Tasting Her Christmas Cookies: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

by Alina Jacobs

  “But I already promised the advertisers there was going to be a Frost brother,” Penny McCarthy said, smiling up at me. She was Garrett Svensson’s girlfriend and had organized the Thanksgiving feast we’d had yesterday. Garrett could be vindictive at the best of times. I was sure he wasn't happy his girlfriend had immediately gone back to Manhattan to work. Best to tread carefully. I didn't need Garrett Svensson on my case.

  “Seriously, you're going to try and convince me to be a judge after I had to listen to your obnoxious cousins at that horrible TechBiz holiday party?” I said to Dana.

  “Vanity Rag needs a Frost brother,” Penny interjected.

  “Surely you would rather have someone with baking experience,” I said.

  “I've been running analyses,” Penny said, “and our magazine will have an estimated forty-percent-higher engagement if you're in the bake-off.”

  “Just do it,” Belle coaxed.

  “Will I get a cut of that profit?” I grumbled.

  Dana raised an eyebrow. “I'm on a group chat with my cousins and brother, and they were all crowing about how a Holbrook was going to be on top of the TechBiz list. Again. I believe,” she said, scrolling through her tablet and pulling up the previous year's list, “that your company was not given high marks for coolness, approachability of their CEO, and bonding experiences.”

  “How about,” Penny said, looking up at me, “if we throw you guys a holiday party! That would really put you on the map.”

  “I don't know if the bake-off is really the demographic we go after,” I said. “We recruit women, yes, but our employees mainly consist of stereotypical tech bros.”

  “Yes,” Penny said, “but their girlfriends and their moms love The Great Christmas Bake-Off. When the programmers are thinking about where to apply for a cushy tech job, if their mom or girlfriend is like, 'We really love Owen!' that's good for you.”

  “Do you want to be on top of the list, or do you want to be at the same party next year while my cousins act like obnoxious toddlers bragging about who got the bigger ice cream cone?” Dana asked.

  “Take it from me,” Gunnar said. He had longish blond hair and always reminded me of a stoner. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  “Is it really that desperate?”

  But I did need to win. Greg and Hunter Svensson, who were big investors in my company, had been on my case at the last board meeting about recruitment, talent retention, and staying competitive. At the very least, this might show them I was doing something. And Belle clearly wanted me to. I owed her big-time for what had happened.

  “Fine, I'll do it.”

  “Of course you'll do it!” Belle retorted.

  “Contest starts bright and early tomorrow morning. Wear something sexy!” Dana called out as I went to my smaller condo.

  As I showered, I thought about the girl I had surprised. If she was one of those obnoxious Christmas lovers, she and I were not going to get along.

  I scowled at my reflection in the mirror.

  I forgot my Thanksgiving leftovers.

  I really did hate Christmas.

  5

  Holly

  Morticia's voice blared through a megaphone, waking me out of a very pleasant dream. There was an ice prince, shirtless, of course, who looked very similar to the handsome stranger who had been in my bedroom last night.

  His name is Owen.

  “First day of the bake-off, people. You will be on camera. Make sure your makeup looks nice and you're wearing something decent,” my friend announced.

  I yawned, crawling out of the giant bed. The handsome guy had said it was his bedroom. Did he sleep in this bed? Did he do other things in this very bed?

  The door swung open; the megaphone shrieked. “You have half an hour,” Morticia told me.

  “I can't do my hair in thirty minutes!” I yelled, running into the bathroom. My hair was a rat's nest. That was what I got for going to sleep with it not completely dry.

  Morticia brought me a coffee while I pinned up the frizz as best I could and threw on my comfy shoes. She looked down her nose.

  “I'm sorry, did you not hear me when I said you're going to be on TV?” She went into my closet and pulled out a red sweater dress, a push-up bra, and heels.

  “I can't wear that! I need my Crocs and my sweatpants!” I complained.

  Morticia looked nonplussed. “I thought you were trying to use the bake-off competition to increase your Instagram presence and get people to buy—” she sighed “—baking boxes. You can't look like a homeless person.”

