Get it together. I slapped myself mentally, started on the gingerbread cookie dough, and promptly dumped in three too many tablespoons of cinnamon into the mixer.
“Fuck me,” I muttered as I tried to scoop out the excess.
“I’m available whenever you are,” Matt offered in a low voice.
I shivered.
“No thanks. I’m having a wholesome baking session. Nothing better than your weight in cheesecake.”
Matt leaned in, one hand on my ass. “Admit it, you’re obsessing over me.”
“Nope. I’m obsessing over winning this competition.”
All lies. I wanted to abandon my grand bake-off plan and go let Matt give me an early Christmas present.
I took a swig of the cognac I was going to use to soak the almond pound cake for the traditional trifle. The booze didn’t help. It just made dragging Matt into the pantry for a quickie seem like a really good idea.
When the pears were poached, the caramel, chocolate sauce, and custards were ready, and the mounds of whipped cream had been made, I started to assemble.
“Cake goes at the bottom of the Mason jar,” I instructed Matt, using a round cookie cutter to carefully cut out circles.
We made three of each type. I layered bourbon-soaked spiced gingerbread cake in the Mason jars and added brown butter, cream cheese frosting, dark chocolate, salted caramel sauce, and eggnog whipped cream. A gingerbread boy and girl decorated the top of each Mason jar along with a dusting of nutmeg and gingerbread crumbs.
I made sure Matt was correctly assembling the pear and caramel trifle correctly with the cheesecake, poached pears, caramel sauce, and thick whipped cream. His blue eyes looked up to meet mine.
“Just admit it,” he said lightly, “you’re infatuated with me.”
“I’m trying to make sure you aren’t ruining my bake-off chances.”
“Of course we’re going to win,” he scoffed.
I wasn’t so sure. When Anastasia called time, I studied everyone else’s dishes. They had all gone way more creative than I had. There were deconstructed trifles, trifles covered in fondant and shaped into balls, and trifles in fancy edible containers.
Ours were definitely the most rustic. In fact, I might even call mine basic.
At least they’ll taste good.
Meg liked ours when we presented. “This is a classic small-town dessert,” she said appreciatively as she ate a large bite of the chocolate brownie trifle.
“It’s just like going to eat at a roadside diner,” Nick said, picking out a piece of cheesecake. “We’re in week three of the competition, guys. You’re going to have to step up your game or you’re going home.”
“They are tasty,” Anu said, “but if you were going to stay with a basic trifle, you should have done something more surprising with the flavors. These are all pretty standard.”
“We should go celebrate,”Matt said after the judge’s picks had been announced
“We didn’t win,” I complained as Matt followed me back to my shop. “There’s nothing to celebrate.”
“We also didn’t lose,” Matt reminded me. “The people who made those trifle bombs that exploded lost.”
I unlocked my shop and was hit by the smell of cookies. My stomach clenched. Would I even be able to sell them all? Maybe I was delusional.
“You can’t be so stressed,” he said, lowering his voice. “It’s Christmas.” He slipped an arm around my waist and lifted me up onto the counter.
Yesss, my body said. I moaned as he kissed me. His tongue traced my lips. I nipped at him, and he squeezed my ass briefly then pushed his hands under my sweater. I panted as his hands cupped my breasts, teasing a nipple.
“I could fuck you just like this,” he said in that deep voice.
“Yes, please,” I whimpered, spreading my legs inviting him.
