Page 71 of Serving Bunt

We were walking into this final challenge the best prepared we’d been all week. No more scrambling, no more butting heads. We knew exactly what we were doing, and more importantly, we knew how to do it together.

And damn, that felt better than winning.

In my head, the steps were crystal clear. We were doing the classic Lane Cake. Three layers of light sponge, bourbon-soaked raisins, pecans, and a fluffy seven-minute frosting. But that wasn’t enough, not if we wanted to win the whole thing. Which was why we had decided to crown our masterpiece with . . .

Another goddamn cookie box.

Only this time, we were going to use the meringue technique that had actually worked for us in the Claus and Effect round. Inside the box, we’d pipe little “gifts” made from candied ginger and fruits, and toasted coconut clusters.

“I was thinking,” Matty started. He glanced at me, then at the cameras, keeping his face neutral. “What if we swap out the bourbon for rum?”

My brows lifted, but I couldn’t stop the slow smile that spread across my face. “Rum?”

“Yeah.” He nonchalantly pulled a bottle of my favorite rum out from beneath our workstation, one that definitely hadn’t been there two days ago. “Abuelita’s coquito has rum, right? We could soak the raisins in dark rum, fold in some toasted coconut, maybe add a pinch of cinnamon in the batter.”

I went still for a second. “You want to put a taste of coquito in your granny’s cake?”

“No, I want to put us in our cake.”

Holy cuteness, Batman.

How the hell did he expect me to keep my cool when he spouted off beautiful shit like that?

We were standing in a barn that reeked of hard work and holiday cheer, wearing matching aprons like one of those annoyingly adorable, influencer couples I loved to hate, but secretly loved to watch. And yet somehow, Matty—my friend, my teammate—had managed to turn a conversation about cake into something that felt dangerously close to a public declaration.

Our cake.

I was supposed to be the charming one, the guy who joked his way out of every problem when a wink didn’t do the job. But right now, all I could think about was the fact that I was so gone for this man, it was embarrassing.

“Peter?”

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice light even though my chest felt too full. “Let’s do it.”

While Matty got started on the sponge, I focused on the parts of the bake that carried a piece of home.

First came the coconut.

I spread it across a sheet pan and slid it into the oven, watching it slowly turn golden as the scent drifted through the workstation. The smell hit me immediately, evoking memories of holiday parties packed shoulder to shoulder with my cousins and giant trays of desserts that somehow disappeared before dinner was even served.

Next came the rum.

Dark, rich, and fragrant—it soaked into the raisins while I measured out the rest of the spices. Not enough to overpower the Lane Cake, just enough to nudge it in a different direction.

Southern cooking with a touch of island flair.

Beside me, Matty worked with the calm efficiency of a man who had been learning at his grandmother's elbow since he’d been tall enough to reach a countertop. Eggs separated. Batter folded. Cake pans lined up with the kind of precision usually reserved for military operations . . . or serial killers.

Eh, so what if he was? I’d gladly help him bury the bodies.

All he had to do was ask . . . or tell me to get on my knees again. Or call me his good boy.

I’ll take D, all the above.

“Coconut’s ready,” I announced proudly.

Matty glanced over from the mixer. “Perfect. Raisins?”

“Getting drunk as we speak.”