by Jana Aston
But also, that's not how real life works. I don't want to be that girl who just tosses aside her lifelong ambitions for a man. Every romantic comedy movie ever made tells me that will end in disaster.
It's a real no-win, if I'm taking life advice from movies.
I want it all, obviously. But wanting it all is terrifying. And why am I even thinking about all of this with a man I've just met and shared one kiss with? It's Yuletide insanity. Soon the holidays will be over and Keller will be gone. Off to film another season of Brunch, Biscuits & Tea and oversee his restaurants or sit on judging panels of random Food Network competitions. I need to shake it off and focus. This is temporary. Nothing more.
Dear universe, why must you tease me in this way? I'm trying my best to behave and temptation is continually thrust into my face. It's like encountering a pack of Trooper Girls selling cookies when you're on a diet.
And then, just like that, day two of competition is underway.
"We have a surprise for you today!" The host of The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off claps her hands together in excitement once they've arranged the group of us. They've marked the floor with small taped crosses to tell us exactly where to stand so they can get the best footage. The footage of us being given our surprise.
I was feeling confident about today up until this moment. Just one day standing between me and the finale. Two challenges between me and the prize money. Between me and my bake shop.
“Was” being the key word.
Because in my experience whenever a television host announces a surprise, it's never a good thing. Not for the contestants on the show. It might make good television, and the people viewing might love the twist, but the contestants? If we were filming Love Island they'd be about to add two new love interests to the house. If we were filming Survivor they'd be handing one of us an immunity coconut. If we were filming Big Brother they'd be bringing back the single most disliked contestant on the show, the one everyone voted off because they were awful.
I'm not sure why they use the word “surprise” and act like it's a good thing.
We have a terrible, awful, no-good thing we're about to spring on you, is how they should phrase it.
It's a twist of some kind, clearly.
Freaking television producers think they're so clever.
"If you'll notice," the host continues with a wide camera-friendly smile, "our judges are missing from the set today."
The host of The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off is an actress famous for her role as a grandmother on an old sitcom. I suppose that's why they nabbed her for this gig. She's very grandmotherly. Grandmothers and Christmas are like peanut butter and jelly. Like winter and snowballs. Like Santa and chimneys.
The host pauses dramatically while the camera crew gets what they need. The producer asks us to look surprised. I'm sure in the final edited version of this show the camera will pan over to the empty table where the judges normally sit while we look shocked to see them missing, but in reality we've already seen them today. They're here, so clearly this twist is temporary. Or so I hope.
My guess is they're either about to send us on some kind of scavenger hunt to find the judges, or they've temporarily replaced the judges. If they've replaced the judges, it'll be for a reason. Like giving us a panel of children to impress. That'd be good television. I bet that's it.
I relax. This is way better than a team challenge or being given five minutes to recreate Santa's sleigh out of nothing but a fruitcake, a pack of wafer cookies, and a stick of butter.
I'm exhaling in relief when the first dog trots in, a bright red ribbon tied around his collar, tail wagging in happiness as he scampers across the makeshift set.
He's quickly followed by two others.
Dogs. Yup, that's even better television. And the best part is I can make a gingerbread dog biscuit with my eyes closed, a thought I'll keep to myself because I don't actually want to bake with my eyes closed and I can imagine production thinking that'd be a fun twist. Not today, Scrooge.
I'm not sure how they're going to judge this though. Three paws up? In my experience, most dogs will eat just about anything.
"Meet your guest judges!" the host announces in a tone that indicates she thinks this is a jolly great idea. "As you can see, we're doing something different for your next challenge. Today you'll be creating a gingerbread dog treat! And the folks at the Reindeer Falls Animal Rescue have sent over a few volunteers to join our judging panel today!”
It turns out the dogs will be judging us in conjunction with our actual judges, who have returned to their spots at the judging table. So we need to make a dog biscuit that appeals to both the dogs and the judges.
And then we're off, everyone scrambling to the pantry to collect ingredients.
