Her head jerks at the sound, hair lashing around like a whip. “Are you serious right now?”
I grin, sugar and spice sticking to my tongue. “Just a little quality control.”
Her brows are still pinched, but I swear the corner of her lips soften. But before she can reprimand me or smile, a voice booms through the microphone at the front of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls—welcome to the Annual Hideaway Gingerbread Showdown!”
The crowd cheers, a mix of holiday sweaters and Santa hats bouncing as people clap. The energy is almost electric, festive chaos pressing in on all sides.
The announcer continues, “You’ll have two hours to create the most spectacular gingerbread structure you can dream up. Houses, castles, cathedrals—we’ve seen it all. Remember: teamwork makes the dream work!”
Audrey exhales like she’s about to enter the Hunger Games, then smooths a hand down the front of her pastry chef coat.
For a second, with her black slacks hugging her legs in a way that doesn’t feel regulation uniform and her eyes gleaming with deadly pastry intent, I forget that this is supposed to be a gingerbread competition and not a seductive gladiatorial combat demonstration.
The countdown begins. Ten, nine, eight…
She grips a piping bag and thrusts it at me like a weapon. “Don’t squeeze until I tell you to.”
I take it, resisting the urge to say ‘Yes, chef,’and bump her with my shoulder. “You got this, Audrey.”
My sincerity catches her off-guard, and her eyes hold mine. For a split second, I swear she’s remembering what happened the last time we were this close—that kiss, the one that’s been replaying in my head ever since. Her mouth opens, then snaps shut. She turns back to the gingerbread slabs like they’re the only things that matter.
Three, two, one?—
The whistle blows, and Audrey immediately gets to work, hands flying. Meanwhile, I’m still holding the piping bag like it’s a loaded gun and wondering if frosting someone’s apron counts as contempt of cake.
Audrey
The whistle shrieks,and the whole room surges with energy—bowls rattling, kids shrieking, couples elbowing each other over gumdrops.
I brace myself for having to waste time incorporating Jack into my carefully planned strategy.
But instead, he rolls his shoulders back, squeezes the piping bag once to test the flow, and gives me a sharp nod like he’s reporting for duty. “Walls first?”
“Yes.” Relief loosens my spine, and I’m suddenly extremely thankful for Jack inserting himself into my gingerbread competition prep this past week, even if it wasjust in between mooching off my Wi-Fi and juggling Hollywood emails.
He crouches to eye level with the slab, his hands rock-solid as he pipes a line of icing, while mine tremble slightly as I join the edges. The wall seals tightly, cleaner than if I’d done it alone.
“Next?” he prompts, calm and focused, and damn if my chest doesn’t squeeze.
I grab the next rectangle of perfectly baked gingerbread from my prep line-up. “Other wall.”
Piece by piece, we fall into a rhythm. I direct, he executes. His piping is deliberate, his hands surprisingly deft for someone who spends most of his life with contracts instead of confections. Every so often he throws me a glance, like he’s checking to see if I approve, and each time I have to swallow the ridiculous urge to tell him he could proudly add baker’s assistant to his résumé—and that he’s the best I’ve ever had.
Even at the Ritz, with properly trained assistants, I never felt as relaxed as I do with Jack by my side. He doesn’t try to outshine me or sneak in his own flair—he just… supports.
And for the first forty-five minutes of the competition, I give orders like a drill sergeant at the gingerbread Olympics, and Jack steadily complies.
By the time the halfway whistle blows, our house structure is standing tall. Undecorated, but with the hardest part behind us. For the first time since I overslept this morning, my shoulders unclench, my breath sliding out in something close to relief.
Letting out a sigh, Jack sits back in one of the chairswe’ve been given and scratches his neck while I circle our table like a building inspector with a clipboard.
“When they blow the whistle to start again, we’ll install the candy cane porch columns, followed by the gumdrop pathway.” Moving to the cart, I double-check that I have all the required candy lined up in the correct order to mirror my instructions. “We’ll leave the roof shingles for last to make sure the icing has time to fully cure so the roof can bear the weight.”
“That sounds like a well-thought-out plan.” Portia, owner of the Sweetest Thing Candy Shop, stops by our table, Amanda Willis behind her.
“Oh, hey.” I straighten to attention, my old days of competing in international showcases coming back to me. “Thank you, judge.”
Portia rolls her eyes. “Thank you, judge? Really, Audrey?”
