I immediately walk over to Shelly and Michael to wish them well as they exit the competition while Tomas and Gerad keep chest-bumping and high-fiving one another.
Returning to our station, Morgan, Iris, and Gigi approach, their faces alight with excitement. “That was impressive,” Morgan says, his voice washed with genuine pride.
“I don’t know why you have to sound so surprised,” Eliza says, bumping her brother with her shoulder.
Iris, leans in closer, lowering her voice. “What was that comment about the similarities all about?” she asks, her gaze darting between us and Tomas”s triumphant figure in the distance.
Eliza doesn”t hesitate. ”Tomas stole Claire”s original recipe. That”s why our dishes were so similar,” she explains with disbelief.
A flicker of anger passes through Morgan”s eyes, his jaw setting in a way that suggests he”s barely holding back.
“Why, that good for nothing, rotten snake!” Gigi hisses. Her hand dives into her cavernous purse, and I can”t help but wonder what she”s reaching for this time.
”No, don”t,” I quickly interject, my voice laced with a hint of amusement despite the tension. ”Well, not right here, anyway,” I add with a smile, imagining the myriad of possibilities Gigi”s purse might hold for a situation like this.
The last thing we need is to escalate things here, to give the judges any reason to disqualify us, no matter how much Tomas might deserve a taste of his own medicine. ”We”ll just have to be extra creative for the final,” I say, turning to Eliza with a determined look. ”Something completely original, something he can”t possibly replicate.”
Eliza nods, her expression mirroring my resolve.
Gigi replies with a mischievous wink, “Got it. Curse him when there aren’t as many witnesses,” her hand finally retreating from her purse.
Morgan locks eyes with Tomas, and neither one looks like they want to back down. As much as I love the thought of the hawk shifter putting my ex in his place, now is not the time.
I reach out and place my hand on Morgan’s forearm, pulling him out of his thoughts. “So…flight lesson. Tomorrow morning?” I ask with raised eyebrows.
Morgan isn’t quick to drop the staring contest with Tomas. But then again, I didn’t expect him to be. I squeeze his arm in a playful manner. That gets his attention. “Same time tomorrow morning?” I ask with a sweet smile, fully gaining his attention.
Morgan finally turns to me with a softened expression. The tension in his shoulders eases, and a genuine smile replaces the stern look that had settled on his face moments before. ”Tomorrow morning, it is,” he confirms, his voice carrying a warmth that instantly soothes the frayed edges of my nerves.
I let out a breath I didn”t realize I”d been holding, grateful for the distraction from the brewing storm between Morgan and Tomas. ”Great,” I reply, my smile widening. ”I”ll try not to fall out of any trees this time.”
Morgan chuckles, the sound rich and comforting. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there to catch you if you do,” he assures me, the promise in his eyes unwavering.
His words linger in the air, a blanket of security wrapping around me. There”s something reassuring about Morgan”s promise, a steadfastness that resonates deep within. I nod, feeling a surge of gratitude and, unexpectedly, a flicker of excitement for what tomorrow might bring.