“Additionally, to ensure fairness, we'll be rotating judges throughout the baking process. Each judge will evaluate different aspects independently. I have the final say.”
The nervous young judge fidgets. Good. Let him sweat about whether his bribe from yesterday will matter and what Colt will do to him otherwise.
“Begin!”
We dive into our work. I’ve made cinnamon rolls again because I don’t know how to make anything else. I've made these rolls enough times now that my hands know the motions. Mix, knead, proof. The repetition is almost relaxing.
Across from me, Juniper moves with grace. She's added something new to her recipe. I can smell it. Cardamom, maybe? Orange zest? It looks like she’s doing rolls again, too. She catchesme gawking at her and winks. The crowd presses against the ropes, craning their necks to get a look at what we’re making.
An hour in, Juniper's mixer starts making a grinding sound. She hits the stop button, but it keeps running, the blade scraping against the bowl with a metallic shriek.
“Shit,” she mutters, yanking the plug.
“I’m sorry, but equipment failure is not grounds for additional time,” one of the judges says.
Juniper's face flushes. She starts mixing by hand, but she's lost precious minutes. Her perfect timeline is shot.
I look at my own dough, already in the oven, rising beautifully for some reason. Then at Juniper, whisking frantically, sweat beading at her temple. Beartrice's Danish pastries are also in the oven. If things continue, Juniper's going to lose on timing alone.
“Focus on your own station, Mr. Laird,” the nervous judge says.
But I can't. I’m painfully aware of the determination on Juniper's face and the way she's not giving up. She’s the best baker here.
Colt catches my eye from the crowd. He nods toward my oven, message clear: win this.
Beatrice shrieks as she removes her pastries. They’ve been in too long and are too crisp, the fillings leaking everywhere, and the outsides charred.
I open the oven door. My rolls are perfect. Golden brown, with even swirls, the smell is delicious. All I have to do is pull them out and plate them up.
Juniper's still struggling. Her dough’s in the oven, but she's running out of time for the final glaze. Her hands shake slightly as she works.
I consider Clay's orders and the bribe. Think about the alibi that's already established; hundreds of people have seen the fake‘Clay’ here all day. But then I remember Juniper's beautiful face last night when she said she knew I wasn't a cheater, her eyes shining.
I open my oven door. The heat blasts out, carrying the perfect scent of cinnamon and butter. My rolls are magazine-worthy. I reach in, grab the tray, stumble, and flip the entire pan.
The crash echoes through the tent. Two dozen perfect rolls scatter across the floor, dirt and grass sticking to the glaze.
“Fuck!” I roar, shaking my fist, selling it for the open-mouthed audience. Three small, out-of-control dogs run under the rope and start chomping on the scattered rolls, growling and tearing them apart.
The crowd gasps. Colt starts to laugh before he catches himself and frowns, remembering he's being watched and pretending to be his sterner brother.
“Oh, Kieran,” Beatrice says sympathetically.
But Juniper's looking at me with an expression I can't read. She knows. Of course she knows. I didn't stumble by accident.
“Five minutes!” Magnus calls.
Juniper plates her rolls with seconds to spare. They're not as perfect as usual; the glaze rushed. But they're complete. And they smell incredible.
Beatrice's Danish pastries are burned to hell. My rolls are destroyed on the floor.
The judging is quick. With my rolls inedible, it's between the two women. The judges taste, confer, and then Magnus steps up to the stage.
“The winner of this year's Fall Festival Breakfast Pastry Baking Competition is Juniper Winslow!”
The crowd claps enthusiastically and people surge forward to congratulate her. But she's still looking at me, eyes bright.
I start to turn away, but Juniper catches my arm.
