Translation: I fucked up the measurements.
When he reaches Juniper's station, his face lights up. “Exceptional. Perfect rise, beautiful swirl, balanced flavors.”
She blushes, pleased. I want to kiss that pink skin, follow it down to see how far it goes.
The judges retire to deliberate. The crowd mingles, sampling non-competition baked goods from vendor booths. I stick closeto Colt and the others, playing my part while watching Juniper chat with the other bakers. She laughs at something one of them says, and jealousy spikes through me, hot and irrational.
Magnus returns to the platform. “Results for the breakfast pastries competition. The following three bakers advance to tomorrow's finals…”
My stomach drops. Here we go.
“In third place, Beatrice Howl.”
An older woman with wild gray hair gasps, pressing her hands to her face.
“In second place, Juniper Winslow.”
Relief floods through me. She made it. Of course she made it; her rolls were perfect.
“And our first place preliminary winner... Kieran Laird.”
What?
The tent goes silent. Then erupts.
“That's impossible?—”
“Must be a mistake?—”
“But his rolls were uneven?—”
Magnus raises his hand for quiet. “We look forward to seeing our bakers tomorrow at the free-for-all final.”
I find Juniper in the crowd. She's staring at me with an expression I can't read. Not hurt or angry. Confused, maybe? Suspicious?
She starts to walk over, but then Colt appears at my shoulder, his impression of Clay's swagger perfect. I don’t want her anywhere near him, so I turn my back. It isn’t polite, but I can’t think of any other way to avoid them interacting.
“Good job, brother. Told you that donation to the festival committee would pay off.”
He laughs like it's a joke, but several people exchange glances, and Juniper, who’s paused by the display tables, blinks in surprise.
“I didn't—” I start.
His voice drops. “Relax. I’ve taken care of it. Two of the judges are in my pocket. Not the upstanding Mr. Huckle, of course. Let the audience think what they want. See you tomorrow for the finals.”
My stomach turns. People are already whispering, looking between me and the judges' table. Two of the judges, a nervous-looking younger man and a woman with severe-looking glasses, won't meet anyone's eyes.
Juniper’s walked back to her station. She's turned away, talking to another contestant, but her shoulders are rigid.
The tent starts clearing. I catch up to her outside.
“Juniper…”
“Congratulations on first place.” Her voice is polite.
“I wasn’t expecting that. And I didn’t know about the donation.”
“I didn't say you did.”
