Twelve. Hoping Lovin’ Is in the Oven #2
Corey grins. “SweetHart’s has an entire section of our case just for chocolate desserts. So hearing that you love it is music to my ears,” he says. He studies the stand mixer at our station, sorting through the attachments as if he knows what each one does. Of course he knows what they do.
“Okay, but if I were less basic, what would I like? What are some flavors you can’t resist?” Did that sound sexual?
He is blushing. Then he says, “I personally love a cookie with a bit of spice. Nothing hot, more like something a little complex, like anise, cinnamon, cloves.” He’s holding eye contact with me as he adds, “I think some people make beautiful cookies, but there’s no depth to them.
” He glances around the room. Is he throwing shade at our competition? If so, I kind of like it.
A woman in a red skirt suit with a green scarf tied at her neck strides into the ballroom and stands at the center of all our stations.
“Welcome to the Sweetville Christmas Cookie Competition! I see we’re all getting acquainted with our stations.
” She’s carrying a clipboard and begins to read from it.
“Now, you’ll note that there’s a large pantry at the back of the competition area.
Everything you need is in that room.” She offers us all a devilish smile and a pause.
“Well, almost everything. You’re also to include at least one nonpantry ingredient—and no more than two!
—to keep things interesting. You’ll be judged for your creativity, your execution, and your cookie’s sweetness success rate, and from there we’ll choose four teams to compete in the competition finals!
Today is merely a brainstorming session, but feel free to use whatever you need.
In a few days, you’ll return to make a treat for the qualifying round, and the best teams will go on to compete to make the best cookie in Sweetville! ”
When she finishes speaking, the room bursts into chatter as every team begins to brainstorm. Grant is still standing alone, not looking my way. Could he be jealous of me with Corey, or is his calm composure as a solo act his way of flexing his superiority over the rest of the bakers?
Corey lightly squeezes my upper arm. I tingle at the contact.
“I’m feeling good about this,” Corey says.
He’s leaning closer to whisper in my ear, and he smells like the perfect man.
One part fresh baked cookies, one part something woodsy.
I turn so I’m facing him as he says, “I have some baking ideas, but you’re a wordsmith.
And isn’t half of winning these competitions telling a good story? ”
His eye contact is steady and physical as I take this in, and his intensity alerts me to the fact that he’s not just a hometown hunk; he’s a savvy guy.
A business owner. Who for some reason thinks I have something to offer here.
I can’t resist sounding a little flirty as I say, “Are you trying to say that you forgive me for having absolutely no clue what to do with all this stuff?” To emphasize the point, I pick up a spiral-shaped mixer attachment.
Corey gently takes it from me. “That’s for bread.
But you don’t need to know what to do with all the gadgets.
I have that down, and I can teach you. What do you think of shortbread?
Or maybe cutout cookies but we make a little scene out of them?
Do you like fruit fillings? I feel like people can go either way on those, and I don’t know what the judges’ palates are like. ”
The room hums with a bustling energy, and “Here Comes Santa Claus” plays from a sound system, but Corey’s posture is solid and still, like he has all the time in the world to wait and hear what I think of fruit fillings.
I imagine him touching me lightly on the neck ( Do you like this?) or running his hand down my back, squeezing my hip with a greedy pressure ( Or does this feel better?
), and the comfortable warmth I’m feeling kicks up a notch.
“I… um. Anything is good,” I say, too flummoxed to produce words when I’m flooded by want.
“No worries. You think about it while I go check out what they have in the pantry,” Corey says.
I watch him as he walks to the back of the ballroom, admiring his strong shoulders and tapered waist. He isn’t as football muscly as he was in high school.
Now his physique comes from, I imagine, lifting sacks of flour and rolling out dough.
Aware that I’m staring at Corey’s butt in his jeans, I glance away, but again toward Grant. Still all alone at his station.
He must feel me watching him because he peers up from his notes and our eyes meet across the room. He casts a quick look at Corey and switches back to me with enough smolder to make my knees go buttery. Or does he look sad? My heart surges. I don’t want him to be doing this all alone.
Grant proffers up a small half smile with maybe the slightest bit of mockery in it.
Like Zav, he knows of my kitchen ineptitude.
Okay, so he’s not sad, and he’s probably competing solo by choice.
He’s still the slightest bit smug in this Sweetville world, and now a little part of me thrills at the idea of Corey and me beating him.
I smile back, a little smug myself. But Grant’s already looking toward the doors of the ballroom, which have swung open. He waves at someone there. And my buttery knees almost give out.
Because standing in the open doorway is someone I recognize from countless nights poring over her Instagram.
Poring over her lack of pores. Envying the way she pulls off a men’s white shirt worn with leather shorts and clunky shoes.
Deducing that she, like Grant, has a penchant for wild terrain and spicy food and dogs with noble faces.
Feeling certain, as I cyberstalked and tried to believe this was only her highlight reel, that she had everything far more together than I ever would.
That perhaps she was the one who belonged with Grant and I didn’t.
Fiona Leonard.