Hensley, my ex-fiancée, was in the middle of the group of other bake-off contestants, bragging loudly about the new handbag I had bought her. I had surprised her with it right before I discovered the racy texts on her phone from the guy she had been cheating on me with.
I stood back and glared at her. We were supposed to get married this Christmas. Hensley seemed to think that her cheating was no big deal. She had the audacity to be mad at me that I had called off the wedding like it was my fault she cheated because I was quote, “too busy.”
I was fuming just thinking about it.
I need to get the hell out of the bake-off.Hensley had signed us up for it because she said it was a nice bonding experience.
The first event I’m out, I vowed. I just had to survive until then.
And avoid Hensley.
It can’t be hard to avoid one person in this bake-off shitshow.
Except it wasn’t just one person I had to avoid—it was two.
A man, tall, dark, and handsome, wearing jeans and way too much flannel, came over to Hensley, giving her a smoldering look that screamed dirty Christmas romance.
Brody. Or at least that was the name Hensley had for him in her phone. He had sent Hensley a whole album of not-safe-for-work photos of him with no clothes against a backdrop of flannel.
I ground my teeth.
The other female contestants giggled and flirted with him while he preened.
Don’t punch him in the face. You’re never going to get funding if you go to jail for assault.
But he and Hensley had ruined my life, had ruined all my dreams for the future. She and I had been college sweethearts. We had talked about what we were going to name our kids. Then she left me for that flannel puppet.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the cold air, letting it chill my lungs.
You can survive this. Two events then you’re out. Just pretend they don’t exist. They aren’t even going to have the gall to talk to you, so just ignore them. Be ice. Be the snow. Be the cold. Be—
“You don’t have enough Christmas cheer to be in the bake-off!”
I opened my eyes.
Then looked down.
“Absolutely not.”
5
Merrie
“Oh my god!” Olivia squealed as we approached the bake-off stage. “There he is! Your Hallmark Christmas romance hunk.”
We gazed in awe at the glory of the man on the stage. He was magnificent. Dark wavy hair, tight jeans, a jaw with a cleft so deep I could stick a finger in it. And he was wearing flannel.
“It’s like the Brawny Paper Towel mascot just appeared in your kitchen.”
I sneezed.
“Keep it together,” Olivia said, massaging my shoulders as we stood in line. “Get in the baking zone. You’re going to win this.”
I looked around at all the other local baking hopefuls. Two girls in Christmas yoga wear were doing stretches.
“I would tear something important if I tried that,” I muttered to Olivia.
“Don’t let them psych you out. It’s all about the technique. Baking is all about planning and precise execution, just like architecture.”
