8. Matty
Matty
If possible, the barn looked even more magical than yesterday. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching on the twinkling fairy lights strung across the rafters and turning the massive wreaths on the walls into living things.
Outside the open barn doors, the Wallowa Mountains rose sharp and snow-dusted—even in the dead of summer—against a brilliant blue sky, the valley below a patchwork of green meadows and golden fields.
It was the kind of view that belonged on a postcard, the perfect backdrop for a holiday baking show.
Too bad we were on the ho-ho-highway to hell.
We were in the same outfits as yesterday, though apparently, that had less to do with psychological warfare and everything to do with filming continuity. Whichever poor production assistant had laundered and pressed my sweat-soaked button-down deserved a massive bonus.
Hollywood magic, ladies and gentlemen.
As it turned out, the “magic” in question was just industrial-strength detergent that sort of smelled like . . . lilac?
“Bakers, it’s time for round two of the competition, the dreaded Claus and Effect challenge,” Penelope called out, her voice merry and bright.
Lord almighty.
I was one holiday pun away from committing hara-kiri with the sharpened end of a candy cane.
“As a reminder, this is a blind bake, which means the only thing the judges will have to go on are your technical skills. Precision, texture, and flavor are everything. Are you ready to find out what you’ll be making?”
“Please say protein pancakes,” Diaz muttered, crossing his fingers. “Please say protein pancakes.”
A series of excited whoops and hollers rang out from the rest of the contestants. I gave a half-hearted smile and double fist pump.
“Today’s bake is a delicious pavlova wreath.”
Annnd, there goes my smile.
Colt’s hand shot up. “Question, what does this have to do with dogs?”
Penelope arched a brow. “Dogs?”
“You know, Pavlova’s dog.”
“That’s Pavlov,” Mila grumbled, elbowing her brother.
Colt frowned. “Who?”
“Pavlov. The Russian dog scientist guy.”
Silence.
“He was a scientist for Russian dogs?”
Nora snorted loudly from behind her station and then rushed to cover it up with an exaggerated cough. Beside her, James pinched the bridge of his nose like he’d suddenly realized he was the oldest person in a twenty-foot radius.
“Rest assured,” Penelope went on, skirting the argument. “This is a dog-free bake. And with that, I’ll turn it over to Keira.”
Keira Von Hustenberg took her place beside Penelope, elegant as ever in the same crisp white blouse and tailored black trousers she’d had on yesterday. She had a calm, authoritative presence that reminded me of my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. O’Shea.
I’d always liked Mrs. O’Shea. Despite her intimidating appearance, she’d given out full-sized candy bars on Halloween.
“A well-baked pavlova should have a crisp meringue base and a soft, pillowy interior,” Keira explained. “Texture is key. The wreath should be elegantly decorated with fresh fruit, whipped cream, and any festive touches you like. Best of luck to you all.”
I could kind of picture it in my head. After signing on to Sleigh the Bake, the first thing I’d done was binge every available episode from the previous seasons.
In addition, I’d spent hours scrolling through past contestants’ social media accounts, reading comments, watching behind-the-scenes clips, and making mental notes on what the judges praised and what got ripped apart.
I hadn’t come here to fuck around.
I’d come to make meringue my bitch.
Respectfully, of course.
“Please tell me you know what meringue is,” Diaz whispered, leaning in close enough that I caught the faint scent of his soap.
“I know what meringue is.”
“Thank fuck.” He shook his head before adding, “And you call me a nerd.”
I huffed a quiet laugh, but my focus had already drifted elsewhere.
Specifically, to the memory of waking up in Peter Diaz’s arms. Silly me for thinking that my adorable, albeit gassy as hell dog might create a barrier between us.
Some good she had done.
I’d woken to the weight of Diaz’s arm draped across my waist like it was the most natural thing in the world, and his hard cock pressed against my ass, threatening to break free of those ridiculous silk boxers.
Should’ve known he’d be the big spoon. Peter Diaz gave major big-spoon energy.
Thankfully, Mr. BSE slept like the dead. He hadn’t even stirred when I’d carefully extracted myself to go for my morning run. It wasn’t until I returned with a cup of coffee in one hand and one of Lolly’s cinnamon rolls, fresh out of the oven, in the other that his eyes had finally fluttered open.
“That smells delicious,” he’d croaked, already reaching for the plate with a sleepy grin. “But what will you eat?”
Needless to say, I’d broken the warm roll in half . . . and given him the bigger chunk.
“Bakers, you have three hours to create your festive pavlova wreaths. It’s dough or die.”
Kill me.
