I can do whatever I want with my life as long as it’s something they’ll approve of. I could be a doctor, architect, marine biologist, dentist, or graphic designer, but if I told them I was interested in starting a baking blog, they’d panic. If I admitted that what I really want to do is write a cupcake cookbook…
I can’t even imagine.
“Tell them you want to major in business,” Riley says after thinking about it for a few minutes. “You want to do your own thing—be an entrepreneur. Nothing wrong with that.”
Maybe.
She looks up. “Honestly, Harper, it’s not even that surprising. You hate to take orders from people, and no one ever does enough to meet your expectations. You almost HAVE to work for yourself, or all of your co-workers or underlings would hate you.”
“Thank you, Riley.” I give her a wry smile as I take back my laptop. “You’re a ray of sunshine as always.”
A wicked look crosses her face, and she grins. “If you don’t see yourself going for a business degree, you could always take Plan B.”
“And that would be?”
“Snag yourself a handsome, successful musician and make your blog a hobby,” she jokes.
I shake my head like she’s ridiculous, but for one brief moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to date Mason—not for his money of course. Just to be with him. I give up after a few moments, because I’ve never been that fanciful, and I simply can’t picture it.
“He invited me to go with him to New York on Tuesday. He’s performing in a live Christmas special Wednesday evening.” I resume my original task, looking for cookie inspiration.
When Riley doesn’t answer, I turn to her.
Her mouth is agape. For the second time in two days, my sister has been rendered speechless.
“Do you think I should go?” I ask.
“Um—yes,” she says like I’m the slowest person in the world. She tosses her blond hair over her shoulder, reaches between us, and closes my laptop, making sure she has my full attention. “I can’t believe you’re even thinking about turning him down. New York, Harper. Live Christmas Special. Mason Knight.”
Butterflies flutter in my stomach. It sounds so unreal—magical even. Mason’s right; I have a cynical side, and this is making it flair in a big way.
“Things like this don’t happen, Riley,” I tell her.
“But it’s happening to you. Why are you fighting it?”
Because there’s something in me that feels like I need to be above it…and if I’m not, then I’m no better than all the girls I’ve rolled my eyes at over the years. The last thing I want to be is a groupie. Just the thought makes the butterflies in my stomach up and die.
Riley hops off the bed. “Brood later. Cole and Jerome made a decadent looking chocolate cake this morning, and I want to snag a piece before it’s gone.”
“Traitor,” I tease. “Eating other people’s desserts.”
She laughs as she steps into the hall.
I give my laptop one last glance and then follow Riley out the door.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
There have been no more surprises in our interview sessions, but I think it’s understandable I’m still hesitant. Sadie must feel the same way because she keeps crossing and uncrossing her ankles as we wait for the man who I’m starting to think of as “my” cameraman to finish fiddling with his equipment. Mr. Australian Accent’s actual name is Dave, but he’ll always be the former to me.
He makes a final adjustment and looks at us. “Are you ready?”
“That depends. Do you plan to throw more intensely personal questions our way?” I ask, just like I have at all the interviews after the one last Tuesday.
Sadie laughs, nervous.
Dave gives me a flat-mouthed look that makes him resemble a frog.
“We’re ready,” I say, putting him out of his misery.
Dave asks us how we’re feeling, if we’re worried we’ll be eliminated, and what it’s like to have made it this far in the bake-off. We give him the chipper, we’re-going-to-go-out-there-and-give-it-our-best answers he wants, but before he lets us leave, he has one more question.
“Sadie, explain why you want to win the bake-off.”
Again, she talks about her grandmother, but this time, she tells us how her grandmother first taught her to bake when she was so little, she had to stand on a stool to reach the counter. It’s a sweet story, and I almost bet they have pictures to flash on the screen when the episode airs. We were all required to give some to the show when we found out we’d been chosen.
When Sadie’s finished, Dave looks at me. “Your turn, Harper.”
Why do I want to win the competition? The obvious answer is that if I don’t win, I lose. And I don’t care for losing.
The money is a factor as well, but there’s more to it than that. If I were to win this bake-off, it just might prove that I have what it takes to bake professionally. No, I don’t want to open a bakery like Scott and Misty, and I don’t have dreams of one day hosting my own HBN show, but I could write my cookbook. And with all the publicity I’m getting, there’s a real possibility that people might buy it.
Imagine that.
“Harper?” Dave prompts.
“I’m in the process of writing a cupcake cookbook,” I blurt out. My face gets warm, and then my neck and chest follow. It’s not a pleasant sensation.
“If Sadie and I won the bake-off, it would prove that I have the skills to succeed. I could take my share of the prize money and put it toward starting my business.”
Sadie looks at me, apparently surprised by my answer.
“Do you think you and Sadie can win?”
I square my shoulders to the camera. “There are many talented bakers in the competition, but I very much doubt any are as tenacious as I am. Sadie and I have an excellent chance of winning.”
Dave gives me a guilty smirk and reads the next question. “Viewers are speculating that there is something between you and Mason. Could you please tell us about your relationship?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Full answer, please.”