  She stuck the dress out to me. “Put this on. Friends don't let friends go on camera with sweatpants and saggy boobs.”

  I compromised with Morticia on the high-heeled shoes, instead opting to wear black tennis shoes. If I tried wearing those heels in the kitchen, I was going to trip, fall, and break my neck trying to take a cake out of the oven.

  As soon as I put the dress on, I realized that it wasn't large enough to hold both me and all the cake I'd been stress eating the past few months.

  “Time to bake,” Morticia said from the doorway.

  Too late to change. I ran to the elevator.

  “I look like a mess,” I complained to my friend, adjusting the dress in the reflective paneling in the elevator and slathering makeup on the bags under my eyes.

  “You need another coffee,” Morticia said, stabbing more bobby pins into my frizzy hair. “And considering that your last Instagram post was you in way less clothing, eating a cupcake, I feel like you're overreacting. Sex sells baked goods.”

  When I walked into the studio space, it felt like Christmas. I was immediately hyped. For all her acerbic anti-Christmas comments, Morticia was a good artist, and the decorated space was warm and festive without feeling cheesy. There were garlands and lights strung around the perimeter of the large studio. The palette was whites and golds, with pops of dark reds. It felt like everything had been dusted lightly with powdered sugar. Brighter lights shone over each baking station. I rummaged through the boxes under my table. We each had a set of the high-end Platinum Provisions cooking tools. I whistled. This was thousands of dollars' worth of stuff.

  Dana Holbrook and Gunnar Svensson, the producers, were talking to a tall, willowy woman at the front of the room. I recognized her as Anastasia, the host of the show and owner of the Whimsical Dining blog. Dana nodded as she and Gunnar walked off the set. They looked up to the front of the room. The camera guy signaled, and the willowy woman smiled brightly.

  “Welcome to the second season of The Great Christmas Bake-Off. Just like last year, this contest is all about the bakers, the desserts, and of course, Christmas! We don't believe in gimmicks. The contestants have hours, sometimes a full day, to complete their desserts. Also, like last year, we have a fantastic panel of judges. Anu and Nick are back! Anu Pillai, a chocolatier and baker from Li'l Masa bakery in NoLiTa. Then we have Nick Mazur, a pastry chef and restaurant owner with businesses all over the New York area. Finally, we have Owen Frost, founder and CEO of Quantum Cyber. He does not do any baking, but he's very good-looking, so here he is!”

  OMG. That was the guy who had been in my-slash-his room the night before. He sat at the reclaimed-wood judges’ table, back straight, wearing a dark-navy suit that made his hair and icy-blue eyes pop. Something else down in the South Pole was popping too. I must really be going through a dry spell if I was freaking out over some guy who said he hated Christmas.

  I internally flipped out. Did he recognize me? I really wished I had changed my outfit now. I must look like a drugged-out stripper.

  You are not Amber. You are not going to freak out over some egotistical billionaire, I chanted to myself as Anastasia continued to talk about the rules of the competition. Owen scowled as he surveyed the contestants.

  I forced myself to concentrate. Think of the prize money! Think of the debt you're going to pay off! Don't get distracted.

  “The first challenge,” Anastasia said, “is th
e Shimmy Down the Chimney Challenge. You have until this afternoon to create a fun, festive dessert that's tasty enough to make reindeer dance and Santa shimmy on down the chimney!”

  I'd like Owen to shimmy down my chimney.

  But he was watching Anastasia. I sighed. She was willowy and pretty, with a curtain of chestnut hair. I bet Christmas-hating billionaire Owen goes for women like her.

  I pulled at my skirt some more and adjusted my top. I seriously needed to cut back on the sweets. I looked up from adjusting my boobs. Right. I was on camera. Better stop touching myself inappropriately. Owen's gaze flicked in my direction. His eyes narrowed slightly.

  I slept in your bed last night, I mouthed to him.

