Twelve. Hoping Lovin’ Is in the Oven
Twelve
HOPING LOVIN’ IS IN THE OVEN
The next morning, after eating a breakfast egg casserole that Dad prepared without swearing once, that we all complimented with no one talking about being in gastric distress immediately after putting the plates in the dishwasher, I call Zav to see what I should wear for a baking competition.
Also because I’m a little curious what form Zav will take in Heartfelt World.
“A cookie competition? You don’t bake! I’ve seen you baked , but sorry, Jill, I would never eat a cookie if you made it,” he says.
“Wait! Is this a cry for help? Have you been kidnapped and you’re calling me saying something you’d never say in real life so that I come straight to you?
I’ll do it. I’m that kind of friend. Plus, we’re having a heat wave, and I need some sweater weather. ”
I needn’t have worried. Zav is the perfect best friend for a Heartfelt movie, if a bit more PG-13 than is the norm.
“Zav, calm down. First, what if I’m an excellent baker?”
He laughed. “You’re not. Remember the DiGiorno incident of 2022?”
“Fine, but I dropped it crust-side down. It was still edible,” I re mind him, omitting a different instance where I definitely dropped a DiGiorno cheese-side down and still ate it. “And this isn’t a cry for help. It’s a wardrobe emergency. Whole other category.”
“It’s baking. And since it’s you baking, I’d go with long sleeves to protect you from unsightly burns. Unless there’s a hottie present? Is that what this is? You entered a cookie competition for some ass?”
“No. I’m getting into the holiday spirit is all,” I say. I do think of Corey’s ass. Am I allowed to touch Corey’s ass in Heartfelt World? Or does a butt touch cause all the snow to liquify and the twinkle lights to burst into flames?
“Yeah okay, more like you want someone’s holiday spirit to get into you.”
“Zav! He’s a widower with two small children. Can you not go there? Can you just please help?”
“Well, you can’t overdo makeup. Melting hazard. And you get really sweaty just standing there…” I hear Zav crunching on something thoughtfully.
“Thanks. What are you eating?”
“Fauxhide. It’s like vegan rawhide for people and supposedly it will bring down my cortisol and etch my abs.” Zav has a husky build, and the only definition his stomach has ever had is his belly button.
“Sounds yummy,” I say. “But clothes—maybe something airy?”
I peer inside my Heartfelt closet. There’s a lot of flannel. I hate flannel because Zav is right, and perspiration is about all that comes naturally to me in a setting with a stove.
“Hmm,” Zav says, coughing. “Sorry, weird bite. How are your boobs looking there? Does the cold make them shrink?”
“What?”
“Well, I’m trying to determine if cleavage is possible. And then you could catch all the eggshells or whatever you drop with your boobs.”
“They don’t deflate in cold weather.” I glance down. Had they, though? “And I don’t think cleavage is the answer.”
“Butt focus?”
“No, I just mean the vibe is different here than a baking contest in LA.” The flannel blouses put me in mind of Corey and his flannels. If I want to win him over, don’t I need to dress the part? Is it better to match him or to complement his look?
“Just promise me you’ll come back here,” he says. “I can’t see this thing working out with Felix, and I need to run my new-year, new-me, new-he plans by you in person. And don’t eat anything you bake!”
“You’re going to have to fill me in on Felix before it’s over,” I say. “And I will only eat baked goods majority prepared by the hottie in question.”
“Hottie! I knew it!” Zav squeals. “Let me know how big his holiday spirit is.”
I’m pretty sure that there’ll be no below-the-waist action in Heartfelt World, but it’s nice to know Zav is cheering me on.
I manage to find a cream-colored turtleneck in my Heartfelt closet.
I’ll be overheated, but at least it’s not itchy.
Plus, I figure the flour I’ll inevitably spill—Zav’s right about spillage—won’t show as much on this color.
Also, it looks like the kind of soft garment that announces me as equally soft and the perfect love interest for a young widower.
Even if I look the part, I’m nervous when I return to the inn with my mission in mind. Corey isn’t some random guy. He was my high school crush and a real person, even if Sweetville isn’t a real place.
He’s also waiting for me on the steps of the inn with two coffees in SweetHart’s Bakery cups.
“Sugar cookie,” he says, handing me a cup.
“The coffee is sugar-cookie flavored?” I love sweets, but all I want right now is a plain coffee.