I sigh, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “I expected Mason to be arrogant and narcissistic, but he seems level-headed and down-to-earth. He’s been kind to all of the contestants, myself included.”
Dave cringes and shoots me an apologetic look as he reads the next question. “Do you think he’s handsome?”
“Seriously?” I demand.
Dave gives me a helpless shrug.
“What kind of response do you want me to give you?” I growl. “Do you want me to say that Mason is even more handsome in person? That his eyes are truly gray—the exact color of storm clouds in winter or some such nonsense? Fine. He’s handsome, all right? At first, it was disconcerting to be in the same room. He’s funny and charming, and when he smiles at you…”
I lose my train of thought, and to my chagrin, I realize I’ve gone too far. Abruptly, I close my mouth and refuse to go on.
Sadie looks at me like I’ve sprouted another head, and I fidget, wishing I had answered differently.
“Uh…” Dave blinks at me and then hurries to read the next question. “Do you think your new friendship with Mason could prove to be your downfall in the competition?”
“No.”
“Full answer, please.”
“My being acquainted with Mason will not prove to be my downfall in the competition.”
Dave doesn’t mention my change in wording. He shuts off the camera and stands. “Thank you, ladies. That’s all we needed.”
If nothing else, I’m sure my interview will make Tammy happy.
***
I squeeze the very last bit of royal icing out of the piping bag. “Little more,” I beg. I don’t want to make another whole batch for five cookies.
We made it past another elimination. Emery and Davis went home. They had a rough time in the kitchen on Friday, and I know they’d been worried all we
ekend. The stress is unreal.
“How’s it going?” Sadie asks from her side of the workstation. She’s dipping sprigs of rosemary in a pasteurized egg white mixture and then coating them with a fine layer of sugar. They’ll sparkle like ice crystals when she’s finished.
“I ran out of icing.” I’m already measuring out the ingredients for another batch.
Today, we have to make a cookie wreath. Sadie and I decided to play it safe with a basic butter cookie recipe so we could put more time into decorating. I hope that was a good decision.
Chrissy and Christy went with a gingerbread-house type dough, but I’m not sure that was wise considering we’ve already made ginger cookies. However, last time I walked by their station, I saw the cutest collection of gingerbread elves and one tiny 2D workshop. They’re using their two hours well.
I didn’t expect them to do poorly in this competition though. I’ve seen pictures of the cupcakes they sell in their bakery, and the two obviously know their way around a piping bag.
Jerome and Cole have made a sugar cookie wreath covered in cookie stars. It’s messy, and their base is a bit uneven. I’m afraid decorating isn’t their forte.
Anne hasn’t left her workstation this entire time. Her ankle looks awful this morning, but Tammy said she could have a stool behind the bench. Jessica is doing all the running, and Anne’s doing the bulk of the decorating on their lemon cutout angel wreath.
I finish mixing the icing just as Mason reaches us. “Sadie and Harper, tell us about your wreath.”
“We’re making a butter cookie wreath,” Sadie answers. “We’ve baked a solid base, and we’re going to decorate it with the cookie holly leaves Harper is working on. I’ve sugared sprigs of rosemary, and we’ll add those to give it some color.”
“Oh, and dried orange slices,” I add, glancing toward the ingredient cart, reminding myself I still need to grab those.
As I look that way, Chrissy looks up. Our eyes meet, and she gives me a tight, snooty smile.
I ignore her and turn back to Mason.
“We have thirty minutes left,” he reminds us. “How are you doing time-wise?”
“I had to make another batch of royal icing, but other than that, I think we’re doing well.”
He smiles in that dazzling way that’s for the cameras. “I’ll let you girls get back to it.”
Immediately, I begin to spoon icing into the piping bag. Mason’s camera crew is already heading to Scott and Misty’s station, but Mason hangs back.
“Meet me in my room after the judging,” he whispers near my ear. “Oh, and you have powdered sugar on your cheek.”
I catch myself smiling as I attempt to brush it away with the back of my hand. I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something else, but after another hesitant moment, he heads toward Scott and Misty.
“Harper,” Sadie whispers, her blue eyes sparkling in the bright kitchen lights. “I think he actually likes you.”
I glance over at Mason, and he meets my eyes. I know we’re playing right into Tammy’s hand, but I can’t bring myself to care.
“I think I might like him too,” I admit quietly.
Sadie gives me a hopeful look. I know she wants Mason and me to hit it off—then she won’t feel guilty about Brandon. But she doesn’t realize that I don’t blame her, not really.
I don’t blame Brandon either. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. If we were meant to be, it would have happened already. We had all the time in the world, and something kept us apart.
After I finish icing the edges of the holly leaves, I set down my bag of frosting. “I’m going to grab the dried oranges,” I tell Sadie.
She nods absently and sets another sprig of newly sugared rosemary on the tray to dry. They look perfect. The sugar is delicate—heavy, but not clumpy or messy. “I think I’m going to sugar some cranberries too. What do you think?”
“Sounds pretty.”
We chose not to tint our frosting and left it a bright, snowy white instead. We need several pops of color for contrast.
