I almost laugh, convinced she’s messing with me. But when she continues to stare at me expectantly, the amusement fades to confusion. “You trust me with that?”
The same Audrey who nearly came unglued when I piped an uneven line of icing that would be hidden inside the house, lifts her shoulders with a shrug. “Why not? You’ve got good hands.” She says it lightly, like she’s talking about my penmanship, but something in her voice takes me back to her apartment, our Christmas tree and last night’s kiss.
I clear my throat and dirty mind, worried I might inadvertently start competing with the candy canes for the stiffest line at the table. “Okay then.”
I start slapping gingerbread slabs together with icing mortar, fashioning something vaguely resembling a skiff. My “boat” looks about as seaworthy as a shoebox, but Audrey’s not correcting, not critiquing, just steadies the bowl of icing when I reach for it or slides a gumdrop across the table without a word.
And when one of my licorice railings sags sideways, she snorts.Snorts.
“Don’t laugh,” I protest, trying to right it, but she’s already shaking with laughter, her hair falling over her shoulder.
“It’s charming,” she insists, eyes bright. “Authentic.” She dabs a fingertip in a blob of icing stuck to the back of my hand before it can slide onto our masterpiece. “Hideaway boats are supposed to look a little weathered.”
Her touch lingers for a beat too long on the edge of my knuckle before pulling back, eyes on the gingerbread like nothing happened.
Every time I fumble—licorice railings sagging, candy oars tilting—she covers the mistake with a sprinkle of sugar or a swirl of frosting, smoothing over my flaws like she’s been doing it forever. And each time, her mouth curves in that restrained little smile, the one that tells me she’s enjoying this more than she’ll admit out loud.
Together we add a sheet of blue sugar glass for the “water,” the boat perched at the dock with a gummy fish leaping beside it. She anchors it with icing ropes while I pipe snowdrifts along the dock.
It doesn’t look as professional as Audrey’s painstakingly designed blueprint. But it looks… alive. Joyful.
I glance at her, hair slipping loose from her braid, face glowing in the warm overhead lights. She catches me staring, but instead of looking away, she stares back, smiling.
Someone across the room laughs, drawing her attention for a moment. When she looks back, her eyes are wide, her brows lifted. Hopeful. “Are you having fun?”
She has no idea.
“Big time.” My smile feels unnaturally large.
Somewhere between straight candy-cane railings and my sad gingerbread dinghy, it became less about supporting her and more about us spending time together.
And damn if I don’t want more.
Audrey
“We’ve got this.”Jack nudges his shoulder against mine, his cadet-straight posture comically at odds with the powdered sugar streaking his Henley.
Our mansion stands tall behind us as Jack and I—and all the teams—line up at the front of the community center with their builds displayed.
I may not agree with Jack’s certainty about winning the showcase, but even so, I nudge him back. “Yeah.” We share a smile that lasts a beat longer than friendly.
His eyes drop to my lips, and I?—
“Testing.”
A nervous energy zings through me as Eileen taps the microphone. But it isn’t about the competition. It’s about what I’ve been secretly planning to do with Jack after the competition. To show him just how much I appreciate him. For today, the past weeks at Making Whoopie, and last night in my apartment.
“Ladies and gentlemen, bakers and builders,” she begins, her voice carrying easily over the crowd, “what a Showcase this has been. I’ve seen gumdrop gardens, peppermint porches, chocolate chimneys, and one questionable jellybean outhouse.” The crowd chuckles, and Eileen grins. “And I can honestly say this year’s creativity and teamwork has outdone them all.”
She sweeps her arm toward the lineup of houses. “Now some of you will be leaving with ribbons today, and some with nothing more than a sugar hangover and sticky fingers. But every single one of you is taking home something sweeter—memories made right here in Hideaway Harbor.”
Eileen’s gaze lands on me, holding for a second before moving along.
“As for the prizes: first, second and third place winners will each receive gift certificates to the community center, good toward registration fees for spring sports and classes.” She pauses. “And exclusive to ourfirstplace champions is their picture in Hideaway’s very ownAlmanac, and”—she draws it out, eyes sparkling—“in the Bangor regional paper, theBangor Daily Chronicle.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd at the mention of the regional coverage. My pulse kicks up a notch.
I glance back at our mansion, standing tall with candy-cane columns, a winding gumdrop path, and Jack’s gingerbread boat bobbing off its licorice dock. It looks impressive.
