Ten. Competitors, Meet Your Match
Ten
COMPETITORS, MEET YOUR MATCH
The baking competition, it turns out, is at Grant’s bar. Except in Heartfelt World, it’s no longer the bar I knew so well.
The neon sign that once read Grant’s Place for Drinks is gone, replaced by more stately painted lettering that declares this establishment the Sweetville Inn.
It has the same basic silhouette as the bar, but it’s a story or two taller, and the brick exterior looks freshly tuck-pointed.
The front doors are a bit different, too—still heavy wood but each with a window and the words Sweetville Inn painted in gold.
Over the entry, a banner stretches beneath the sign to advertise the competition sign-ups.
“When did this get here?” I ask. Corey gives me a quizzical look.
“It’s been here forever,” Bryce—who, given his age, has no concept of forever—says.
“Are you okay?” Corey peers into my face. He must see my expression.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Jet lag.”
Corey smirks. “For a second there, you looked as dismayed as that time I asked if semicolons did the same thing as commas.” I laugh, unable to believe he remembers that. I guess I did make an impression on him. “A mistake I’ll never make again. I thought you’d declare me unfit to tutor.”
“I am kind of a punctuation snob,” I remark. The nerdiest thing I could possibly say.
“It’s all good. I always liked how smart you are,” Corey says. “You know, I read way more now than I did back then. I think it’s a lot thanks to you.”
Is he flirting? The whole walk, beyond the stuff about how he took over the bakery, we mostly made small talk—how nice the weather was for the holidays, how long my flight had been, whether my brother still lived in town, and what Corey was doing with the kids for Christmas—but this conversation feels different.
There’s something there, in the way Corey sheepishly admitted he reads more because of me.
“What do you like to read?” I ask.
“Lately, I’ve been so busy it’s a lot of thrillers, but I did read all of Jane Austen’s books. I remember you talked about her a lot in high school,” he says. “Christina was a fan, too.”
If he’s flirting, he’s also bringing up his late wife… but then again, it would seem odd if he didn’t. It’s a reminder that, as sweet and kind as Corey is, he’s a whole person, with layers to reveal. And one big tragedy to get over before he can move on.
“Jane’s the original queen of the romantic comedy,” I say.
Corey holds eye contact with me for a beat longer than necessary. My heart flips a little when I see his dimple again. “I’m sure you’ve got something in the works to give her a run for her money.”
Before I can swoon at the flattery or reveal I don’t write rom-coms anymore, Corey’s kids are bouncing around, asking to use the bathroom.
“I better take them,” he says. Corey leads me inside, and as we cross the threshold, I hear the Heartfelt sounds again. Corey and his kids don’t seem to hear anything. Or maybe they’re so used to the sounds they don’t register them.
Sweetville Inn on the inside somehow smells like the polished wood of Grant’s bar.
The lobby is much more sedate, décor-wise, than the rest of Sweetville.
There’s a big tree at the center of the space, but it stands alone in a stately way, rather than being one decoration of many.
The rest of the space is cozy but solid, with darker furniture and subdued lighting.
There’s a piano player in the corner, tinkling a melody I don’t recognize as Christmas music on the keys.
“Not particularly festive for hosting a Christmas cookie competition,” I note.
Corey shrugs. “I think the owner likes to keep things simple. But it’s nice in here anyway.”
My throat squeezes at the sight of Grant’s place not being his anymore. More importantly, the fact that it’s missing here makes me wonder if Grant is also missing here. As much as I don’t want to see Grant, it’s strange to think he might not exist in this world.
“I’m going to get them to the bathroom if you don’t mind waiting for me,” Corey says apologetically.
“Oh, no—I’ll be fine waiting… here.”
He nods to excuse himself and the kids to go to the restrooms at the far corner of the lobby.
While he’s gone, I check out the line of bakers waiting near the competition sign-up table.
There’s a set of twins with flaming-red hair and coordinated Christmas sweatshirts who finish each other’s sentences and I bet smell like cinnamon up close.
Another woman with her gray hair in a bun has a mason jar filled with sprinkles that she’s carrying like it’s a baby, and she’s with another woman I assume is her daughter, who carries a binder marked Recipes .
Perfect side characters for a Heartfelt movie: slight comic-relief types who don’t detract from the main romance.
I can only imagine what Zav would say about me, a Christmas mess, trying to take part in this whole situation.
I’m also wondering if it’s really possible I could be a Heartfelt leading lady.
Even when I crushed on Corey as a kid, I knew I didn’t have what Christina did.
I can’t bake, I can’t wear a Mrs. Claus outfit convincingly, I could never be a schoolteacher.
Christina Dawkins was town-sweetheart material, while I’m an interloper who’s not even sweet enough to watch a Heartfelt movie with my mom, much less star in one.
My apartment’s only holiday decoration came from the garbage. So why me?
Although, what Santa said repeats itself beneath my anxious thoughts.
Write my own ending. In Christmas Turnabout , the Heartfelt movie I’ve seen so many times, Julie is meant to reunite with the one who got away in high school.
Maybe I’m supposed to get a fresh crack at Corey here.
Corey, the kind of sweet, accessible hero who a girl could make a life with.
Total opposite of artistic, too-sexy-for-his-own-good-or-mine Grant, who was obviously all wrong for me.
Even if, oh boy, he made me feel oh so right so many times.
I inhale a deep breath to stop my fresh wave of panic, wanting to find a place to sit down.
Instead, I smash into someone. Hands close around my shoulders to prevent me from falling on my face.
Strong, capable hands. Hands that have touched, sometimes in novel ways, every part of my body. “Jill, what are you doing here?”
Did I summon him just via my wanton thoughts?