  His eyes widened slightly, and he scowled.

  “You're trying to steal him! I knew it!” Amber whined nasally. She had managed to worm her way to a station next to mine. “Owen is mine,” she continued. “I already have a bombshell Christmas dessert planned. Owen is going to come crawling for my sweets.”

  “Whatever. You want some sort of Christmas-hating ice prince, fine with me,” I said, taking out the pans I would need for my dessert. “In fact, if you're chasing after Owen Frost, then I know something's wrong with him.”

  I went to collect my ingredients. Amber and Owen could spiral into a descent of Christmas-ruining madness, but I was going to bake. I had the perfect dessert planned: chocolate pomegranate tarts. Chocolaty, rich, with a smack of pomegranate, they were a more adult Christmas dessert. It would be very sexy to eat a piece with a glass of wine by the fire, a Christmas tree softly blinking while you fed a bite to your paramour curled up beside you under a fur throw.

  My pastry dough was perfect, if I did say so myself, and I could fill it with literally anything. In the pantry, I grabbed pomegranates, bricks of deep-brown chocolate, heavy cream, sugar, flour, and butter. I was planning on making several smaller tarts—not too small, because then it was all crust—but if they were too big, one might as well be eating chocolate pudding.

  Using a food processor so as to not overwork the crust, I began cutting the butter into the flour. I was regretting wearing the sweater dress, which rode up whenever I raised my arms above boob height. I was also regretting not getting up earlier so I could shower. That clean, masculine scent from Owen's room clung to me; anytime I moved my hair, I could smell it. It was distracting.

  “I can't believe I was in his bed. Did they even change the sheets before we arrived?” I muttered as I made the dough. “What if he sleeps nude? It would be like I was sleeping with him. Naked.”

  I jumped when a man said behind me, “I assure you, I do not sleep naked.”

  6

  Owen

  When Anastasia started the clock, the contestants scurried to collect their ingredients. One woman with frizzy hair looked oddly familiar. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought she was the girl who had been in my room last night and who I thought was going to bludgeon me with a Yule log when I told her I despised Christmas.

  “Since there's so much time in the competition,” Dana said as the camera guys moved around to take close-up shots of the contestants, “we want the judges to mingle a little bit and talk to the contestants about what they're making. Just don't get in the way. Owen, why don't you start over there near Amber and Holly?”

  “Who's Holly?”

  Dana glared at me. “Did you seriously not read the packet?”

  I shrugged. Dana tapped her foot. “Red sweater?”

  The girl.

  “I have to go to work,” I complained. “I can't be here all day!”

  “Do your interviews, and then you can go. Your company headquarters is upstairs. It's not like your commute is long.”

  I strode over to Holly, determined to get this over with. She was chattering to herself, puffs of flour coming out of the noisy machine she was using.

  Aren't bakers supposed to be crazy? And now she was in my house. So are all those other people.

  Yes, but Holly was sleeping in my bed. I would never be able to clean out that scent of cinnamon and sugar.

  I waited impatiently as she kept talking to herself.

  “I sleep partially clothed,” I said finally butting in. I could not be here all day. The smell of sugar and the strong pine scent from the garland were starting to give me a headache.

  “You do?” she asked me. Her eye was twitching a bit, as if she wanted to look me up and down.

  “Of course. Sleeping when it's too hot is the worst.”

  “I thought you hated winter,” she demanded.

  “I hate Christmas, but winter is the perfect time of year,” I retorted.

  Zane, one of the camera guys, was framing his shot, and he motioned for me to start talking about her dessert.

  Let's get this over with.

  I gritted my teeth. “Would you care to talk about what you're baking?”

  Holly adjusted the sweater dress. I tried not to stare. It hugged her curves, the knit collar dipping down to frame her cleavage.

  Be calm.

  I didn't need someone like Holly in my life. I had gone on that one disastrous date with Sloane six months ago, and I would never date a woman again. No, I needed to concentrate on my business.