“No, I mean you look like a sugar cookie in that turtleneck.” Corey seems to pull back like he’s said something wrong. “It’s a good thing. I mean, you, um, look nice.”
I blush at the compliment and his apparent nervousness to pay me it. I try to think of some clever, self-deprecating response to make, but I remember where we are and simply say thank you while flashing my best smile. “You ready to win this competition?”
Corey raises his eyebrows. “Interesting. You told me you’re not much of a baker,” he says.
“I have faith in my partner,” I tell him. I almost add, He knows his way around a cookie , but after his sugar-cookie comment, I’m worried it might sound like innuendo. Maybe because I am thinking about Corey touching all my sweet spots.
We follow signs through the lobby toward the ballroom, where the competition will be held.
It isn’t a large ballroom—it probably could hold a one-hundred-person wedding—but someone’s decorated it for the competition, and the high ceilings are lined with pine branches and twinkling lights.
In one corner of the room, a ten-foot Christmas tree is lit and strung with shiny baubles.
On the dance floor are six stations set up for the competitors, and just behind them is a makeshift room about the size of a small trailer. Hanging across it is a banner that reads Sweetville Cookie Competition—Contestant Pantry .
At one station, a haughty guy with some kind of insignia on his blazer pocket is looking on as a harried woman, who seems to be his assistant, flips through a giant recipe book, showing him ideas that he’s brushing off.
The woman has a mousy look, but it’s clear she’s a knockout behind her glasses.
Ah. She’s the shy longtime employee of a man I assume is some kind of prince—every Christmas, at least one Heartfelt movie features a royal-centered plot—who just hasn’t realized what a catch she is yet.
Another station contains two women—one with a short, curly haircut and the other with a long blond braid—bickering.
“Look, it’s one week with my family, and at the new year, I promise we’ll tell them we broke it off. I just can’t deal with that right now, and I’m giving you custody of the turtle, so please just do this for me?”
Okay: couple who recently split up for a probably nonsignificant reason is fake dating their way through the holidays and will inevitably get back together before the new year arrives.
The red-haired twins I saw at sign-up are working quietly at their station, seemingly doing everything in creepy, silent lockstep.
Next to them, the mother-daughter team survey the baking equipment.
They’re done up with matching sausage curls, gray for mom, blond for the daughter, and the same tense game faces.
Memorable side characters, for sure, but I suspect none are a real threat to my story. Or my Corey.
“Have you thought any more about what you’d like to bake?” Corey asks.
I think of the DiGiorno pizza I ate off the floor. Both of them. “Oh, you know, I have simple tastes.”
“Nothing wrong with simple. Especially if you have a couple sneaky secret ingredients to make it interesting,” he says. “I really think someone as creative as you will find that baking is a lot of fun.”
Fun. I think of Grant’s take on baking—that it’s too precise and all the creative stuff happens on the stovetop and not in the oven—but say nothing.
Out of the corner of my eye, though, I clock Grant arriving.
He runs his hand over the countertop of his station before pulling a steno pad out of his backpack.
He flips it open and immediately begins jotting notes on one of its pages.
I watch greedily as he bites the tip of his tongue in concentration.
He leans over his notebook, writing with his left hand, his right arm extended so that he’s gripping the side of the counter.
He’s rolled his flannel sleeves up, exposing a length of forearm that draws my eyes.
He’s always had great forearms, strong but more lean than bulky and with sandy-brown hair temptingly dusting their lengths—I could watch him swirl a sauce in a pan for hours.
It’s hard to pull my gaze away from the flexed, sinewy arm, but I manage so that I can watch the way his brow furrows as he crosses something out and scribbles something else.
I wonder who he’ll be paired up with. Maybe his dad or someone from the bar—no, inn—if the point of entering is to save it.
I also note that, much as I can’t take my eyes off of him, he hasn’t even glanced up to see if I’m here.
“So, what’s something you can’t say no to?” Corey asks. Corey! I’m here to be his partner. I’m here to make him fall for me, not to lust after my cranky ex’s ropy arms.
I stare at Corey, fumbling to understand the question.
If we’re talking about things I can’t say no to, Corey could be included on the list. While his flannel sleeves remain modestly buttoned at the wrists, he’s tied his green competition apron on over his shirt, and the way it stretches across his chest makes me jealous of whatever he’ll eventually spill on it.
It also reminds me I forgot my apron at home.
“Hmm. Would you mock me if I said I love anything chocolate? That’s not very original,” I say.