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I turn to the sweet and clever woman who’s becoming my friend and give her a silent yay. She smiles back, big and genuine, her cheeks flushed behind her red-framed-glasses.
“In second place, West Byron and Frederick James Ebenezer Hawley with eight and a half points each,” Mr. Skips says.
My heart slams to the ground.
Crushed like a cigarette butt beneath a boot on the Coney Island beach.
That means I didn’t even make the top three. I’m not going to stand a chance at being Mrs. Sweets.
I wince but lift my chin, saying strong.
Mr. Skips chuckles, a cheery sound, as he reads the final name. “And the winner of the round, with nine points, is Gigi James and her peach cobbler and goat cheese ice cream masterpiece. Congratulations, Gigi! Innovative and incredible work,” he says with a go-get-em-girl pump of his fist.
Wow. I did not expect that.
At all.
Glee rushes through me, along with a tingly sense that victory is in my grasp.
I’ve always loved games and challenges, competitions of any kind really, but I’d really love to lock this title down. For my family’s business. For what it can do for Sweetie Pies. And for what it says about me–that I can carry on the family legacy just fine.
The trouble is, victory is sweetest when it comes fair and square. And today’s triumph most decidedly did not.
Hawley doesn’t deserve second place. His stunt was total poppycock. No, I can’t prove he’s the one who sabotaged West’s machine, but I overheard some of the staff whispering while I was putting the finishing touches on my dish. Apparently, one of them spotted Hawley earlier coming out of the equipment truck with a duffle bag. If he wasn’t snatching the extra ice cream makers—after messing with West’s to make sure it wouldn’t work—I’ll drink an entire pot of tea without cream or sugar.
I didn’t call Nelson on his bullshit yesterday—and I stand by that choice—but that guy over there in the aqua shorts and a pastel yellow polo shirt? His hoodwinkery today?
Unacceptable.
He messed with my man. He damaged my boyfriend’s chances to win this thing. West might not care about the contest. But I do. And contests need to be won by playing by the rules.
I take off my earrings, set them in my purse, and march over to the prick in pastel, plastering a smile on my face. The best way to begin any confrontation? Kill them with kindness.
“Congratulations,” I coo. “You’re doing so well. And I wanted to tell you, I recently had one of your fabulous frozen eclairs. Absolutely delicious,” I tell him, wishing it were a lie, hating that it’s not.
The man does make tremendous treats.
Which only makes his cheating more unforgivable. It’s not like he needs an edge.
“Ah, thank you so much. You’re a doll.” His lips curve into a smug, entitled grin. “And so talented. I’ve actually been thinking of adding frozen pies to my product line. Maybe we could go into business together. What do you think? Would you consider letting me commission a few of your recipes?” he asks, throwing me for a loop.
For a split second, I’m flattered.
And a little tempted.
The man does run a food empire.
Yes, Sweetie Pies does very well with direct orders on our website, but our pies aren’t in grocery stores.
For several tantalizing seconds, I imagine my pies in his distribution network and how exciting it would be to see my recipes in the freezer section.
But then I picture West’s smoking ice cream maker, and I burn inside.
I am passionate about a lot of things, including my boyfriend.
I give a polite, yet crusty, “Thank you so much. But they’re family recipes. They’re not for sale, though I appreciate your interest.” I smile. “Speaking of interest, I’m sooo curious. What, exactly, were you doing in the equipment truck earlier?”
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
“The truck. One of the staff members saw you coming out with a duffle bag.”
He smiles, a sickly false one. “They must be mistaken. I’ve been here in the tent since I arrived.”
“Huh. Really?” I press. “Seems hard to imagine there are that many men around wearing such nicely starched pastel.”
His eyes narrow. “We’re beachside. Pastel is a natural choice.”
“Is it?” I narrow my eyes back at him. “Look around and find one other person in that crowd wearing anything close to what you’re wearing. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
His lips curve in a meaner, harder smile. “As amusing as this conversation is, I’ve reached my limit on indulging paranoia today, buttercup.”
Oh no he didn’t.
He did not say that.
The kid gloves are coming off.
I park my hands on my hips. “One, I am not a buttercup. You don’t get to give me a nickname. Especially, a diminutive one. Two, it’s not paranoia. You committed ice cream subterfuge and you know it.”
He cackles, tossing his head back, his perfectly styled hair not even moving. Not a single hair. “Ice cream subterfuge? What next? Candy sabotage? Chocolate chicanery? Do you even hear yourself?”
