5. Diaz
Diaz
“Welcome to Sleigh the Bake , television’s favorite holiday baking competition, where you have to whisk it for the biscuit.”
Penelope’s bright, polished voice rang through the renovated barn like she’d been born and raised under studio lights.
Honestly, she sort of had been.
The daughter of a daytime talk show host and a former soap opera actor, Penelope Hart had spent most of her life in front of a camera and the rest of it on the red carpet.
She was all megawatt smile and bouncy, blonde hair, both of which were big enough to deserve their own zip code.
A plaid maxi dress completed the look, the deep red and forest green pattern giving just enough Christmas spirit to (almost) make you forget we were filming in the middle of July, instead of December.
“I’m your host, Penelope Hart, and this season, we’re doing things a little bit differently.
” She turned toward the second camera without missing a beat.
“We asked you to nominate your favorite, cozy holiday destinations from across the country, and after going through thousands of submissions, one location rose to the top.”
She swept an arm dramatically toward the massive barn doors, where the Wallowa Mountains loomed in the distance.
“Welcome to Juniper Ridge Inn, nestled in the heart of Oregon’s breathtaking Grande Ronde Valley—a place so magical, our producers thought your letters had to be exaggerating.”
A few crew members laughed politely.
“Today marks the start of our three-day holiday baking extravaganza, and this year, we have three celebrity teams ready to sleigh—pun intended.”
To my left, a third camera glided forward on a wheeled rig, narrowly missing one of the production assistants.
Garland had been wrapped around every beam in sight while massive lights blazed down from the rafters, turning the old timber-framed space into something between a Hallmark movie set and a Christmas-themed nightmare.
Not my version of Christmas, but still.
Back home in Puerto Rico, the holiday looked a lot different. Heat shimmering off the pavement, parrandas rolling through the neighborhood at all hours, pasteles instead of pine and peppermint.
The only “white Christmas” I knew of was the one starring Bing Crosby.
“—but first, let’s meet our distinguished panel of judges.” Penelope gestured toward the three people seated behind the judges’ table. “From the world of edible art, it’s the master of sugar sculpture himself, Jin Kato.”
Jin stood to give a small, elegant bow. I might not know much about baking, but I had seen a handful of Jin’s videos on social media. The man could turn a bag of sugar into the Sistine Chapel.
“Next up,” Penelope continued. “She’s the self-proclaimed Queen of Knead and founder of Mandy B’s bakery empire. Let’s give it up for Miss Mandy Bickham.”
Mandy rose with a crisp, no-nonsense wave. She looked far too young to have already amassed a “baking empire”—early forties at most—with striking, electric-red hair cut in a bob that my sisters would 100% describe as “cunty.”
“That’s Lady Mandy Bickham, darling,” she corrected.
“Apologies, Your Ladyship,” Penelope said with a theatrical bow. “And finally, the woman who has built wedding cakes for four generations of celebrities, royalty, and everyone in between. Meet your head judge, Keira Von Hustenberg.”
Keira gave a regal nod, her silver-streaked hair pinned up like she was ready for battle.
Penelope beamed. “Now, teams, are you ready to sleigh the bake?”
The cameras panned across the six of us as we clapped our hands and smiled, some more so than others.
“Then, crumb on. Let’s get down to it.”
“Cut!”
The word echoed through the barn. Someone from production yelled for final touch-ups and a team of makeup artists swarmed us like bees.
I let out a long breath and rolled my shoulders, trying to shake off the nerves. Matty stood to my right, hands clasped in front of him. He looked calm on the outside, but I knew better.
To my left, former teen heartthrob turned film director, James Jarrett, silently scrolled his phone.
Salt-and-pepper stubble framed his jawline, the same jawline that used to make fifteen-year-old me squirm any time he came on screen. In fact, I was ashamed to admit that I had spent more than one night jerking it to a nearly nude picture of him that I’d torn out of my sister’s Teen Beat magazine.
Because baking alongside one man I had jerked off to wasn’t awkward enough. Now I was literally standing sandwiched between two of them.
Merry fucking Christmas (in July) to me.
James caught me looking and arched a brow. “First time on one of these?”
“Is it that obvious?” I replied with a crooked grin. “You?”
James exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. “Nah, I just wrapped Survival of the Fittest last month. Before that, it was House Hustle, and before that, Midnight Pantry.”
“Is that the one where you have to cook a meal using—”
“What you find in a college student’s fridge.” He shook his head. “But in my defense, I only do the shows I know my grandson can watch.”
I blinked. Grandson?
James Jarrett was only in his mid-forties, and he looked closer to his mid-thirties. The math wasn’t mathing.
“You have a grandson?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“Had my kid at twenty. He had his kid at twenty-one. Life comes at you fast.”
“Damn, I think I was still eating ramen packets at two a.m. when I was twenty.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m forty-six and I still eat ramen packets at two a.m.”
Nora Quinn leaned around James with a bright, knowing grin.
She was more than James’s baking partner; she was also the star of his upcoming sci-fi flick.
Her hair was the perfect shade of cotton candy pink, a stark contrast to the midnight-blue romper that hugged her body in all the right places and showed off one hell of a thigh tattoo.
