Tasting Her Christmas Cookies: A Holiday Romantic Comedy

by Alina Jacobs

  At least I could move in it. For my dessert, the fans wanted me to make a croquembouche. A classic French dessert, it was a tower constructed out of cream puffs, and then the whole thing was wrapped in gossamer strands of pulled sugar.

  While somewhat time-consuming, the dessert did look impressive. For the bake-off, however, I knew I couldn’t just make a classic croquembouche and call it a day. To pump up the volume, I was going to make mine look like a Christmas tree, complete with edible ornaments. The trick was going to be making sure it wasn't cheesy.

  Back when I was still in culinary school, my pie-in-the-sky dream had been to own an awesome dessert café. In addition to beautiful tarts, cupcakes, and cookies, I would also make wedding cakes, mainly because I wanted to craft sugar flowers like Sylvia Weinstock. I loved how the hundreds of handcrafted sugar flowers cascaded over the towering wedding cakes she produced.

  To make a winning dessert, I was going to do something similar with the croquembouche.

  “I’m jealous of the dessert you were given,” Fiona said. “I have to make a Christmas punch.”

  “How is that supposed to be a dessert?” I asked her.

  “I don’t know,” she said with a sigh.

  “Ice cream?” I suggested.

  “That’s all I did at my last job. Hopefully inspiration strikes me in the next thirty minutes.”

  I spent the next half hour making cream puffs. The trick was to precook the dough before piping the cream puffs. Otherwise they wouldn’t puff up.

  After the large batch of dough was cooked, I piped it onto baking sheets in little balls and stuck the trays in the oven. While they cooked, I started on the decorations for the croquembouche tree. I needed to make ornaments, a tree topper, greenery, and winter flowers. The flowers would all be molded sugar, but I didn’t want everything to be made out of the same material. I wanted some variety in the flavors.

  Each of the ornaments should be a type of candy. I would make chocolate sugar truffles and blown-sugar ornaments to hang off sugar branches. I was trying for a more abstract tree, which was good, because I did not have time to make hyperrealistic sugar art.

  To make the flowers, I first made the fondant and added tylose powder to make a gum paste. Because these were going to be poinsettias, I colored the sugar a deep red then rolled it very thin.

  I didn’t need a mold to make the petals; I freehanded them then used a fondant tool to furl the edges of each petal. When the cream puff shells were done, I removed them from the oven and let them cool while I finished making the flowers. Fortunately, we had most of the day. Otherwise I didn’t think I would be able to finish.

  While the flowers dried, I made the branches the ornaments would hang on. Then I turned to the ornaments.

  I checked the clock. The day was already half over, and I still had a series of truffles to make in addition to the filling for the cream puffs. Since the cream puffs were the base of the dish, the filling took precedence. I made a vanilla custard filling in the double boiler, adding cognac for extra flavor, mindful of the clock. It was going to be close. While that cooled, I made the truffles.

  Truffles traditionally were simply chocolate with cream added—ganache essentially—then rolled into a ball. Truffles could be rolled in dark chocolate powder, nuts, or dried fruit. I wanted mine to be fairly colorful, so I crushed freeze-dried raspberries and coated the chocolate. The rest I coated in candied orange peel, chopped hazelnuts, or bitter powdered chocolate. I set them in the fridge then turned back to my cream puffs.

  The custard was cool, so I piped it into the cream puffs. They were perfect little golden balls filled with a tasty surprise.

  Don’t think of Owen. Plus his balls aren’t at all little.

  “Ready to assemble!” I said, admiring all the beautiful pieces of my dessert. I set up the large crystal platter and began carefully stacking my cream puffs. They needed to form an even, round pyramid. The cream puffs stacked nicely, and I set the final one on top and went to retrieve my truffles from the fridge.

  I had just pulled them out when I heard a scream. Then Fiona shouted, “Oh no, Amber, what did you do?”

  “Shit,” I cursed, running back to my station. I was too late.

