Page 29 of Crack the Ice

I look toward Lana, who hasn’t moved yet and is smiling like a lunatic. “She’ll call you in half an hour.”

“Okie Dokie artichokey,” she sings.

Sunny laughs, and I roll my eyes as the call disconnects. Leaning back, I shake my headphones off my head, hoping they land on my shoulders, but end up falling to the floor. Not my brightest moment, but I don’t have another option unless I want them sticky, which is a huge no-go.

“Did you not sleep last night and need an IV of coffee to survive the day or what?” I nod toward the drinks.

She places them on the table next to the sink and wipes her hands down the front of her shirt. “No, but you have an interview with Tampa Today in an hour.”

My eyes widen, a wave of unease wells in my stomach, climbing up until it feels like a noose around my neck as her words land.

“This is why I didn’t tell you. I knew you’d freak out.”

“Of course I’m freaking out, Lana. Hell, I’m already sweating, and you just told me five seconds ago.”

She cringes, and I have to fight the urge to throw a handful of dough at her head. I knew this day would come, but I had always hoped to be well prepared for it. Not that it would matter because the second someone asks me a question, I freeze faster than a penguin’s handshake.

“Look, they’re going to ask you about your baking journey. How you got here, where you want it to go, and what your favorite things to bake are. It’s all stuff you already know.”

“Yeah, Lana, I know. But I failed my public speaking class, you know this.”

She walks around the table, placing her hands on my shoulders and squeezing them reassuringly. “I know, but you’ll be fine. I brought coffee. You have enough time to finish what you’re doing and then clean yourself up. Don’t think about it.”

Don’t think about it, my ass. There is little in this world I hate more than talking about myself or my accomplishments. I can bake my ass off all day long. I know that I know what I’m doing, but ask me about my process or for a recipe, and it’s like my brain unplugs itself, completely vacates the building, and yells “adiós, muchachos!” over its shoulder.

This is going to be a disaster, but if I want to be semi-presentable when they get here, I have to focus on getting this dough rolled out and into the oven. A cup full of iced coffee makes its way into my line of sight, my eyes tracking it until they land on Lana. She gives me an apologetic smile and positions the straw to my lips so I can take a drink without covering the cup in eggs and flour.

The second the liquid hit my tongue, my eyes drift shut. “Thanks,” I say, pulling back, a little calmer than I was seconds ago.

She gives me a nod before she leaves me to my work, only to come back forty-five minutes later to let me know I have fifteen minutes before they get here. The bread is out of the oven, wrapped in cellophane and tagged so that when Markus comes to pick it up, he knows which loaf belongs to which teammate. The cookies are on a cooling rack, and the muffins have eight minutes before they’re done. Which leaves me time to make myself look decent.

I wash my hands, then head to my office, taking my hair out and fluffing it in the mirror. It looks a little flat today, which I’m not a fan of, so I grab the cupcake claw clip from my desk and pull half of it up. Pulling two tendrils of hair down, I lean into my comfort face framers. Is that a thing? I don’t know, but I twirl them when I get nervous so…

Approving my appearance, I push through the door, smiling when I see that the young woman who I’ll be interviewing with is none other than Hannah’s friend, Dylan. The one she lovingly refers to as “dill pickle.”

We’ve met a handful of times, and though my skin is definitely clammy and my heartbeat is erratic, I feel a little better knowing it’s not someone who’s going to try to make me look a certain way. I’ve learned from my brother’s years of press nightmares that not all journalists are created equal. Some want to get a story out that’ll make their career, whether there’s any truth to it or not.

“Hey Cecilia, this is amazing!” she says, sweeping her arm through the air, motioning to the front of the bakery. It always makes me smile when I get to witness someone else seeing it for the first time, or maybe the hundredth and still can’t get enough. It’s unique, girly in some aspects like you’d expect from a woman-owned bakery, but gritty enough to live up to the name The Penalty Box.

“Thanks, it’s nice to see you, Dylan.”

“You too. Should we get started?” she asks, moving to one of the tables in the front where I see her iPad already out. I take a deep, shuddering breath, willing my nerves to settle the hell down.

Lana catches my gaze and nods over the top of Dylan’s head before turning and heading to her office, closing the door behind her, giving us privacy I’m not sure we need. “Sure,” I squeak out, sitting down in the chair across from her.

“Okay, let’s start with the simple questions.” She taps on her iPad, moving to a document that already has text on it, which I assume are her questions. My leg bounces restlessly under that table, fingers digging into the backs of my hands. “When did you first know you wanted to bake?”

TEN

MAVERICK

This morning’s visit to The Penalty Box was not a planned trip. In fact, I tried everything in the book not to come here this morning. But Lily is a persistent little thing, and the sight in front of me has me silently thanking her for being so damn persistent.

I clock the mindless bouncing of her leg the second we walk through the door. Cecilia freezes, then every ounce of tension bleeds from her the second her eyes connect with mine. She may pretend she wants nothing to do with me, but this right here? This tells me everything I need to know.

“Cecy!” Lily cries, running across the room and throwing her arms around her neck.

“Hey, sweet girl.” She kisses her cheek, and my heart swells. “What are you doing here?” She immediately turns her head, resting it against the top of Lily’s head.