“Don’t let him fool you,” she teased. “James pretends he’s too cool for shit like this, but the man cried when our casting director brought her Samoyed puppy to set.”
The old sap gritted his teeth. “I had something in my eye.”
“Sure you did.” Nora patted his arm affectionately, then turned her sparkling gaze on Matty. “Speaking of dogs, I’m in love with yours. I totally social media stalked you and your weenie queenie last night. Is she going to be on the team calendar, too? I preordered three copies.”
Matty blinked, clearly caught off guard. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning when his ears went pink.
“Oh, um—”
“I’m not hitting on you, I promise.”
She pulled a phone out of pocket and turned it around to show off the lock screen, a photo of her, a hot, redheaded dude, and a chocolate-brown dachshund sandwiched between them.
“My fiancé, Bowie, is also a dachshund daddy," she explained, talking a mile a minute. "Her name is Banger, and she’s a menace to our vegetable garden. We should totally set up a doggy playdate sometime. You know, next time you’re in L.A.”
Matty managed a small, nervous laugh. “Sure. That’d be . . . fun.”
He made it sound like a fucking death sentence.
My attention drifted to the third set of competitors, Colt and Mila Yang. They were quietly bickering on the other side of Matty while the makeup team touched up Mila’s lipstick.
Typical sibling dynamic.
Colt was tall and lean with shoulder-length, black hair he had tied back into a messy half-bun. Between the hair and the leather cuffs circling his wrists, he had that classic, effortless vibe that screamed “rock star.”
His sister was shorter but no less striking. Sharp cheekbones, blunt bangs, and winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. From what I had learned during last night’s welcome dinner, Mila was an internet personality, one who had skyrocketed to fame with her makeup tutorials and bad dating stories.
I had a feeling they were either going to be our biggest competition . . . or the ones who burned the place down.
“Sixty seconds to places.”
We were all still lined up at the front of the barn, standing shoulder to shoulder mere feet from the judges’ table. Matty was ramrod straight beside me, his jaw clenched so hard I was surprised he hadn’t cracked a molar.
I hadn’t seen him wound this tight since our last trip to the World Series.
“Breathe, Alabama,” I whispered, keeping my voice low.
His eyes flicked toward me. “I’m fine.”
“It’s cookies, mi pana. Not the fucking firing squad.”
He let out a short, frustrated sigh. “I’m nervous, okay? I don’t want to mess up and embarrass the team. And you—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t help that you’re just standing there, cool as a cucumber. Some of us can’t just charm our way through everything.”
I felt the smile slip off my face before I could stop it.
For a second, I couldn’t even breathe right. That one hurt more than expected, mostly because there was some truth to his words. I did charm my way out of a lot of shit.
It was easier than letting people see the real me.
Before I could come up with a response, the lights flared back to full power.
“And we’re back in three . . . two . . . one.”
Penelope lit up like a Christmas tree.
“And just like that, it’s time for our first challenge—the Naughty and Nice Bite. Each team must create at least two different kinds of cookies and two dozen cookies in total. On top of that, your cookies must be served up in an exquisite gift box made entirely of, you guessed it, cookie.”
“We’ll be looking for variety and personality,” Keira added. “Your presentation should look like something you’d be proud to serve up this holiday season.”
“Thank you, Keira.” It took everything in me to remain calm when Penelope’s eyes landed on me. “What do you say, boys? Think you can knock this one out of the ballpark?”
The camera swung in our direction. I flashed a sideways smile, the one I usually saved for post-game interviews.
“Si, Penelope. My teammate here wants to play it safe with his grandmother’s award-winning recipes, but thankfully, he has me to add a little bit of spice to every bite.”
Matty shot me a look. “Not everyone likes spice, Peter.”
My smile grew when he all but spat out my name.
“Then they don’t know what they’re missing,” I told him, punctuating it with a wink for the camera.
Penelope laughed, delighted. “You two argue like an old married couple. I’m sure we all can’t wait to see where this goes.”
Matty’s ears went pink. The color was nearly the same shade as the tips of his strawberry-blond curls when the sun hit them just right.
Hmm, I wonder how far down that blush goes . . .
“Bakers, please head to your stations.”
Penelope’s words snapped me out of my daydream.
All six of us broke formation and moved toward our assigned spots. Matty walked ahead of me, looking especially tall and lean in his fitted, green button-down and dark-wash jeans.
He was a braver man than I was. I sweat like a pig, and the July heat only made it worse. I had opted for a loose T-shirt and cotton shorts.
James and Nora took the workstation opposite us, while Colt and Mila opted for the one at the front of the room. The long wooden counter was already stocked for our bake, the overhead lights gleaming off stainless-steel mixers and neatly arranged ingredients.
Matty set his hands on the counter, still visibly tense.
I bumped his elbow lightly. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve had anxiety shits all morning.”
The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.
“Bakers, you have ninety minutes to create your cookie boxes,” Penelope announced. “Ready, set . . . sleigh the bake!”
The timer started counting down on the big screens.
Ninety minutes, two dozen cookies.
Game on.