Page 72 of Serving Bunt

A smirk played at the corner of his mouth, and I had a sudden urge to lean over and kiss it away. Or maybe nibble it? Instead, I reached for the vanilla, making sure to brush my arm across his pecs. It was a barely-there touch, but he shivered, nonetheless.

We didn’t talk much after that. Didn't need to. Every time our fingers touched in passing was enough.

When the cakes finally came out of the oven, we let them cool before stacking them and piping the fluffy white frosting between the layers. It definitely looked like a cake, and at this point in my five-day baking career, that was enough for me. Even better, it was almost straight.

Ha, I’ve heard that one before.

I laughed under my breath when Matty stole a spoonful and held it up like a dare.

“Open,” he said, voice low and innocent enough for the cameras.

The word hit me like a spark.

I parted my lips and let him feed it to me, my tongue flicking out to catch the edge of the spoon.

Mmm, tastes like . . . us.

Sweet, spicy, and a little messy—my favorite flavor.

Our eyes met for half a second before I pulled back with a perfectly neutral, “Thanks, man.”

Matty had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.

When the timer finally buzzed, we carried our cake up to the front to present to the judges.

“It’s Alabama Lane Cake,” Matty started, his voice steady and sure. “It’s my granny’s recipe—”

“His granny’s award-winning recipe,” I corrected, earning me smiles from both Matty and the entire judging panel. Even Keira, which was somewhat of a relief. I had begun to think the woman was incapable of emoting anything beyond neutral.

“That’s right,” Matty confirmed. “It’s a classic holiday cake in the South, or at least it is in my house. But Peter and I wanted it to be ours, so we made a few changes.”

I jumped in seamlessly. “We swapped out the bourbon for dark rum and added some toasted coconut, cinnamon, and ginger. It’s still the Lane Cake Matty grew up with, but now it carries a piece of my abuelita, too.”

They sliced into the cake with careful precision. The layers held beautifully, the rum glaze glistening under the lights. I held my breath as Jin Kato took the first bite, followed by Mandy and Keira.

This was it.

This single moment would decide whether or not we took home the fifty grand for the Junior Roasters. Fifty thousand dollars that could make a world of difference for the kids in the program.

Sure, some of that money would go toward new uniforms, travel scholarships, and equipment for families who otherwise couldn’t afford it, but the organization had always been about more than what happened on the field.

Over the last few years, they had expanded their mental health initiatives, bringing in counselors, hosting workshops, and creating spaces where kids could talk openly about things most of us had been taught to bottle up: anxiety, depression, the social pressure of growing up in a world that never seemed to slow down.

Baseball might be what brought them through the door; community was what kept them there.

And if a few days of bruised egos and near-fatal cookie collapses were all it took to make that happen, it felt like a damn good trade.

Jin Kato spoke first. “Gentlemen, the texture is . . .”

I held my breath.

“Impeccable,” he finished, nodding approvingly. “Light sponge, beautifully balanced sweetness. The rum was an excellent choice, and the spices—they lift it without stealing the show.”

Mandy Bickham lifted her fork, swirling it through the air like a magic wand while she spoke. “You can taste the care that went into this. This isn’t just a cake; it’s a conversation between two heritages.”

It all came down to Keira.

“The two of you have grown so much over the competition,” she started. “I think even you can admit that the early days were . . . rocky.”