But not perfect.Not the polished replica I envisioned in my carefully drafted blueprints. The kind of thing I never would’ve submitted when perfection was the only acceptable outcome.
Even so, I’ve never loved anything I made more.
Eileen hands over the microphone to Portia, whose vibrantly colored hair and tinsel extensions catch the overhead lights. Amanda, usually glued to her side, has slipped away so as not to upstage the competitors.
Portia smiles at the crowd, the hand holding the microphone stacked in a multitude of candy bracelets. “I’ll start with the honorable mention for most creative concept…”
I take Jack’s hand in mine.
Startled, he looks down at our hands before frowning at me. “You okay?” he whispers out the side of his mouth, trying not to draw attention.
Portia drones through the early awards.
Trying not to let the sudden rush of emotion show, I wink at him. “Win or lose, I had a great time with you today.”
That shocks him more than me holding his hand. “Yeah.” His posture loosens, shoulders relaxing as he twists toward me. “Me too.”
“And not just today.” I hesitate, then push through. “Every day since you arrived has been great. Fun, even.”
Jack arches a brow, disbelief tugging at his mouth. “Even the first day?”
I chuckle quietly. “Well, maybe not that first day.”
“Even last night?” His grin tilts, more sin than humor, his eyes locking on mine.
The room gets warmer.
“Yeah.” I squeeze his hand. “Even last?—”
“Team Whoopie!” Portia’s shout reverberates across the community center, slicing through the moment.
For a second, it doesn’t even register. But then cheerserupt, claps echo off the rafters, and Eileen bustles toward us with the blue ribbon.
I won.
I actually won.
Jack engulfs me in a hug, his warmth crashing into the high already flooding my veins.
No—I squeeze him tighter—wewon.
Joy bursts through me, impossible to contain, and I bounce in his arms like a cork popping free.
Not just because theAlmanacphotographer is on his way, or because theBangor Daily Chroniclewill run my bakery’s name for all of southern Maine to see—including the bakery that tried to steal it. And not just because it’s another notch of prestige to wave in my mother’s face.
It’s about more than that. About letting go. About joy without ROI.
I step back to accept the ribbon Eileen hands me. Jack bows extravagantly like he’s just accepted a Tony Award, making me roll my eyes so hard I lose my balance. Grinning, I shift toward him—straight into his chest.
“Careful.” Jack steadies me, his hand firm on my elbow. But it’s too late.
My Crocs betray me.
One sole catches on the custom charms I ordered on Etsy. Rubber catches on rubber, and I stutter-step backward, apron strings tangling around my legs.
I stumble—hard.
Jack grabs for me, but the skid-resistant Croc shall not be moved, and together we topple.
