by Lacey Baker
“I’ve always wanted to own a bakery. But when my wife passed away a few years ago I had other priorities to tend to.” He stood up then because he had no intention of going any further with this subject. This was just a holiday competition. They would work together to get it done and then they’d go their separate ways. No point in getting too personal.
Especially now since her gaze had softened into a look of sympathy.
“Oh, Adam, I’m so sorry. That must have been hard for you and Brooke.”
“We’re doing fine now. We should get going. We have to mix and bake gingerbread and I don’t want to keep you out too late.”
“Oh, I think I’m old enough to stay up late, and I’m up for being a baking assistant.”
She was standing now, folding her paper. When one of the cups on the table wobbled, Adam hurried to catch it just before it could spill.
“Got it!” He looked up at her with a grin. “Wouldn’t want your plans to be destroyed again.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but if she was about to make a sarcastic remark she quickly changed her mind and instead responded with a smile that sucked the air right out of his lungs.
“Thanks for saving my plans, Adam.”
He muttered something he thought might have been a thank-you, but really his mind was trying to wrap itself around that punch of attraction he’d just felt.
Chapter Six
When Adam had left his house that morning, he’d had no idea he’d be bringing someone home with him. Especially not a woman. And it wasn’t until he’d unlocked the door and they’d walked inside that he’d felt the tiniest tendrils of doubt over whether or not it was a good idea.
This is not personal.
On the ride from the marketplace those words had played in his mind. It was the truth: there was nothing personal here, so this was not a date, and therefore he had no need to worry about how she might react to his home—the one he used to share with his wife.
Brooke led Taylor further into the house while Adam closed and locked the door. He took those moments to focus.
He wished Jenny hadn’t had other plans after keeping Brooke while he and Taylor met earlier today. Having his daughter around Taylor—who she seemed to warm up to quickly—might not be such a good idea. In the years since Cheryl’s passing, he’d been very careful about Brooke’s feelings. Limiting both his and Brooke’s emotional attachment to anyone other than family had been his way of keeping them both safe from experiencing such a tremendous loss again.
“Where do you live, Taylor? Is it a big house or a small house?” Brooke’s chatter continued from the truck to the house. She looked up at Taylor expecting an answer while taking off her coat and handing it to Adam to hang up.
“I live in a townhouse,” Taylor replied. “It’s sort of big, definitely more than enough room for me.”
“You live alone?” Brooke asked.
After Adam had hung up Brooke’s coat and his own, he extended a hand to Taylor for hers. She took it off while answering Brooke again.
“Yes. I’ve lived alone since I graduated from college.”
“Did you like college? Because I’m not sure I’m going to like it. Daddy won’t be there to bake his famous chocolate chip cookies when I pass a test. If you do something good at work maybe he’ll bake you cookies, too.” Brooke told her.
He knew he should intervene, but he was way more interested in the impromptu Q&A because it was giving him more information about Taylor Scott—the woman, not the architect.
Not that he needed it to work with her. His mind was a jumble of contradictions right now. It had been since Taylor had walked into the bakery yesterday. The quicker they got this lesson over with, the better.
The front door led to an open foyer with tiled floor. The closet he’d hung their coats in was to the left, the stairs to the right. Straight ahead was the living room with its dark hard wood floors and warm beige painted walls. That’s where Taylor and Brooke were headed.
“Wow. That’s a huge Christmas tree.” Taylor looked up to the angel topper they’d finally managed to put in place the other night.
“Actually, we got the smaller one this year.”
Brooke’s inquisition continued. “What kind of Christmas tree do you have, Taylor?”
She glanced at Adam briefly before returning her attention to Brooke.
“I don’t usually have one. You see, I travel a lot, and they don’t fit too well in carry-on luggage.”
“Why do you travel so much?”
A light came into Taylor’s eyes as she clasped her hands in front of her.
“As part of my job I get to travel to different places and design special buildings and houses. It works out really well for me because I’ve always loved to travel.”
Which meant this competition thing was just a pit stop for her as well. That was a relief. He didn’t need any further reminder that this wasn’t personal. It couldn’t be, with Taylor, the pretty, work-focused jetsetter.
“But still, everyone should have a Christmas tree,” Brooke insisted.
“Everyone has their own Christmas traditions, Brooke.” The Q&A session was over. “I’ll just get the oven turned on and gather all the ingredients we’ll need, Taylor. It’ll only take a few seconds.”
“Sure. It’s no problem. Brooke is great company.”
Loving the compliment, Brooke grabbed Taylor’s hand. “I’ll show you around.”
He moved to the kitchen but could still see and hear them. They’d only taken a few steps when Taylor spoke next.
“Brooke, did you make that? It’s beautiful.”
Brooke replied with a nod and then led the way over to the table so Taylor could have a closer look. She climbed onto a chair and leaned over the table. “It’s a school project. I’m supposed to be making a Christmas diorama, but I’m kinda stuck on making the trees.”