Even Penelope cringed at that one.
“Ready, set . . . sleigh the bake.”
The six of us jumped into motion. With what the judges were asking us to accomplish, we didn’t have a moment to waste.
“Okay, mi pana.” Diaz clapped his hands together. “Tell me what you need me to do.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I know this might surprise you,” he said, already reaching for the eggs. “But I don’t have a clue what the fuck I’m doing. Or what the fuck meringue even is.”
“Peter,” Penelope shouted over the noise. “The producers have kindly asked if there’s any way you can tone down the fucks?”
“Does that count for Spanish, too?” he fired back even though she’d already moved on. They both knew it was a lost cause.
Diaz leaned his hip against the counter, watching me now instead of the chaos. “Point is, I think you should take the lead with this one.”
“You sure?”
He shrugged like it was nothing. Like it didn’t cost him a single thought. “I’ve got your back.”
Four simple words.
I’ve got your back.
And coming from him, after yesterday’s disaster and last night’s two a.m. therapy session, that hit differently.
Yesterday, he’d been all charm and jokes. Today, he was stepping back and letting me lead without trying to smooth things over with whatever shitty baking pun he’d come up with.
And that meant more than any trophy.
I swallowed hard and nodded. “Alright,” I said, a little surer of myself now. “Then listen up, Petey boy.”
He flashed a quick and easy grin.
“Yes, sir.”
The words slid down my spine like warm honey.
For a split second, a vision of Diaz on his knees, looking up at me with dark eyes, voice rough as he whispered, “Yes, sir,” while working my cock with his tongue, flashed through my brain. It was so vivid, I had to grip the edge of the counter.
I cleared my throat, forcing my voice to stay steady. “You can wash the berries.”
We fell into a rhythm faster than I expected. I took point on the meringue base, measuring out the sugar and egg whites with the kind of obsessive precision that made most people roll their eyes.
Not Diaz, though.
He just prepped the piping bags and fruit, moving around me with quiet efficiency, all while whistling his way through the original Broadway cast recording of In the Heights.
That’s right. Peter Diaz was a fan of showtunes.
The entire team knew about it, too, thanks to the time his phone had accidentally connected to the Bluetooth speaker in the locker room while he’d been changing. The opening bars of “96,000” had blasted through the speakers at full volume, and the entire roster had frozen mid-conversation.
He’d owned it eventually, shrugging with that trademark grin.
“I’m Puerto Rican,” he’d offered up as an explanation. “Lin-Manuel Miranda and I are practically second cousins.”
From then on, it became locker room lore. At least half of the Hamilton soundtrack had made it into our regular rotation of our pregame locker room playlist, along with “Candy Store” from Heathers, “Opening Up” from Waitress, and more songs from Mamma Mia than any of us wanted to admit.
Plus, none of us could ever forget Diaz, Pink, and Tuck’s infamous rendition of “The Schuyler Sisters” during a very drunken and very private karaoke night at Thorn Tavern.
We all had the blackmail footage to prove it.
Hearing Diaz whistle it now while straining raspberries made something warm settle in my chest.
He wasn’t performing for anybody else. He was just being himself.
With me.
“What if we did a light citrus zest in the coulis?” he offered after about twenty minutes. “Orange or lemon. It might cut the sweetness and give it a brighter holiday feel.”
He caught himself almost immediately, shaking his head as if he were trying to erase the suggestion like a fucking Etch A Sketch.
“Never mind, I don’t want to mess up your plans.”
Dang, he was adorable when he got all timid and unsure.
“No, I love it,” I told him. “That’s a . . . better idea than what I had planned. Let’s do it.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I bumped his fist with mine. “We’re a team, right?”
His eyes glowed with a mixture of joy and something softer I couldn’t quite name. Relief, maybe. Like he’d been bracing himself for me to shut him down and was still a little surprised I hadn’t.
“Sí, chef.” He leaned in close and added. “I never realized you were so bossy, ‘Bama. Kinda makes me wonder where else you like to take charge.”
Fuck. Me.
I nearly dropped the piping bag in my hand. His implication was clear, delivered with that signature Diaz smirk that said he knew exactly what he was doing.
I cleared my throat, hard. “Focus, Peter.”
The next hour blurred together in the best way. The tension from yesterday had loosened, replaced by something steadier, stronger. For the first time since we’d arrived at Juniper Ridge, it felt like we were working as a team.
Eventually, Penelope wandered over, a cameraman trailing behind her like an eager puppy. “Looking good, gentlemen,” she said, leaning across our workstation. “Made a lot of pavlovas for team gatherings?”