I nod, and she hurries off, nodding a cameraman my way. This is one of those “must get it on camera” moments we were instructed about.
“Does anyone have the dried orange slices?” I call loudly, looking around.
No one answers.
I hold out my hands, frustrated. “The orange slices? Anyone?”
Cole and Jerome shake their heads; so do Jessica and Anne.
“We don’t have them,” Misty hollers. Max says the same, and so does Quinn.
That only leaves one group.
I walk to Christy and Chrissy’s workstation, trying not to look irked. Sure enough, the canister of oranges is sitting on their bench, unopened.
“Are you done with the oranges?” I ask, not bothering to address either of them specifically.
Chrissy looks up as if distracted. “What’s that, honey?”
“Are you finished with the oranges?”
She gives me an apologetic face. (Sort of—her forehead and eyebrows don’t actually move.) “Oh, I’m sorry, Harper. We’re not quite done with them.”
“Okay… Can I take about seven slices and leave you with the rest?”
Christy makes a face. “We’re not sure exactly how many we’re going to need.”
I stare at them, waiting for them to break. After almost a full thirty seconds, it becomes clear that they’re as stubborn as I am, and all I’m doing is wasting my precious time.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Good luck, Harper!” Chrissy calls, her voice as sweet and fake as saccharine. “I’m sure you’ll figure out something!”
Shaking my head, fuming but trying to hide it, I stalk back to the ingredient cabinet. I scan the canisters, racking my brain for ideas. Finally, my eyes land on the cinnamon sticks.
That will do.
I grab them and race back to my workstation. Sadie shoots the blond competitors to our right a look of pure loathing. “I noticed Christy ran to the ingredient carts while we were talking with Mason. She must have heard that we wanted the oranges.”
“Cows,” I mutter, and then I cringe. “Sorry, that was harsh.”
Sadie just laughs and sets aside the last of the finished rosemary. “What are you planning to do with the cinnamon sticks?”
“Take over the frosting, and I’ll show you.”
Thirty minutes later, our wreath is gorgeous, if I do say so myself. Sadie’s icing is perfection. When she was finished, she dusted the cookies with edible white glitter, and then we tucked the sugared rosemary, cranberries, and little bundles of cinnamon sticks around the entire thing. We made too many cookies, but I set them aside. I’m sure the crew will make quick work of them after the show.
We’re just admiring our creation when Sadie yelps. “We need a bow!”
Somehow, we forgot, and now we only have ten minutes. Both of us hurry to the cart that holds the inedible tools and decorations, but there’s no ribbon left.
“Chocolate!” I exclaim, grabbing the chips. “We’ll pipe it on parchment paper and stick it in the blast chiller.”
Mason yells, “Time!” only seconds after we secure our new, delicate chocolate ribbon to the butter cookie holly wreath.
Sadie sucks in a breath and grabs the edge of the table. “That was close.”
I nod in agreement, stepping out of the way of a cameraman as he gets a shot of our finished cookie masterpiece.