If true, kind of a neat, horny superpower.
I look up into the eyes of Grant. My Grant.
Or not my Grant, really. First, because he’s my ex and, second, because he’s wearing a red-checked flannel buttoned nearly to the throat.
Which, though not his usual style—he’s a T-shirt or Henley kind of guy—looks very good on him.
Though I’d personally undo another button.
But he knows who I am, and even if he’s eyeballing me like I’m the most unwelcome creature to stroll through this lobby, I still feel relieved to see him.
“Is that how you’re always going to greet me?”
Grant lets his hands drop from my shoulders and takes a step back.
“What are you talking about? We haven’t seen each other in years,” he says.
Oh, okay. So Christmas-world Grant doesn’t have the memories from my recent real-world visit.
“I… You’re right. I actually meant to say, what are you doing here?”
Grant purses his lips. “You don’t remember my dad owns this place? I’m here helping out.”
“The bar… I mean the inn?” I look around again, taking in the surroundings.
And on the walls, just like at his bar, I now notice the photos.
Grant’s photos. Including the one from I-80.
Our first-date photo. I also assume a lot of the furniture was made by his dad, Lou, who crafted a lot of custom pieces for the bar.
“Yeah, this place,” he says. He’s giving me a funny look, like he’s worried about my health. If only he knew.
“Next!” the contest registrar calls after she hands out aprons to the mother and daughter. I spy Corey and his kids talking to the twin bakers in a corner of the room. He waves and apologetically signals to me to wait for him.
“You’re not here to do this baking thing, are you?” Grant says, looking from Corey to me.
“Um, yeah, with him.” I point toward Corey. I wasn’t sold on this competition, but having the chance to tell Grant I’m paired up with the town hottie suddenly seems very appealing.
If he’s jealous, Grant doesn’t show it. He merely nods and, noticing a vacancy open up at the registration table, takes one of the forms and a pen and begins to fill it out.
“Wait,” I say, scuffling toward him. “You’re doing the baking competition, too? You don’t bake!”
He shoots me a sidelong glance and says, “I do. I just believe bakers can’t call themselves chefs.”
“Do you understand the rules, Mr. Heath?” the registrar says. It’s weird, because I barely even think of Grant’s dad as Mr. Heath. He was always Lou.
“I can use up to two secret ingredients. Competition pantry for the rest, right?”
The registrar seems hurt by his curtness. “That’s right. Happy baking!”
Grant grumbles a thanks as he takes his competition apron.
“I don’t get it. Why are you doing this?”
“Jeez, Jill—we haven’t seen each other in years and now we’re going to get into whether I should make some cookies?”
“You didn’t even like cooking-competition TV shows,” I say. I’m getting it now. This world’s Grant remembers dating me, and he’s basically the same Grant as before, just a slightly more uptight version who wears flannel and helps run an inn and doesn’t look at my boobs. “So, I’m just surprised.”
“Look, my dad’s inn is only at half capacity right now. I thought if I can suck it up and win this, the prize money would help him out,” he says. “Plus, a little free publicity couldn’t hurt.”
“So if you win the money, it’s all going to the hotel?” Hmm—not one but two Sweetville businesses are under threat of closure unless they can win the prize money.
Grant huffs out a sigh. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
I stay on his heels as he crosses to the front desk. I cut in front of a couple I take to be in their fifties bickering about what sights to see first. Ah, a middle-aged couple who need holiday magic to fall in love all over again—a Heartfelt trope to appeal to my mom’s demographic.
Grant gets behind the front desk. “Fine.” He looks at the ceiling and shakes his head.
He leans across the counter toward me. “Dad always wanted this place to be on the historic register. And to do that, he needs to make some repairs without screwing up the integrity of the architecture. So I’m trying to get a grant because you know Dad—he’s really stubborn and wants to do all the work himself. ”
I’m about to make a dumb joke about Grant getting a grant because I can’t think of anything else to say, when Corey and his kids return.
“Jill,” Corey begins. He notices Grant and extends his free hand. “I’m Corey—Corey Hartwell.”
“I know your bakery. Grant. Heath.” He pulls himself up to full height. He’s taller than Corey, even if Corey is broader. “My dad owns this inn. I’m just here to help for the holidays.”
“I love this place. I haven’t been here in a while, but my wife and I…”
Grant seems to perk up at this. Or am I only hoping Grant perks up?
“Well, when she was alive, we always brought the kids here for the Christmas Day tea.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Grant says. He slides his eyes over to me, as if to silently admonish me for preying on a widower. I smile innocently.
Corey places a hand on my shoulder. He’s got muscular hands, and his grip—firm but gentle—is absolutely not unwelcome. I always admired his hands when we were in high school. I just wasn’t expecting to be touched by one of them with my ex staring daggers at me.
“We’d better get signed up,” he says. “So tell me—what’s your favorite thing to bake?”
I make a face at Grant like What can you do?
“I’m afraid I don’t bake,” I confess to Corey. “I’m a store-bought kind of girl.”
Corey looks briefly horrified. “That’s okay. There’s a baker inside everyone,” Corey says. My inner Zav thinks, And this baker can be inside me . “And someone as smart as you can definitely be taught.”
I can feel Grant watching us as we walk away, Corey quizzing me on the kinds of cookies that speak to my soul.
It’s a lot to take in—waking up in Heartfelt World, keeping track of who knows what here, of how I’m supposed to act and who I’m supposed to be. And now, I’m apparently meant to transform from big-city take-out queen to small-town baking whiz, all under the watchful gazes of Corey and Grant.
All I wanted when I agreed to come home for the holidays was to not bump into my ex.
And now I’m going to be courting my high school crush while my ex watches on.
Fa la la la la fucking la la la.