“Ah, no.” She taps her chin, thinking it over. “Well, maybe in the first few days, before the Ethernet cable he ordered arrived. But he’s had that for ages. He’s always working when he gets home from the bakery—in his room, what with Los Angeles being a few hours behind us.”
“Oh.” The sound around me thins, like all the oxygen’s been pulled out of the community center.
The time difference. I’d completely forgotten about that.
“Then why did he always show up right when the bakery opened if people were still sleeping in LA?”
Amanda cocks a hip, looking at me as if I asked why water is wet. “Seriously?”
Portia laughs at something Eileen says at the front of the room, drawing Amanda’s attention—and softening her gaze.
I’d be interested in that detail if I wasn’t still trying to work out what she just told me.
“Got to go be an epic judge sidekick.” Amanda winks at me. “Wish me luck.”
And I know she’s asking for more than just luck with judging. “Good luck.”
“You too.” And I know we both mean more than just luck with the gingerbread competition.
She saunters away, passing Jack as he jogs down the aisle toward our table.
He pulls up short at my look and checks his watch. “I made it, right?”
“Yes.” The word catches, and I clear my throat. “Plenty of time.”
“One minute!” Eileen bellows, causing teams to resettle around their tables.
“Hey.” Jack drops a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?” He glances behind him at my perfectly proportioned and executed gingerbread mansion with unattached boathouse. “I didn’t mess anything up, did I?”
“No.” I shake my head hard, for some reason finding it difficult to get the words out. “You did great.”
His chest puffs out, looking surprised but pleased. “Yeah.”
“Yeah.” I laugh, the escaping air loosening something else inside me. “Totally.”
OFF-SCRIPT
Jack
The second whistle blows, and suddenly it feels like I’ve stepped into an entirely different competition.
Same table. Same gingerbread mansion. Same sugar-fueled crowd buzzing all around us. But Audrey? She’s not the same woman who barked orders at me for the first hour like Gordon Ramsay on a peppermint bender.
Something’s shifted.
“What do you think?” She holds a jar of candy canes in one hand and gumdrops in the other.
I blink, sure I misheard her. “You’re asking me?”
“Yes, you.” A laugh slips out of her, quick and real, like it escaped before she could stop it. “Don’t look so surprised.” She rattles the candies. “Candy canes or gumdrops?”
“Candy canes.” I draw out my answer, trying to figure out who flipped Audrey Nouel’s switch and how.
She nods like I’ve passed a test and presses one into place, the peppermint gleaming against the white icing. Then, without fanfare, she nudges the piping bag into my hands. “Your turn.”
I look at her, waiting for the punch line. “My turn for what?”
“For the boathouse dock.” She motions to the bare gingerbread slab jutting out like a pier. “You’re in charge of the boat.”
