Page 40 of Serving Bunt

“Bakers, it’s time for round two of the competition, the dreaded Claus and Effect challenge,” Penelope called out, her voice merry and bright.

Lord almighty.

I was one holiday pun away from committing hara-kiri with the sharpened end of a candy cane.

“As a reminder, this is a blind bake, which means the only thing the judges will have to go on are your technical skills. Precision, texture, and flavor are everything. Are you ready to find out what you’ll be making?”

“Please say protein pancakes,” Diaz muttered, crossing his fingers. “Please say protein pancakes.”

A series of excited whoops and hollers rang out from the rest of the contestants. I gave a half-hearted smile and double fist pump.

“Today’s bake is a delicious pavlova wreath.”

Annnd, there goes my smile.

Colt’s hand shot up. “Question, what does this have to do with dogs?”

Penelope arched a brow. “Dogs?”

“You know, Pavlova’s dog.”

“That’s Pavlov,” Mila grumbled, elbowing her brother.

Colt frowned. “Who?”

“Pavlov. The Russian dog scientist guy.”

Silence.

“He was a scientist for Russian dogs?”

Nora snorted loudly from behind her station and then rushed to cover it up with an exaggerated cough. Beside her, James pinched the bridge of his nose like he’d suddenly realized he was the oldest person in a twenty-foot radius.

“Rest assured,” Penelope went on, skirting the argument. “This is a dog-free bake. And with that, I’ll turn it over to Keira.”

Keira Von Hustenberg took her place beside Penelope, elegant as ever in the same crisp white blouse and tailored black trousers she’d had on yesterday. She had a calm, authoritative presence that reminded me of my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. O’Shea.

I’d always liked Mrs. O’Shea. Despite her intimidating appearance, she’d given out full-sized candy bars on Halloween.

“A well-baked pavlova should have a crisp meringue base and a soft, pillowy interior,” Keira explained. “Texture is key. The wreath should be elegantly decorated with fresh fruit, whipped cream, and any festive touches you like. Best of luck to you all.”

I could kind of picture it in my head. After signing on to Sleigh the Bake, the first thing I’d done was binge every available episode from the previous seasons. In addition, I’d spent hours scrolling through past contestants’ social media accounts, reading comments, watching behind-the-scenes clips, and making mental notes on what the judges praised and what got ripped apart.

I hadn’t come here to fuck around.

I’d come to make meringue my bitch.

Respectfully, of course.

“Please tell me you know what meringue is,” Diaz whispered, leaning in close enough that I caught the faint scent of his soap.

“I know what meringue is.”

“Thank fuck.” He shook his head before adding, “And you call me a nerd.”

I huffed a quiet laugh, but my focus had already drifted elsewhere.

Specifically, to the memory of waking up in Peter Diaz’s arms. Silly me for thinking that my adorable, albeit gassy as hell dog might create a barrier between us.