Adam moved to the double ovens and turned each one on. Eager to get started with the plans he’d come up with last night, he’d prepared gingerbread dough and rolled it out before leaving the house earlier. Once the ovens warmed, he’d slip the two trays inside to get them started while working on a new batch of dough with Taylor. But when he looked up again, he saw Taylor standing over Brooke’s school project with her and offering suggestions.
“Do you want a little hint? You can make great tree trunks by wrapping sandwich twists in parchment paper. I made a lot of models when I was in architecture school.”
“Thanks.” Brooke nodded as if processing Taylor’s suggestion.
With their heads together now, they both studied the project. Warmth spread in his chest as scenes of his wife helping Brooke with something flashed through his mind. Grief and longing overcame him and he flattened his palms against the marble top when his knees threatened to buckle.
“Oh, sous-chef, you’re needed.” He told himself he was calling Taylor away because it was time for them to get started, not because seeing her in such an intimate and touching position with his daughter made him uncomfortable.
“I think that’s me,” Taylor said and smiled at Brooke.
Brooke nodded. “And I have a hint for you, too,” she told Taylor conspiratorially. “When you cook with my dad, wear an apron. Cause a lot of things splash.”
He’d started to move around the kitchen again, but the sound of their laughter caught his attention. When was the last time he heard Brooke laughing with anyone other than him or Jenny?
“Wish me luck,” he heard Taylor say as he purposely opened a cabinet to avoid looking at them together again.
“Okay, I’m ready to help,” she announced when she arrived in the kitchen with him. Adam handed her an apron.
“Thank you,” she said as she accepted it from him and started to unfold it.
“Gingerbread batch number one is in the oven already. Jus
t needs two more minutes. Each batch cooks in six minutes. Your job is to keep track of time.”
“Oh, I’m doing the job of an egg timer,” she quipped.
He ignored the sarcasm, even though she’d followed it with a grin.
“Gingerbread batch number two I’m making with butter instead of margarine. And for our third experiment, I’m substituting corn syrup for molasses. This keeps the pastry from puffing out and maintains its shape. These are all variations of my mom’s gingerbread recipe. Hers used lots of butter. Stir this,” he instructed.
“Oh really? Did your mother do a lot of baking?” Taylor asked as she began stirring another bowl of a mixture he’d previously started.
The question caught him a little off guard, but Adam rebounded quickly. “She did. My Mom loved to cook and bake, and I enjoyed spending time in the kitchen with her.”
“My mother wasn’t much of a cook, but we didn’t starve,” she said and used the whisk to scrape along the side of the bowl. “My refrigerator is rarely stocked.”
“A good home-cooked meal can soothe the soul. My mother used to say that,” he added. She was quiet now, either focused on stirring or not really interested in talking about personal matters. He could understand that.
“Well, once you finish with this competition you’ll know how to make great gingerbread,” he offered optimistically.
“Something to add to my resume,” she said with a smile.
He didn’t look away when she smiled this time. Earlier that day, he’d told himself not to stare too long or read too much into the light feeling in the pit of his stomach when he’d seen the pretty tilt of her lips. It was no big deal. And yet, right at this moment he couldn’t look away. And neither did she. That warmth in his chest just moments ago was now spreading, moving slowly like pouring molasses.
He dropped a few chunks of butter into the bowl she was stirring.
“A little trick they don’t teach you in culinary school: butter improves the taste of everything. You’ll have to use the mixer for this part.” He nodded toward the mixer at the other end of the counter.
“But no one will taste it. You should be concerned with durability.” Oh boy, the boss tone was back as she attempted to correct him.
But this was not only his kitchen, his domain, but baking was a huge chunk of his life. “I’ve never compromised on taste and I’m not about to start now.” He could let Taylor take the lead on what she felt was her area of expertise, but not here, not in the kitchen.
“And you went to culinary school?” Her skeptical tone was not lost on him.
He frowned and figured they’d had enough of the personal discussions for tonight. “Long story. Keep mixing.”
He picked up the grater and began pushing the stalk of ginger along its sharp prongs.
“Ah, you do know they have powdered ginger,” she said after a few seconds of silence. When he looked over at her she nodded down at the grater.
“Creativity and inspiration can’t be rushed, okay? Rome wasn’t built in a day, and our gingerbread house won’t be either.” Okay, he did sound a little fanatical when talking about baking, but he couldn’t help it: this was his passion, and if he was going to be in this competition, he was going to give it one hundred and ten percent.
“Clearly not if you’re involved.” She stopped the mixer and looked at him with earnest concern. “Wouldn’t working with a recipe be more efficient?”
“I like to take my time. Let my creativity flow.” His tone was almost wistful as they continued the semi-joking banter that seemed to be their favored form of conversation.
She shrugged. “Sounds risky.”
“Maybe, but for every fallen soufflé there’s a perfect profiterole tower.”
They couldn’t seem to agree on anything. Whether it was her design for the gingerbread house or now, the recipe.
“You know, I’m really glad you’re not an architect, because that approach would not pass inspection. Now remember, we don’t want bricks. We need thin rectangles of gingerbread.”
