Page 23 of Serving Bunt

I let out a shaky laugh and reached for the tissues on the nightstand. “Yeah, yeah. Judge me all you want.”

I pulled my boxer briefs back into place and lay back on the bed beside her. The cabin was quiet except for the low hum of the ceiling fan and Mo’s occasional grumpy huff. One glance at the little clock on the nightstand told me that dinner was still two hours away, which meant I had plenty of time to gather my wits.

But not nearly enough.

I stared up at the wooden beams above me, wondering what Diaz might be up to. Part of me hoped he was lying on his own bed right now, hard and frustrated, thinking about me the same way I’d just thought about him. The other part—the louder, more anxious part—was terrified that he wasn’t thinking about me at all.

Mo crawled over and flopped across my chest with dramatic flair. I scratched behind her ears, letting the warmth of her little body ground me.

I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the ache that had nothing to do with the orgasm I’d just had.

Tomorrow, we would be on camera.

We would smile and crack jokes about “faking it until we baked it” and stand shoulder to shoulder under bright studio lights while at least one of us pretended like his pulse didn’t spike every time the other looked at him too long.

Spoiler alert, it was me.

Without a doubt, we had a long week ahead of us. And judging by the way my body reacted when he did something as mundane as asking me to call him by his name?

Yeah, I was gonna need another Kleenex box.

Diaz

“Welcome to Sleigh the Bake , television’s favorite holiday baking competition, where you have to whisk it for the biscuit.”

Penelope’s bright, polished voice rang through the renovated barn like she’d been born and raised under studio lights.

Honestly, she sort of had been.

The daughter of a daytime talk show host and a former soap opera actor, Penelope Hart had spent most of her life in front of a camera and the rest of it on the red carpet. She was all megawatt smile and bouncy, blonde hair, both of which were big enough to deserve their own zip code. A plaid maxi dress completed the look, the deep red and forest green pattern giving just enough Christmas spirit to (almost) make you forget we were filming in the middle of July, instead of December.

“I’m your host, Penelope Hart, and this season, we’re doing things a little bit differently.” She turned toward the second camera without missing a beat. “We asked you to nominate your favorite, cozy holiday destinations from across the country, and after going through thousands of submissions, one location rose to the top.”

She swept an arm dramatically toward the massive barn doors, where the Wallowa Mountains loomed in the distance.

“Welcome to Juniper Ridge Inn, nestled in the heart of Oregon’s breathtaking Grande Ronde Valley—a place so magical, our producers thought your letters had to be exaggerating.”

A few crew members laughed politely.

“Today marks the start of our three-day holiday baking extravaganza, and this year, we have three celebrity teams ready to sleigh—pun intended.”

To my left, a third camera glided forward on a wheeled rig, narrowly missing one of the production assistants. Garland had been wrapped around every beam in sight while massive lights blazed down from the rafters, turning the old timber-framed space into something between a Hallmark movie set and a Christmas-themed nightmare.

Not my version of Christmas, but still.

Back home in Puerto Rico, the holiday looked a lot different. Heat shimmering off the pavement, parrandas rolling through the neighborhood at all hours, pasteles instead of pine and peppermint.

The only “white Christmas” I knew of was the one starring Bing Crosby.

“—but first, let’s meet our distinguished panel of judges.” Penelope gestured toward the three people seated behind the judges’ table. “From the world of edible art, it’s the master of sugar sculpture himself, Jin Kato.”

Jin stood to give a small, elegant bow. I might not know much about baking, but I had seen a handful of Jin’s videos on social media. The man could turn a bag of sugar into the Sistine Chapel.

“Next up,” Penelope continued. “She’s the self-proclaimed Queen of Knead and founder of Mandy B’s bakery empire. Let’s give it up for Miss Mandy Bickham.”

Mandy rose with a crisp, no-nonsense wave. She looked far too young to have already amassed a “baking empire”—early forties at most—with striking, electric-red hair cut in a bob that my sisters would 100% describe as “cunty.”

“That’s Lady Mandy Bickham, darling,” she corrected.