  “I’m so sorry,” Amber said, looking at me with what I was sure was feigned surprise. “I was trying to use this Platinum Provisions icing piper and the top just flew off. It was an accident, I swear!”

  I looked around. The floor was covered in cream puffs.

  “How could you?” I said, in shock.

  “Oops,” she said, smiling meanly. “I guess you won’t really have time to finish your dessert. Too bad!”

  My heart was pounding. I had an hour. An hour to bake cream puffs, make more custard, then fill them and assemble the croquembouche.

  “Fuck.”

  I put the truffles at my station and asked Fiona to watch them. Then I ran to the fridge and grabbed the ingredients to make cream puffs again.

  “I'm so stressed,” I muttered, taking a swig of cognac to calm my nerves. Now I knew why the chefs I’d worked with were all so insane.

  “This is a bake-off; it’s supposed to be fun, wholesome. This is ridiculous,” I groaned as I stirred the two pots on the stove, one for the custard filling and one for the cream puffs.

  “Are you going to make it?” Anastasia asked, coming over.

  “Maybe,” I said with a smile that was more of a grimace. If all the cameras hadn’t been watching, I would have just dumped all the batter on Amber, called it quits, and run away to the Caribbean to do catering on a cruise ship. But I had to try to finish, if for nothing else than to stick it to my stepsister.

  The cream puff dough was done, and the custard burbled along. I piped out the cream puffs on the baking sheet, stirring the custard occasionally.

  Cream puffs in the oven. Stir the custard. Look at the clock. Drink cognac while wondering why it took the cream puffs so damn long to bake.

  The gossamer copper-colored spun sugar was a hallmark of the dish, and I couldn't present a croquembouche without it. While the cream puffs baked, I heated up the sugar, checking the candy thermometer to make sure it didn't burn and turn bitter. Though not traditional, I was going to form it into a ribbon that would cascade elegantly over the croquembouche. It was a little more refined than throwing sugar around willy-nilly like a spider web. This was supposed to be Christmas, not Halloween.

  Finally the cream puff shells were done. I molded the sugar into the gauzy ribbon while the pastries cooled.

  “Twenty minutes!” Anastasia called out.

  “Crap!” I took another long swig of cognac to steady my nerves then piped the custard into the cream puffs. They weren't quite cool, but this was what I had to work with. I prayed to the kitchen gods that the truffles wouldn’t melt.

  “Ten minutes!” Anastasia called as I carefully stacked the cream puffs into a pyramid then began decorating the cream puff tree, taking swigs of cognac to try to calm down.

  “I'm not going to make it,” I said, heart yammering as I carefully placed the sugar flowers and the sugar holly branches among the cream puffs, careful not to disturb them. The truffles went on last. The pastry was still slightly warm.

  “Please don’t melt!” I begged. Finally, I draped the golden spun-sugar ribbon around the tree.

  “Time!” Anastasia called as I adjusted a sugar flower.

  “Fuck, I need a drink,” I said, slumping to the floor, taking the bottle with me.

  38

  Owen

  The tension in the studio was palpable when I walked in a half hour before the timer buzzed.

  Holly was running between her table, the stove, and the fridge. I watched her frantically assemble a pyramid of little pastries. She had to use a step stool to get the last of them on the top of the tower.

  “That’s insane,” I said to Anu.

  “Yes, and this is the second time she's done it. You missed the part where the first tower was knocked over.”
>
  We applauded when the timer was up.

  Holly took a long swig out of a bottle of amber liquor. She looked wrung out. I wanted to pick her up, take her up to my condo, and ease the tension in her forehead. Unfortunately, there was a long night of Christmas Bake-off judging between me and my desire.

  The first contestant was a girl who had hot chocolate as her fan-favorite dish. She had made a deep-fried hot chocolate ice cream. It was weird, though.

  “Did you roll this in bread?” I asked, confused.

  “It kept falling apart,” she explained. “I needed to keep the shape.”

  “The fudge is nice,” Nick said, picking at the breading around the ice cream.

  “Next up, we have Amber,” Anastasia said. “Her fan-choice dish was peppermint bark.”