“Why so thin?” he asked.
“Well, remember my design? It calls for thin pieces of gingerbread. I need for my design to be ultra-sleek and modern.” She was clearly pumped by the idea; he could see it in the way her eyes lit up.
Again with the getting off track. He really needed to get it together.
“But that’ll make it more likely to crack.”
She frowned. “Maybe use less butter.”
Blasphemy!
“And compromise taste and texture? What do you say we stop the backseat baking? Remember our deal: in the kitchen I’m in charge.”
“Yeah, but I’m the arc…” She stopped mid-sentence and sniffed the air. “Do you smell smoke?”
He followed suit, sniffing as well. Without missing a beat he ran over to the oven and yanked the door open. Smoke poured out and he grabbed his oven mitts. Slipping them onto his hands quickly he pulled the tray of burned gingerbread out. He set it on the counter and stared at her.
She looked contrite—for about ten seconds. “Okay. So our first collaboration could’ve gone slightly better.”
Chapter Seven
Eleven Days Until Judging
Taylor was up super early the next morning. She’d actually been up most of the night. When she hadn’t been thinking about the competition, her mind had been full of the baker working with her.
It was ridiculous. She no longer dreamed of a big house with a cute daughter and a handsome husband. That had been her fantasy a long time ago, when she was a little girl who believed in that pot of gold at the end of every rainbow.
That wasn’t who she was now or what she wanted for her life.
Then why had it felt so warm and cozy when she’d been at Adam’s house last night? The heat worked just fine in her townhouse. And why had helping Brooke with her project and standing in Adam’s kitchen debating over how best to bake gingerbread feel so natural? When she’d left his house thoughts of the competition hadn’t been on her mind. Instead she’d wondered if Brooke had gotten the Christmas trees for the project finished, and if she’d been tucked in.
When Taylor’s alarm clock had finally blared, she’d rolled out of bed and headed to the shower. Then she’d gone to her bedroom and did something she normally didn’t do while getting dressed—turned on the TV. Her heart had leaped with joy when she saw one of her favorite holiday movies was on. It was a classic that she remembered watching with her mother almost every season—Miracle on 34th Street.
Unfortunately, it was already close to the end. Climbing back onto her bed and folding her legs under her the way she used to when she was young, Taylor watched like this was her first time seeing the movie. They were at the scene where Susan, the little girl in the movie, was trying to convince herself to continue believing in Santa when he obviously had not brought her what she’d asked for. This part felt like fingers wrapping around Taylor’s heart and squeezing tightly every time because she’d felt the same burn of disappointment that Susan did.
When she was eleven, her parents announced they were moving from Australia to Milan. They’d been in Australia for almost a whole year, and the children at school had just stopped teasing her about her American accent. And they were going to move again. That year when Taylor wrote her list for Santa, she’d asked for a house to live in for the rest of her life, a place where she wouldn’t have to worry about moving ever again. Her parents’ jobs required them to move five more times after that.
In the movie, Susan didn’t get her house, and neither had Taylor, at least not in the years that she’d wanted it most. So there was no use thinking about having such things now at this point in her life. She had a great job and had developed a love of traveling. That was enough.
After the movie, Taylor made a point of searching the guide to see when it would be airing again.
She set it to record so she could watch when she was ready. It occurred to her that she could also purchase the DVD. Half an hour after the movie ended, she was dressed and in the backseat of a taxi on her way to the Marketplace.
Adam had a nice house, she recalled. It had an open concept similar to hers, but it was much wider and his ceilings were higher. Where her townhouse was stylish and accommodating, Adam’s house had a distinctly homey feel. That was especially true with the homemade ornaments that adorned his tree and the cute gingerbread men sitting on some of the branches. There were ropes of garland and twinkle lights draping almost every surface with Santa, the reindeer and the North Pole knickknacks on the tables. She’d enjoyed it from the moment she entered until she’d left. At least, when she ignored the part where she let the gingerbread burn.
By the time she climbed out of the taxi and walked into the Marketplace, she’d promised to herself to keep Adam and his daughter out of her mind. At least to the extent that she was wondering how Brooke’s school project was coming along. That was too personal, and her connection to Adam Dale was strictly professional.
“Hey,” she called to him when she turned into the area of the exhibit stage and saw that Adam was already there working. A few times throughout the night she’d been concerned that he might bail on the competition after their squabbles yesterday—and then the scorched gingerbread. She hoped he’d been able to get rid of that awful burnt smell in his kitchen.
“Morning.” He spoke while holding up a strip of lumber and standing on the platform where they would be building their gingerbread house.
“I, ah, wasn’t expecting to see you here so early,” she said standing a distance behind him.
He set the lumber down and looked up at her. “And why not? Bakers always get up early.”
“Well, after yesterday’s fiasco I wasn’t sure…” Her words trailed off. She didn’t really want to say what she’d been thinking.
He finished the sentence for her. “I’d show up? Well, I always finish what I start. Besides, we’ve got a frame to build. But first, coffee.”