Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
They arrived with the back of Brick’s old Ford loaded down like they were heading out for a military campaign rather than a bake-off.
Big Rubbermaid storage bins of ingredients, mixing bowls carefully nested inside one another, a stand mixer wrapped in an old towel, measuring cups clinking softly every time the truck turned.
Brick parked farther out than necessary, but she got it. He didn’t want anyone banging their door into his precious truck.
Even so, she made a little face. Which he noticed.
“Plenty of space,” he said, already reaching for his door.
Blaise rolled her eyes and grabbed her tote. “Yes, from the entrance of the community center.”
“We have the wagon.”
“Fortunately,” Blaise said.
They loaded up the beach wagon they’d borrowed from Cece, filling it with all of their supplies. Even so, Brick still ended up carrying a box that wouldn’t fit. The trek to the entrance took long enough that Blaise felt her comment had been justified.
Inside the community center, a long folding table had been set up near the entrance with a computer-printed sign taped to the front: BAKE-OFF REGISTRATION.
A cheerful woman in a floral blouse waved them over, clipboard in hand. “Name?”
“Brick Tanner,” he said.
She scanned the list, nodded. “Entry number seven. Coconut cake.”
Brick hesitated. “There’s a fee, right?”
Blaise realized what was coming a second too late.
“Oh, that was already taken care of,” the woman said brightly. “Paid upon entry.”
“That right?” Brick gave Blaise a sideways glance.
Blaise lifted her chin. “Twenty-five dollars. Hardly an investment portfolio.”
“You paid it?” he asked.
“I did,” she said. “I thought if you knew there was a fee it would give you an excuse to say no.”
His mouth twitched, but his eyes softened. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
He studied her for a beat, then nodded once. “Thank you. But I’m paying you back.”
“You already have by being here.” Yes, her budget was tight, but she could handle the entry fee. It really was worth it to get Brick to participate in something like this.
They were assigned a station along the far wall.
Not the best spot in the room, but not the worst. The setup for each contestant was impressive in a practical way: two sturdy worktables, one at the front and one at the back.
The back one had a compact refrigerator beneath it, and on top, a portable oven that might have been part air fryer and part miracle of modern engineering.
Next to it was a single burner. Everything was plugged into a power strip taped securely to the floor.
The Colony went all out on stuff like this as a way of getting the community some recognition. It usually worked, too. They’d even been featured on a national news program a few times.
Brick circled the station once, assessing it with a sharp eye. “This’ll do.”
Blaise laid out their tools, lining things up the way she thought they should go.
Spatulas together, bowls stacked by size, ingredients laid out in a tidy row.
Brick retrieved the recipe card, safely tucked inside a Ziploc bag, and smoothed it flat against the table with the kind of reverence it deserved.
They’d just gotten settled when Blaise noticed the camera.
And the man holding it. From the insignia on his cap, he was local news.
A female reporter in a lot of makeup and a blazer that looked too hot for the day was chatting animatedly with another contestant while the cameraman adjusted his angle.
Seemed the Colony had managed to attract some attention again. No surprise there.
Brick stiffened and let out an unhappy grunt.
Blaise glanced at him. “What?”
“Didn’t know this was a spectacle.”
“It’s probably just a short segment,” she said. “You know, human interest. Small-town charm. That sort of thing. It’ll probably amount to all of twenty seconds when and if it actually airs.”
He shot her a look that said he still didn’t like it. “I don’t do charm.”
“Oh, I’m aware,” she said with a laugh. “It’ll be fine.”
The reporter’s gaze swept the room and landed on Brick. She narrowed her eyes and started walking toward them.
Brick turned his back and reached for the flour.
“Hey,” Blaise said, immediately concerned he was going to get them disqualified. “You can’t start baking until they start the clock.”
With a sigh, he put the flour down.
She hid her smile. She understood his reluctance to be interviewed. The cake was personal for him. The memories tied up in it even more so. He wasn’t going to want to talk about that publicly. He also just didn’t like to talk.
She moved closer to him. “They don’t have to talk to you,” she said quietly. “You’re here to bake. That’s it.”
He didn’t answer, but his shoulders eased a fraction.
She took her place beside him, fully committing to the role of baking assistant. The reporter was talking to someone else now. Maybe they were in the clear.
Brick was rearranging everything she’d laid out, so while he did that, Blaise checked that everything they’d need later was within reach. They were just finishing their setup when a shadow fell across their worktable.
“Hello, there,” a cheerful voice said.
Blaise looked up to see the reporter standing close enough that they couldn’t pretend they hadn’t seen her, microphone already in hand. The cameraman lingered a step to the side of her, adjusting his focus.
“I’m Jenna with Channel Seven,” she said. “Mind if we ask you a couple of quick questions before the bake-off starts?”
Brick went still. He didn’t look up. His hand tightened on the cake pan he was holding, his entire attention suddenly focused on the recipe paper in front of him as if it might disappear if he took his eyes off it.
Blaise knew he didn’t want to talk. Probably wouldn’t, even if asked a question. She stepped forward without a second thought, placing herself neatly between Brick and the microphone.
“Sure,” Blaise said pleasantly. “What would you like to know?”
The reporter shifted smoothly, unfazed by the substitution. “What are you making today?”
“Coconut cake,” Blaise said. “A real classic. The kind that’s stood the test of time.”
“And what inspired the choice?”
“Family,” Blaise replied, keeping her tone light but final. “It’s a recipe that’s been around a while. One that means a lot.”
The reporter nodded but looked a little perturbed. Like she’d been fishing for something more sentimental. “And how are you feeling heading into the competition?”
“Ready,” Blaise said with a smile. “And very glad to be here. Should be a fun day.”
That seemed to satisfy her. “Well, best of luck to you both,” the reporter said, already turning away toward the next station.
When she was safely out of earshot, Brick exhaled slowly.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome. You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” Blaise said quietly.
He gave a small nod. “Still. I appreciate it.”
They took a moment then to look around and scout out the competition.
Stations lined the three main walls and made a center aisle.
Everyone seemed to be buzzing with nervous energy.
Some baking teams had color-coordinated aprons and matching bowls laid out like surgical tools.
Others paced, fidgeted, double-checked ingredient lists, their workstations a jumbled mess that hopefully made sense to them.
“Interesting group,” Blaise murmured.
Brick stood shoulder to shoulder with her. His gaze moved steadily from station to station. “Lot of confidence in them.”
“That doesn’t always help,” she said.
“Nope,” he agreed. “Sometimes it’s a hinderance.”
The lights dimmed slightly at the front of the room as the emcee climbed onto the small stage, tapping the microphone until the chatter died down.
“All right, everyone,” he called. “Bakers, to your stations. Please remember, now, no mixing, no measuring, and no touching ingredients until the timer starts.”
Brick kept his arms crossed over his chest, shoulders squared. He stood like a statue without a hint of nerves.
Blaise wished she felt the same way. Her heart was going a little faster now.
“You ready?” he asked quietly, tipping his head toward her.
She smiled despite how she felt. “As much as I can be.”
The emcee raised his hand. “We’ll start the clock in just a few minutes. If there’s anything else you need to do to prepare, get it done! This is your five-minute warning.”
It was like someone flipped a switch. Everyone started bustling around, making sure they were ready.
Blaise didn’t move. They were ready. And she knew that whatever happened once that timer started, Brick’s cake would be fantastic. The real win was that he was here, doing something outside of his comfort zone. Getting reengaged with life.
Of course, she was still hoping the cake got some kind of recognition. Otherwise, he might never do anything like this again.