Which makes it hard to focus.
And Ihatenot being able to focus.
HALF-BAKED
Jack
I’ve negotiated multi-million-dollar contracts under tight deadlines. I’ve stood in the middle of milling extras, ignoring their barely contained hope that I’d pluck them from obscurity and turn them into the next big thing. I’ve stared down a wall of paparazzi screaming inappropriate questions at my friends, fishing for a reaction they could turn into a six-figure tabloid payday without so much as blinking.
But nothing—and I meannothing—prepared me for a whoopie pie booth in a snowstorm.
And yet I stay.
Because somehow, despite the absolute insanity of it all—screaming fans, pie innuendo, and a frigid wind tunneling up the back of my very fashionable but very impractical coat—I can’t seem to walk away.
Not from her.
Audrey Nouel, who glares like it’s a competitive sport and moves behind that booth with the kind of speed that should violate at least three labor laws, is in the zone. Flushed. Flustered. Magnetic as hell.
And I’m the idiot with a law degree and a reputation for detached efficiency who just volunteered to work retail in a blizzard.
Why?
Because—like a jealous little brother watching the favorite son soak up all the praise—I couldn’t stand seeing Felix charm his way into her good graces with nothing but a Hollywood smile and a naked cat while she kept looking at me like I’d started a petition to cancel Christmas.
And maybe—just maybe—my ego, which is apparently more inflated than I realized, didn’t think it would be this hard.
I can practically hear the slow hiss of air as my overinflated hotshot balloon deflates in real time.
“Three Hot Cocoa & Chills and a Sleigh Me Softly!” a guy in a beanie yells like he’s ordering from a ski-through drive-thru.
I turn to Audrey, who’s already elbow-deep in a cooler. Without looking, she grabs a pastry bag with her other hand and slides the pies inside like she’s been doing this since birth.
Assuming she’s about to hand them to me, I reach in—and bump into her.
The cash in my hand flutters on the table like loose confetti.
She doesn’t say anything, juststares, eyes narrowed andfull of unspoken judgment, before grabbing the next order with military precision.
I scramble to regather the bills. Beanie Guy makes to walk off, then pauses and passes back a five. “You gave me too much.”
I frown. “You’re giving it back?”
“Of course.” He looks at me likeI’mthe weirdo.
I watch him walk away, stunned, just as the next customer yells their order.
In LA, he’d be halfway down Melrose before I noticed—and probably halfway through leaving a two-star Yelp review claiming I shorted him.
Behind me, Audrey’s already packing up the next pies with the ruthless grace of someone who’s fought in frosting-stained trenches. Scoop. Stack. Seal.
Meanwhile, I’m over here fumbling through the primitive concept of exact change because according to the locals, no one in this town can run a card reader let alone get decent cell service without standing on a literal hill.
Still, when she wordlessly passes me another pie, I take it.
When she shoots me a look that could burn through snow, I meet it.
When she trips over a cooler lid and stumbles back into me, I catch her without thinking.