  Amber handed each of us a peppermint tart. I took a bite and didn’t know if I wanted to sneeze or spit it out. My mouth burned.

  Nick wasn’t so polite. He spat it back on the plate. “Seriously, did you just pour peppermint essential oils into this? It's way too much.”

  “I wanted the peppermint flavor,” Amber said. “You know, peppermint is good for a lot of things—if you have a cold or nausea or if you want to make sex with your man interesting.” She looked pointedly at me.

  The bite of tart was still burning my mouth. I spat it into a napkin one of the production assistants handed me.

  “I don’t want that anywhere near my junk,” I said.

  We all gulped water while the next dessert was brought out.

  “Honestly, anything has to be better than what we just ate,” Nick said, blowing his nose.

  Thankfully, Fiona’s dish was fruity and refreshing.

  “My fan-choice dish was Christmas punch,” she said. “I made a pomegranate-cranberry sorbet with an orange-and-apricot-and-brandy sponge cake. Also on the plate is a fizzy cranberry-ginger raindrop cake as well as a pomegranate-and-cognac reduction.”

  “Amazing!” Nick said. “There's only one issue.” He removed the sprig of mint garnish. “Let's not.”

  Holly was next.

  “I must say I’m impressed that you managed to pull through,” Anu said.

  “She worked in one of my restaurants,” Nick said with a laugh. “That means she excels under pressure.”

  Holly smiled tipsily. She wavered slightly in her heels as she described her dessert. It was even more impressive up close. If that was what she did with just flour, eggs, and sugar in such a short time, I had no doubt that her plans for the TechBiz competition were going to be brilliant.

  “I think you might have needed a little more time,” Anu said, inspecting the tower, “but still, this was very ambitious, and you can see each of these elements was executed flawlessly.”

  I took a bite of one of the cream puffs. Holly was clearly trying not to laugh.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said, giggling.

  “She’s drunk,” Anu said.

  “The makings of a great chef,” Nick added.

  Anu and Nick decided to give the win to Fiona. Holly was runner-up this round. I knew she was disappointed, but she was whisked away for a postcompetition interview before I could talk to her.

  Actually, I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to make out with her and take her out of that outfit. The curve of her breasts peeked through the deep V of the top. I wanted to run my tongue over the creamy stripe of skin between the thigh-high boots and the hem of the skirt then lick my way up.

  It was pitch-dark when they finished filming. The contest had run late that day. I took Rudolph out. The dog-sitting start-up had set up temporary shop at my office, providing some much-needed interaction for Rudolph. But he still had energy to burn.

  Sloane texted me while I was out.

  Sloane: Lonely? I’m in the area. Let me come by and cheer you up.

  Ignore. She’d better not show up. The only reason she had been able to sneak upstairs was because of the TechBiz competition; we’d had to give the committee access to our facilities.

  When I returned to my condo, I was on edge, half expecting her to be waiting for me. She wasn't, and unfortunately, neither was Holly. I prowled around the condo, trying to convince myself that it wasn’t a good idea to sneak upstairs to my penthouse and into the master bedroom to surprise Holly. I poured myself a drink to try to take the edge off. The doorbell rang.

  I ignored it. It was probably Sloane. The bell rang again, and Rudolph went crazy. Steeling myself, I checked the camera, but it was not Sloane; it was Holly. She blew kisses to the camera, then her hands slid up her top and started unbuttoning the bodice. I practically sprinted to the door and wrenched it open.

  “I thought that would get your attention,” she said.

  39

  Holly

  Owen didn’t say a word when he opened the door. He stared at me as though I was his main course and dessert.

  “I’m drunk and might be convinced to make a bad decision,” I told him, licking my lips. “Such as sleep with the bake-off judge slash technically my boss.”

  Owen pulled me inside and pushed me against the wall, crushing his mouth to mine. He tasted rich, like expensive liquor. His tongue claimed my mouth as his hand pushed up under the short skirt to caress my ass. He trailed kisses to my tits, pulling one out then the other to lick and kiss the soft skin.

