Page 26 of Serving Bunt

Penelope laughed, delighted. “You two argue like an old married couple. I’m sure we all can’t wait to see where this goes.”

Matty’s ears went pink. The color was nearly the same shade as the tips of his strawberry-blond curls when the sun hit them just right.

Hmm, I wonder how far down that blush goes . . .

“Bakers, please head to your stations.”

Penelope’s words snapped me out of my daydream.

All six of us broke formation and moved toward our assigned spots. Matty walked ahead of me, looking especially tall and lean in his fitted, green button-down and dark-wash jeans.

He was a braver man than I was. I sweat like a pig, and the July heat only made it worse. I had opted for a loose T-shirt and cotton shorts.

James and Nora took the workstation opposite us, while Colt and Mila opted for the one at the front of the room. The long wooden counter was already stocked for our bake, the overhead lights gleaming off stainless-steel mixers and neatly arranged ingredients.

Matty set his hands on the counter, still visibly tense.

I bumped his elbow lightly. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve had anxiety shits all morning.”

The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

“Bakers, you have ninety minutes to create your cookie boxes,” Penelope announced. “Ready, set . . . sleigh the bake!”

The timer started counting down on the big screens.

Ninety minutes, two dozen cookies.

Game on.

Matty

Our workstation looked like a fucking crime scene.

The Case of the Buttercream Bloodbath.

Flour blanketed every surface, broken cookie shards littered the counter, and somehow, there was more buttercream frosting coating our shoes than the edges of our cookie box.

I wiped sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist and resisted the urge to scream. Long sleeves had been a bad idea.

“This is exactly what I was worried about,” I muttered.

Diaz shot me a pointed glare. “You’re the one who kept opening the oven door every thirty seconds, mi pana.”

“Only because you forgot to set a timer even though I reminded you. Twice.”

He rubbed the back of his eyes, leaving a mix of flour and powdered sugar on his caramel skin. “You know I’m not good with numbers.”

“Ho, ho, holy night. There’s only five minutes to go, bakers,” Penelope called out above the noise. “If you haven’t started plating your cookie boxes, now’s the time to do it.”

Diaz muttered a curse in Spanish and went back to scraping the burnt bottoms off his cookies. Meanwhile, I frantically transferred my sad molasses crinkles into our collapsing cookie box.

Granny was going to have my ass for fucking up her legacy.

The round had started out well enough. Diaz and I had agreed to divide and conquer. He would take on the mantecaditos—Puerto Rican thumbprint cookies with guava filling—and I would handle my molasses morsels. In between, we would collaborate on our “box” made from no-spread sugar cookies and buttercream.

For the first thirty minutes, we moved in tandem, dancing around each other while making casual conversation for the cameras.

Normally, Diaz’s nonstop charm would’ve gotten under my skin, but today, it had been a welcome distraction. Anytime I clammed up or got too overwhelmed by the cameras tracking our every move, Diaz somehow redirected the attention before I could completely lock up.