I walk past Chrissy and Christy’s station and give their wreath a surreptitious glance. They already have their gingerbread elves attached, and now Chrissy is making a decorative ribbon as Christy pipes green pine sprigs between the cookies, tying the scene together.
It looks amazing.
Trying not to let nerves get the best of me, I browse the ingredient shelves, looking for the oranges.
“I know they’re here,” I mutter as I shuffle canisters and boxes about.
“What are you looking for, Harper?” Shannon, one of the show’s home economists, hurries over to ask.
“The dried orange slices.”
She frowns and begins to rifle through things herself. “I know we had some.”
After a moment, she shakes her head. “Someone must be using them.”
I nod, and she hurries off, nodding a cameraman my way. This is one of those “must get it on camera” moments we were instructed about.
“Does anyone have the dried orange slices?” I call loudly, looking around.
No one answers.
I hold out my hands, frustrated. “The orange slices? Anyone?”
Cole and Jerome shake their heads; so do Jessica and Anne.
“We don’t have them,” Misty hollers. Max says the same, and so does Quinn.
That only leaves one group.
I walk to Christy and Chrissy’s workstation, trying not to look irked. Sure enough, the canister of oranges is sitting on their bench, unopened.
“Are you done with the oranges?” I ask, not bothering to address either of them specifically.
Chrissy looks up as if distracted. “What’s that, honey?”
“Are you finished with the oranges?”
She gives me an apologetic face. (Sort of—her forehead and eyebrows don’t actually move.) “Oh, I’m sorry, Harper. We’re not quite done with them.”
“Okay… Can I take about seven slices and leave you with the rest?”
Christy makes a face. “We’re not sure exactly how many we’re going to need.”
I stare at them, waiting for them to break. After almost a full thirty seconds, it becomes clear that they’re as stubborn as I am, and all I’m doing is wasting my precious time.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Good luck, Harper!” Chrissy calls, her voice as sweet and fake as saccharine. “I’m sure you’ll figure out something!”
Shaking my head, fuming but trying to hide it, I stalk back to the ingredient cabinet. I scan the canisters, racking my brain for ideas. Finally, my eyes land on the cinnamon sticks.
That will do.
I grab them and race back to my workstation. Sadie shoots the blond competitors to our right a look of pure loathing. “I noticed Christy ran to the ingredient carts while we were talking with Mason. She must have heard that we wanted the oranges.”
“Cows,” I mutter, and then I cringe. “Sorry, that was harsh.”
Sadie just laughs and sets aside the last of the finished rosemary. “What are you planning to do with the cinnamon sticks?”
“Take over the frosting, and I’ll show you.”
Thirty minutes later, our wreath is gorgeous, if I do say so myself. Sadie’s icing is perfection. When she was finished, she dusted the cookies with edible white glitter, and then we tucked the sugared rosemary, cranberries, and little bundles of cinnamon sticks around the entire thing. We made too many cookies, but I set them aside. I’m sure the crew will make quick work of them after the show.
We’re just admiring our creation when Sadie yelps. “We need a bow!”
Somehow, we forgot, and now we only have ten minutes. Both of us hurry to the cart that holds the inedible tools and decorations, but there’s no ribbon left.
“Chocolate!” I exclaim, grabbing the chips. “We’ll pipe it on parchment paper and stick it in the blast chiller.”
Mason yells, “Time!” only seconds after we secure ou
r new, delicate chocolate ribbon to the butter cookie holly wreath.
Sadie sucks in a breath and grabs the edge of the table. “That was close.”
I nod in agreement, stepping out of the way of a cameraman as he gets a shot of our finished cookie masterpiece.
We filter out of the kitchen, off to complete our interviews. I’m just about through the door when I hear a horrible crash. Every single one of the competitors freezes in horror. Slowly, we turn.
One of the young crew members—a lackey whose name I don’t even know, stands next to our station, staring in horror at the crumbled cookie wreath on the ground.
Everything around me seems to go into slow motion. There are dozens of people talking all at once. Tammy is hollering, but I barely hear her. Our wreath is ruined.
Sadie makes a choking noise that sounds like a sob, but I can only stare.
Mason turns toward the young man, his eyes flashing with anger.
“What happened?” Tammy demands as she storms across the kitchen set.
“It must have been on the edge,” the young man stammers. “I don’t know how I bumped it.”
It wasn’t on the edge, but I keep my mouth shut. I don’t trust myself to talk yet—not without using language my mother would not approve of. Especially on television, because you know one of the cameramen would film me.
Tammy rubs her temples, looking like she’s about to go ballistic. “They don’t pay me enough.” She turns to us. “Harper, Sadie, I apologize, but I’m going to have to ask you to stay behind and make another for judging.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I don’t know what’s worse: that we had to make another identical wreath, or that we only had to do it so they’d have a prop for judging. Tammy admitted that the judges could taste the leftover cookies and that the cameramen already got a good shot of the original.
But that wasn’t enough for television.
By the time I make it up to Mason’s room, it’s well past dark, and I’m both exhausted and grumpy.
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