  “I'm making a chocolate tart,” Holly said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “The key to a good tart is the crust—it should be buttery, just a little sweet, slightly crunchy, but still tender. Like a good man!”

  “You like your men buttery?” I asked, confused.

  “I don't mind it when my men are a little greased up,” she said, doing a little shimmy. Her tits jiggled in the low-cut neckline. I looked up at the ceiling. Someone had hung a whole reindeer family up there.

  “But for the tart, we don't want the butter hot. I need it ice-cold. Like you, Mr. Frost!” She winked. It was… well, it was sexy. But I only noticed it in an objective, dispassionate way.

  I stood there while she made the dough. I didn't know how long Dana wanted me to talk to the contestants. If I left too early, Dana would storm upstairs and find me and drag me back to the studio. She did not screw around when it came to her business.

  I watched as Holly made the crust, narrating as she mixed the flour, salt, and sugar. Then she dumped it out on the counter and began working it with a metal torture-device-looking thing.

  “This is a pastry blender,” she explained. “I start the dough with a food processor but like to finish the job by hand. Otherwise I think it gets the dough too excited!” She stuck her tongue out slightly as she added the egg yolk, vanilla, and cream.

  “Now,” she said, rolling it into a long yellow tube of dough, “we put it in the fridge so it gets nice and stiff.”

  Zane smirked behind the camera. Was there something going on with them? I had assumed Holly was flirting with me, but had she been flirting with Zane?

  I shook my head as I took off the microphone. What did I care? I had a company to run.

  I had barely made it upstairs to my office when Walker Svensson, my COO, accosted me.

  “Dude, you didn't tell me!” he said around the candy cane he had in his mouth like a cigar.

  “What?” I said irritably.

  “You're judging the bake-off! Did they give you anything to eat? Are you suffocating in sugar? You have it all over your suit.”

  I scowled and looked down. There was powdered sugar on my bespoke suit jacket. I brushed at it angrily but only smeared it around.

  Great. Holly ruined my suit. I knew The Great Christmas Bake-Off was a mistake.

  “That was a brilliant move,” Walker said as I followed him to the C-suite offices. “Everyone's talking about it.”

  “Like our employees?” I frowned.

  “The office manager is scheduling a viewing party with food and everything,” he said. “Also, Penny just called and said she want to have the bake-off contestants do a holiday party baking competition for one of the episodes. And she's decorating the main lobby as part of th
e Vanity Rag digital content, so that will for sure get us more points on the TechBiz list.”

  “I can't believe the list is so subjective,” I complained. “Why can't they measure actual metrics? They're just going to come, talk to people, and hand out surveys on how the employees feel. You can't measure that!”

  “You can't fight it. You have to let the sea of public relations take you where it wants you to go,” Walker said, making hula dance moves. I resisted the urge to snatch the candy cane out of his mouth and stab him with it.

  “Don't forget we have that meeting with my brothers coming up,” he continued.

  Speaking of wanting to stab people. “I do not have the patience to deal with Greg and Hunter,” I said, sitting down at my desk.

  “Last board meeting of the year,” Walker said. “Maybe we can have one of the contestants cater it. Are there any cute ones? Who knows, maybe Santa will put a girlfriend for you under the tree this year!”

  “I would never date one of the contestants,” I said. “It would be nonstop baking and Christmas all year round. I'd go insane.”

  7

  Holly

  “You are trying to steal him from me,” Amber spat as soon as Owen left. “You were flirting with him.”

  “I wasn't flirting. I can't help it if his candy cane was happy to see me,” I said, knowing it would rile my stepsister up.

  Her face went red as if she were about to explode.

  “Relax, it's just a joke,” I told her hastily. “We were having a conversation. It was all for the show.”

  “You don't even know anything about him,” Amber said as she went back to angrily pitting cherries. “I've read all about him online. He's a billionaire and a visionary. He built his company, Quantum Cyber, from nothing. He made billions on Bitcoin. He's revolutionized cybersecurity. I saw his TED talk; it was inspiring.”