Page 42 of Serving Bunt

We fell into a rhythm faster than I expected. I took point on the meringue base, measuring out the sugar and egg whites with the kind of obsessive precision that made most people roll their eyes.

Not Diaz, though.

He just prepped the piping bags and fruit, moving around me with quiet efficiency, all while whistling his way through the original Broadway cast recording of In the Heights.

That’s right. Peter Diaz was a fan of showtunes.

The entire team knew about it, too, thanks to the time his phone had accidentally connected to the Bluetooth speaker in the locker room while he’d been changing. The opening bars of “96,000” had blasted through the speakers at full volume, and the entire roster had frozen mid-conversation.

He’d owned it eventually, shrugging with that trademark grin.

“I’m Puerto Rican,” he’d offered up as an explanation. “Lin-Manuel Miranda and I are practically second cousins.”

From then on, it became locker room lore. At least half of the Hamilton soundtrack had made it into our regular rotation of our pregame locker room playlist, along with “Candy Store” from Heathers, “Opening Up” from Waitress, and more songs from Mamma Mia than any of us wanted to admit.

Plus, none of us could ever forget Diaz, Pink, and Tuck’s infamous rendition of “The Schuyler Sisters” during a very drunken and very private karaoke night at Thorn Tavern.

We all had the blackmail footage to prove it.

Hearing Diaz whistle it now while straining raspberries made something warm settle in my chest.

He wasn’t performing for anybody else. He was just being himself.

With me.

“What if we did a light citrus zest in the coulis?” he offered after about twenty minutes. “Orange or lemon. It might cut the sweetness and give it a brighter holiday feel.”

He caught himself almost immediately, shaking his head as if he were trying to erase the suggestion like a fucking Etch A Sketch.

“Never mind, I don’t want to mess up your plans.”

Dang, he was adorable when he got all timid and unsure.

“No, I love it,” I told him. “That’s a . . . better idea than what I had planned. Let’s do it.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I bumped his fist with mine. “We’re a team, right?”

His eyes glowed with a mixture of joy and something softer I couldn’t quite name. Relief, maybe. Like he’d been bracing himself for me to shut him down and was still a little surprised I hadn’t.

“Sí, chef.” He leaned in close and added. “I never realized you were so bossy, ‘Bama. Kinda makes me wonder where else you like to take charge.”

Fuck. Me.

I nearly dropped the piping bag in my hand. His implication was clear, delivered with that signature Diaz smirk that said he knew exactly what he was doing.

I cleared my throat, hard. “Focus, Peter.”

The next hour blurred together in the best way. The tension from yesterday had loosened, replaced by something steadier, stronger. For the first time since we’d arrived at Juniper Ridge, it felt like we were working as a team.

Eventually, Penelope wandered over, a cameraman trailing behind her like an eager puppy. “Looking good, gentlemen,” she said, leaning across our workstation. “Made a lot of pavlovas for team gatherings?”

“Nah,” Diaz answered, barely looking up from his bowl of macerated berries. “Though, we have indulged in the occasional themed party, and we always serve up margaritas at our movie nights.”

“And how does a girl swing an invite to these movie nights?”

“It’s all about who you know, Penelope.” I could practically see the at-home viewers swoon when he winked.