We stare at each other. The space between us fizzes with electricity. I want to pull her behind the tent and kiss her until she can't remember her own name. Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets, fists clenched.
“Contestants!” A tall, silver-haired man with a neat beard climbs onto a small platform. Magnus Huckle, according to his judge's badge. “Welcome to the Snowflake Falls Baking Competition. Please find your assigned stations according to which competition you’re entering. The divisions are breakfast pastries, pies, cookies, and cakes. Five entrants for each division. We'll begin with the preliminary round in ten minutes.”
“Good luck,” Juniper smiles, touching my arm. The contact burns through my shirt, and I stare at her, unable to look away. This crazy need to possess her is overwhelming.
I clear my throat. “You too.”
We're stationed directly across from each other. She sets up her ingredients with practiced efficiency. I attempt not to notice how she bites her lip when she concentrates, but that makes it worse. My mind replays the soft sounds she made when I kissed her… those moans…
“Well, well! If it isn't Betty Crocker.”
I turn to find Viper and Hunter flanking someone who looks exactly like Clay. Colt's wearing Clay's cut, his president patch, and now he even has his hair styled the same way. If I didn't know better, I'd think it was actually Clay.
“President,” I nod, playing along.
“Heard you're competing.” Colt's impression of his brother is perfect. He has the same stance and the same cold expression. “Breakfast pastries? Interesting choice.”
“Gotta support the community,” I reply.
Hunter claps me on the shoulder, grinning. “This I have to see… Kieran baking. You documenting this, Viper?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely!” Viper holds up his phone. “For posterity.”
They position themselves along the viewing rope, making themselves visible. Colt stands dead center where everyone can see him. The Ridge Renegades president is attending a wholesome town festival. What could be more innocent?
Magnus reminds our group of the rules. “First round: classic cinnamon rolls. You have two hours. The top three of five entrants advance to tomorrow's finals, where it’s a free-bake, as long as it’s a breakfast pastry.”
I glance at Juniper. She's completely focused. Her station is organized; the ingredients are lined up neatly, and the tools arranged by size. Mine already looks like a crime scene waiting to happen.
“Begin!”
The tent erupts into motion. I start my dough, trying to remember everything Gram taught me. The measurements. The temperature. The way Juniper's hands felt on mine when she showed me how to knead.
Fuck. Focus.
I risk a glance at her. She's rolling out dough, a slight sheen of sweat on her collarbone. The urge to cross the tent and lick that spot makes my hands shake. My cock jerks against my pants, and for the first time in my life, I’m glad I’m wearing a frilly apron.
“Looking a little tense there, brother.” Viper's voice carries from the rope.
Several spectators laugh. Great. An audience for my humiliation.
I concentrate on my rolls, trying to get the swirl even. Across from me, Juniper works like she's dancing, her movements smooth and efficient, making baking look like an art form. When she bends to check her oven, her dress rides up slightly, showing the backs of her thighs.
Fuck me.
Colt appears at the rope near my station, his voice low. “Kieran. Remember why you're here.”
Right. The alibi. Make sure people see me with him. I nod, but my eyes drift back to Juniper. She's got flour on her cheek. I want to brush it off. Want to pull her against me, dust her in icing sugar and lick every inch of her, until…
“Time!”
Two hours gone in a blur. My rolls look... adequate. Lopsided, not uniform. But they're baked and they have cinnamon in them.
Fuck it.
The judges move through the stations, tasting, making notes. Magnus reaches mine, takes a bite, and chews thoughtfully, brow furrowed.
“Interesting texture,” he says diplomatically. “A bold choice on the cinnamon ratio.”
