“Is it?”
“Mmhmmm,” he walked towards the pass through, stepping between two bar stools, and tapped one long finger against the closed wooden doors that sealed the passage off. Attached to each side, they resembled shutters and latched where they met in the middle. The kitchen door itself pushed open from either side, to make it easy to open with just a nudge of a shoulder when carrying steaming hot dishes to my small dining table.
His nose twitched in the air, reminding me of a cute rabbit, before he unlatched the doors on the pass through and shoved them to each side. There was no point in me even yelling at him to stop. He was going to find out, especially with him staying with me for the next two weeks. There was no way I could hide it from him, especially if I intended to get my project done on time.
His gasp had my feet moving forward, rushing to stand beside him. I wondered what it looked like through his eyes.
“Bal, what?” he stammered, staring at me with wide chocolate eyes. “That’s…gingerbread.”
“It is,” I agreed, because what else could I say?
“A shit ton of gingerbread.” He quickly moved around me, skirting the other stools, and pushed the swinging door open.
He stared around my kitchen, hands on his hips, just surveying my mess. Finally, he bent to peer at my assembled pieces with practiced eyes. Standing, he scrutinized me. “You’re entering the contest?”
Letting out a small sigh, I nodded. “I’ve entered the contest every year we’ve had it.”
Confusion swamped his features, and he gave his head a shake. “No…how…I judge that contest. I would remember if you entered.”
“I’m aware you judge it,” my voice was dry as dust. “I’ve gotten second place every single year.” This would be the third year for the contest, so hopefully I would take first this time around.
“You…what...second…” his voice trailed off, as he did a small turn, taking it all in.
Stepping fully into the room, the door swished softly behind me. “Yes, second. Which I’m calling some BS right now. Last year my piece had much more detail than the winning one. I’m quite skilled with my decorating.”
Kendrick blinked at me, his mouth hanging open in a small O. Finally, he seemed to shake himself out of his trance. “It was. You are. That’s not why you lost. It’s not why you’ve lost every year.”
“It’s not?”
“No,” Kendrick said softly. He moved over to where the latest batch was drying on the long counter behind us. Reaching a hand out, he stopped, turning to me. “May I?”
Waving a hand in consent, I watched as he broke off a tiny corner. He sniffed it, ran it between his thumb and finger, before finally popping it in his mouth and chewing.
“You’ve lost because the winners have a better tasting gingerbread.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and I was so mesmerized by the sight, it took way longer for his words to penetrate my brain.
“They taste better?” I couldn’t believe that was the reason I had lost all these years. Why had that thought never occurred to me?
“Yeah,” Kendrick nodded, leaning his butt casually against the counter. “It’s not just about the structure, or the decoration. It’s also about the taste. Not all gingerbread tastes the same, as I’m sure you know. Just like it’s not all the same color, sturdiness, etcetera. But how has no one caught on that you have been entering? Do Keegan and Nik know?”
I shrugged one shoulder. “I enter under my name; B. Eroth. Nik likely knows if he ever saw my name on the entry. But he’s usually too busy to go to the contest. Just shows up at the end to announce the winner with Keegan. Most people here don’t even know what my last name is, since they aren’t normally used here. And I never collect my stupid prize. I don’t want a second place prize.”
“There’s nothing wrong with second place, but this year will be different,” Kendrick sounded sure of himself, breaking off another piece of my gingerbread and chewing it slowly. I could almost see his mind whirling, though what exactly he was conjuring up I wasn’t sure.
“And why is that?”
He swallowed, then opened my fridge and scanned the contents. Reaching for a bottle of water, he twisted the cap and took a long drink. Again, I was fascinated watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Because this year you’re going to win.”
“What?” I murmured, because I had barely been listening to him, too busy watching his pale skin. “I don’t want to win just because my fake boyfriend is judging. That’s not winning.”
“I’m going to help you,” he sounded so triumphant and almost…giddy at the idea, and I stared at him in horror.
“Absolutely not.”
He gave a short chuckle. “You need me. Your gingerbread definitely needs me. It smells great, don’t get me wrong. I mean, most gingerbread does. But the taste is all…wrong.”
“I was going more for structure sturdiness than taste,” I admitted.
“We need both.”
