Well, I can’t not look at those nice gray slacks. Even though that’s a boring color for a man who likes frosting and forbidden kisses.
We’re both silent, like we can stop time or reverse decisions. But Poppy is having none of that. She knocks again.
I clear my head as best I can, then call out: “I’m on my way.”
“Lovely. Since it’s photo time now,” she says, sounding completely unamused by how long this is taking.
I whirl back to face Corbin. What do I say?That was nice. Should we do it again, even though it’d make my hot-mess life even messier? It would throw a wrench into his too. Still, I catalogue the heated eyes that don’t look away from me, the hair that I want to run my fingers through, the body I want to explore.
And…oh shit. My gaze lands on his expensive shirt. It’s white…and a little pink now. “Corbin,” I whisper. “I think some frosting from my apron got on your shirt. I’m sorry. I’ll get you a new one.”
He glances down at it, curses under his breath, then looks up quickly. “I can wash it. It’s fine.”
“But you have to go to the arena.”
Then again, what am I going to do? Go rush out and buy him a new one now, when he’s due there any minute?
“Go, Mabel. I’m all good,” he says, in that sameI’ve got thistone he used when he ushered me to this trailer fifteen minutes ago.
I burst out the door, leaving that unexpected kiss behind.
4
THE TEETH OF A SHARK
MABEL
I arrive at the baking stations in a flurry, breathless because I raced over from the trailer. The crowd’s even bigger now. Great.
“How good of you to join us,” Ronnie remarks coolly.
Do I haveI’ve just been kissed senselesswritten on my forehead?
Actually, crap. I might. A few strands of hair have come loose from my braid, and my lips feel bee-stung, and I imagine Ronnie’s narration.
Now, in fifth and decidedly last place, is Mabel the Messmaker. Tell us, Mabel, how was it to snog in my trailer?
“Thanks for giving me the chance,” I say, tucking the errant strands over my ears.
“It’s in the rules. I have to.”
“Cool. I love rules,” I say, ignoring his dig, keeping up a bright, shiny attitude.
Ronnie just shoots me a searingI know what you didstare. Though, it might also be aShut up, you little bratstare.
I stay strong, though, my smile never wavering.
After five more seconds of trying and failing to make me wither, he huffs and shifts his attention to the four bakers who didn’t fall into their cakes. Lucky fuckers. “You all did so well,” he says. To them. Rare praise from the tough-as-nails chef. But it also feels a little pointed against me.
I try to ignore it, taking this opportunity for publicity.
Poppy assembles the five of us before the audience, making sure I’m farthest away from the photographer. When I look behind me, I see my cake has magically disappeared, and my station is spic and span. All the other cakes are still in place, including the one with a red, heart-shaped trophy perched in front of it. Reality smacks into me—Ronnie handed out the trophy while I was in the trailer. He really doesn’t want me around.
But most of the crowd is still here, and even as his assistant lines us up for the group pic, I’m pretty sure the folks in the front row are snapping pics of me. The people behind them too. Come to think of it, most of the phones are angled my way. Should I ham it up? Lean into my fifteen minutes of viral fame? I might as well smile. There’s no such thing as bad publicity, right? Before I know it, I’ll beThe Inventive Baker.OrThe Fast on Her Feet Baker.
Ronnie steps in front of me for the official pic, so I have to kind of peek around him to be seen. I smile for the camera without looking like I’m photobombing. At least, not too much.
When the photographer lowers her Nikon, Poppy materializes at my side, thrusting a canvas bag my way. It’s full of…my things. My measuring cups and spoons, some of the special tools for my frosting, and so on.
