“Two more slices of apple,” someone barks from outside.
I slice them, run the garnishes like muscle memory—whip, dust, drizzle, done. Coffee flows. Fryers hum. The kitchen is like a synchronized dance when it’s working.
Our celebrity chef is fast. I’ll give her that.
Her pastry cream sets right, her lamination is basically perfect, her caramel is so good I want to punch someone.
And every time I don’t want to be impressed, she does something I respect, like her ease with the customers.
Which just makes it more annoying.
She’s cheerful. Efficient. Too damn good at winning people over. And she’s somehow turned my kitchen crew into her fan club.
Every time I glance her way, she’s laughing with one of my staff, teaching them something, handing a customer a warm cronut and getting a smile big enough to power a small town.
Hannah and Tyler—the same teens who drag their feet cleaning fryers—are suddenly polishing trays because “Chef Baker likes a shiny surface.”
And don’t get me started on how they gushed when she started following them online. Barf.
I don’t even have a TokTik, Facegram, or whatever the hell they’re all on these days.
I should be grateful.
Business is booming, which is what we need.
But every time someone orders one of her stupidly perfect pumpkin cronuts, it feels like a personal attack against my recipes and me.
She’s making me competitive, which is ridiculous. This isn’t a competition.
Except it is.
“Crowds like a gimmick,” I say when the first rush breaks. “Cronut, cruffin, crookie. Give it a Frankenstein name and watch the phones come out for the ‘gram.”
I think I said that right.
She cocks her head, still smiling, still friendly, but her eyes are sharp.
“To be fair, I didn’t invent the cronut. I just make a good one.”
“Hmm.”
“And you’re right, crowds love a gimmick. That’s why your ‘corndog with a twist’ sold out before lunch was over.”
I glance at the empty pan like it betrayed me.
“That’s not a gimmick. That’s my grandmother’s recipe with a better name.”
“So… branding.” She cocks her head to the side. “Or would we call that a variation on a Frankenstein name?”
Katelyn bites into one of my apple pie scraps—because of course she took a scrap while I wasn’t looking—and closes her eyes to hum in satisfaction.
My dick makes an unexpected twitch.
“Okay, Mr. Not-A-Gimmick.” She opens her eyes. “Where’d you learn to make your pie crust?”
“My grandma,” I say, flat. “And the Army.”
Her eyebrows jump. “The Army taught you to make perfectly buttery pastry?”
