I want to argue. To insist this is the opposite of perfect. That I don’t need a partner—especially notthispartner—to get through the competition.
But Jack’s gaze catches mine, a flicker of amusement inhis eyes that tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking. And worse, he looks like he’s enjoying it.
“The competition will be in two forty-five-minute parts with a ten-minute break in-between.”
Eileen hands us our name badges—Team Whoopie—written above them. “Good luck!”
Jack
I almost didn’t come.
After the way Audrey shooed me out the door last night, showing up at a gingerbread free-for-all seemed like a surefire way to dig myself deeper into whatever hole I’m already in. But then Eileen Burrows—the same woman who runs a matchmaking empire out of a coffee shop and thinks she can strong-arm anyone with a latte—called my room at The Haven while I was briefs-deep in legal research over my potential client’s movie deal, whose deadline suddenly got pushed up.
Eileen’s message was clear: Show up at the community center now or Audrey would have to forfeit the competition.
And apparently not all lawyers are complete bastards because I came.
Not that I should’ve been surprised to learn Audreywasn’t the one who signed me up as her partner. I overheard Eileen at the sign-in desk, cheerfully announcing she had “solved Audrey’s problem.”
But instead of irritated, I find myself… relieved.
Because Audrey Nouel—James Beard winner, Michelin darling, bakery owner with frosting in her veins—looks flustered. Not polished. Not untouchable. But cheeks pink, hair askew, eyes wide as she realizes she’s been cornered.
And if the look on her face is anything to go by, she wasn’t as unaffected by our kiss last night as she wanted me to believe when I took that phone call.
The call that took longer than I’d expected. The one that made the opportunity in LA so sweet it should’ve had me salivating.
And yet all I felt was annoyed—at it costing me an opportunity with Audrey.
Now standing here with a ‘Jack’ name tag to slap on my cashmere Henley, I can’t help thinking maybe this competition is my shot at getting a do-over.
“You two better hurry,” Eileen chirps, practically glowing with matchmaking glee. “The competition is about to begin.”
Audrey mutters something that sounds suspiciously likefuck itunder her breath and grips the handle of her supply wagon like she’s about to march into battle.
I fall into step behind her because apparently that’s my role now—back-up gingerbread grunt. She yanks the wagon forward, but the thing wobbles and squeaks like it’s carrying bricks instead of flour and candy.
I plant a hand on the back of the cart and give it a shove. The load jerks forward, suddenly lighter, and she shoots mea startled look over her shoulder—braid swinging, cheeks pinker, looking equal parts flustered and furious.
“Relax,” I murmur, thinking that I’ve somehow been elbowed into a domestic fantasy I didn’t know I wanted. “I’m only here to keep the wagon from collapsing before the house does.”
The corner of her mouth twitches—half annoyance, half amusement—but she says nothing and lets me push the wagon. I count that as a win.
On our journey down the hall, people wave and call hellos to Audrey, who acknowledges with a nod but not much else. It’s like she’s already in battle mode.
I’m more than a little surprised when a few townspeople call out tomeby name. I guess selling most of these people pies for the past week has made me more than Amanda Willis’ agent or Skippy’s dogwalker. I make sure to wave back with the hand not pushing the cart.
When we finally reach our assigned table, Audrey begins lining up supplies with the precision of a military general. Piping bags, candy bowls, sheets of gingerbread—all squared up, symmetrical, and waiting for her command.
“Do not touch anything until I tell you.” Still squaring bowls and piping bags, she doesn’t so much as spare me a glance.
I raise both hands in surrender. “Scout’s honor.”
She finally glances up, one brow arched. “I highly doubt you were ever a scout.”
She’s not wrong. But if she thinks I’m above sneaking a Red Hot the moment her back’s turned to get her to lighten up, she doesn’t know me at all.
I slide one from the bowl, pop it into my mouth, and bite down with exaggerated satisfaction.
