“Yes,” Penny said, “but their girlfriends and their moms loveThe Great Christmas Bake-Off. When the programmers are thinking about where to apply for a cushy tech job, if their mom or girlfriend is like, 'We really love Owen!' that's good for you.”
“Do you want to be on top of the list, or do you want to be at the same party next year while my cousins act like obnoxious toddlers bragging about who got the bigger ice cream cone?” Dana asked.
“Take it from me,” Gunnar said. He had longish blond hair and always reminded me of a stoner. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“Is it really that desperate?”
But I did need to win. Greg and Hunter Svensson, who were big investors in my company, had been on my case at the last board meeting about recruitment, talent retention, and staying competitive. At the very least, this might show them I was doing something. And Belle clearly wanted me to. I owed her big-time for what had happened.
“Fine, I'll do it.”
“Of course you'll do it!” Belle retorted.
“Contest starts bright and early tomorrow morning. Wear something sexy!” Dana called out as I went to my smaller condo.
As I showered, I thought about the girl I had surprised. If she was one of those obnoxious Christmas lovers, she and I were not going to get along.
I scowled at my reflection in the mirror.
I forgot my Thanksgiving leftovers.
I really did hate Christmas.
5
Holly
Morticia's voice blared through a megaphone, waking me out of a very pleasant dream. There was an ice prince, shirtless, of course, who looked very similar to the handsome stranger who had been in my bedroom last night.
His name is Owen.
“First day of the bake-off, people. You will be on camera. Make sure your makeup looks nice and you're wearing something decent,” my friend announced.
I yawned, crawling out of the giant bed. The handsome guy had said it was his bedroom. Did he sleep in this bed? Did he doother thingsin this very bed?
The door swung open; the megaphone shrieked. “You have half an hour,” Morticia told me.
“I can't do my hair in thirty minutes!” I yelled, running into the bathroom. My hair was a rat's nest. That was what I got for going to sleep with it not completely dry.
Morticia brought me a coffee while I pinned up the frizz as best I could and threw on my comfy shoes. She looked down her nose.
“I'm sorry, did you not hear me when I said you're going to be on TV?” She went into my closet and pulled out a red sweater dress, a push-up bra, and heels.
“I can't wear that! I need my Crocs and my sweatpants!” I complained.
Morticia looked nonplussed. “I thought you were trying to use the bake-off competition to increase your Instagram presence and get people to buy—” she sighed “—baking boxes. You can't look like a homeless person.”
She stuck the dress out to me. “Put this on. Friends don't let friends go on camera with sweatpants and saggy boobs.”
*
I compromisedwith Morticia on the high-heeled shoes, instead opting to wear black tennis shoes. If I tried wearing those heels in the kitchen, I was going to trip, fall, and break my neck trying to take a cake out of the oven.
As soon as I put the dress on, I realized that it wasn't large enough to hold both me and all the cake I'd been stress eating the past few months.
“Time to bake,” Morticia said from the doorway.
Too late to change.I ran to the elevator.