  I moaned, legs trembling slightly, my arms around his neck as he kissed his way down. I widened my legs for him as his hand pushed under my soaking panties. Whimpering, I pressed against his hand. Owen stroked me, teasing me, as he kissed me. One hand tangled in my hair as the other rubbed my clit. I had already been hot and bothered when I was outside his door, and Owen was quickly bringing me to the edge.

  I clung to Owen as two fingers dipped into my opening then trailed back to circle and tease my clit. I whimpered and moaned against his mouth, my hips making little circles against his hand. He kissed back down to suck on my breast, nipping and rolling the nipple in his mouth, as his hand stroked my pussy.

  Moaning, I clung to him as he stroked me, working my clit. I made whimpering, pleading noises as he kissed back up to my neck and up my jaw, using two fingers to roll my clit as if he was making candy canes. My legs trembled, and my body tightened as I came.

  I panted against his mouth as he kissed me. His cock was hard through his pants, and I unzipped them. I needed that hard length inside me.

  “I think I want my Christmas present early,” I breathed.

  Owen lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around him. He kissed me as he carried me to the couch.

  “Only naughty girls open their presents early,” he said, his deep voice sending delicious vibrations through me. He tossed me onto the couch. I landed on my hands and knees, and Owen positioned himself behind me.

  “I want your cock,” I moaned.

  “I want a taste of your Christmas cookies first,” he said, one hand tangled in my hair. He tipped my head back to kiss me as his hand pushed back under the wet panties, stroking my pussy. I moaned from the back of my throat as two of his fingers entered me. I gyrated against his hand.

  “No fair,” I croaked as his fingers moved back to my clit.

  He chuckled then eased my panties down. They trapped my knees together, so I couldn’t spread my legs wide enough to entice him to stick that big cock into me. I moaned as he undid the bodice of the nutcracker outfit, one hand cupping my tit, rolling the nipple in his fingers. His hands slid down my back to cup my ass.

  “I think you really did turn me into a Christmas cookie addict,” he remarked then pressed his mouth to my pussy.

  His tongue felt even better than his hands. I cried out as his tongue dipped into my opening then made little spirals up to my clit. I cursed, trying to spread my legs more. Owen laughed, his voice sending vibrations through my pussy. There was a tearing noise, and the lace panties ripped. Owen tossed them to the floor.

  “Fuck me,” I begged, spreading my legs wider for him.

 
He ignored me and kept up the same steady motion with his tongue. His large hands held my hips in place as Owen sucked and licked my clit, almost bringing me to the edge again then not letting me finish. He traced every line of pleasure. I was a sweaty, pleading mess. He slid two fingers back into my opening, crooking them as he worked my clit.

  I could barely hold myself up. My knees trembled, and my legs felt like they were going to give out when finally Owen made me come with a series of high-pitched cries. Spent, I half collapsed on the couch.

  “You know,” Owen said before I drifted off into a land of happy singing elves and friendly reindeer, “I almost expected you to yell ‘Merry Christmas.’”

  “Next time,” I slurred.

  I woke up the next morning with a start.

  “Crazy drunk dreams,” I said hoarsely, groping around for the water I usually kept on the nightstand. It wasn’t there. I blinked in the light that streamed through the windows.

  Wait, why is the view different? Was I in Fiona’s room? That couldn’t be right. I sat up, yawning, and looked down. I was completely naked.

  Crap. What the hell happened? I drank too much for sure. But it was starting to come back to me—Amber ruining my dessert, the abundant cognac.

  The door opened, framing Owen.

  Right. And that.

  40

  Owen

  I was expecting next time to be in five, maybe ten minutes. I was pretty sure I could make her come again. It was addicting to watch Holly come undone. My cock ached as I thought about the noises she made.

  But that wasn't going to be happening tonight, it seemed. Holly was sound asleep, sprawled on the couch. As much as I wanted her to wake up, straddle me, and ride my cock, that was going to have to wait. The first time I fucked her for real, I wanted to take my time, and I wanted her to be alert enough to feel every second of it.