Meanwhile, one of the dogs is chewing on a cable of some kind and another has just knocked over one of the gingerbread set decorations. The third appears to be working on getting himself adopted by one of the camera crew as he's plopped himself at his feet and rolled onto his back, exposing his belly. The dog, not the cameraman.
I shake my head while I collect ingredients, pausing with a frown of concentration while I contemplate which of my dog biscuits I should make.
"It could be worse. They could have sent cats."
It’s Keller. I huff in his direction.
"This is serious, Keller."
"Not that serious, really. Quite literally just dog biscuits, Gingersnap."
My heart does a little jig in my chest when he calls me Gingersnap and I have to fight off the giant smile that is threatening to overtake my face. Charming jackal.
Arms loaded with ingredients, I race back to my station. Ten minutes later I've got my human-consumable dog biscuits in the oven. I'm making a peanut butter gingersnap. I've made these before and they're delicious. There's also nothing in them that the dogs can't have.
Needless to say, I survive the round. Hmm, that was a bit vain, wasn't it? But I have been donating homemade dog treats to the shelter for well over a year. If I'd gone home during this round it'd have been pretty humiliating. Besides, one of the dogs the shelter sent over was Hank, and I happen to know he's partial to my peanut butter gingersnaps.
Anyway, five of us are left for the fourth round, which might be the trickiest yet.
Gingerbread pie.
Chapter 8
I know, I know. You think gingerbread pie sounds real simple but the Great Lakes Holiday Pie Champ is still in the running and surely she's not going home during the pie round. Can you imagine the humiliation? Besides her, it's me, Keller, the celebrity chef with her own cupcake show and the local champion from Ann Arbor.
And only three of us will advance to the final.
They've given us a break while production sets up to film the gingerbread pie episode. We all change clothes during the break to give the illusion that this is being filmed on a different day. I'm just stepping out of the women's changing room—also known as the women's bathroom at the community center—when I see Keller approaching. I've changed into another vintage-inspired holiday dress. This one is a pale blue wool with elbow-length sleeves and white appliquéd snowflakes on the circle skirt. Of course I don't dress like this in my own kitchen, but perhaps I should because honestly it feels good. Impractical, but good.
Lots of good things are impractical though.
Like crushing on a certain celebrity chef with a British accent.
Anyway, maybe this will be my thing at Ginger's Bake Shop. I'll wear a cute vintage dress underneath my apron as part of my branding. Wouldn't that be adorable? Vintage dresses and sneakers ’cause I'm not crazy enough to romanticize the idea of baking in heels. I've got my limits.
"Ginger," Keller drawls in his lovely British accent as he approaches, phone in his hand. I mean, I know logically Ginger sounds much the same in either an American or British accent, but trust me, it's super sexy when Keller says it. It comes out like “Ginnnggeerrr” with an undertone of “let's have sex.” I p
romise you, that's exactly how he pronounces it. "You look smashing."
"Smashing?" I start to giggle because surely he's pulling my leg. "That cannot be a word British people still use, Mr James."
"It is, I just used it. And call me Mr James again. I'm into it." This is accompanied by a wink that makes me weak-kneed and a cheeky smile that makes me question if I'm dehydrated because I'm close to swooning like a heroine in a Regency romance novel.
We stand there a moment while I stare at him like an infatuated teenager at a high school dance as he smiles at me like I'm someone worth his smiles. They're nice smiles too. It must be that celebrity charisma again. Everyone must feel this way when he looks at them, which is why he got his own show on the Food Network. Trust me, I've watched many a marathon of Brunch, Biscuits & Tea because he's hard to turn away from, even in reruns. Even when I've already watched him bake a perfect lemon sugar crêpe or an artisan raspberry ricotta muffin and recreated the recipes myself, I watch it again.
He's captivating.
Or they've got a really great editor on Brunch, Biscuits & Tea and they edit the episodes with some kind of voodoo I can't turn away from.
Either or.
Reindeer Falls High School holds their dances in this very community center, by the way. But there wasn't enough charisma or special effects in the world to make my high-school boyfriend Jordan Redman this delicious.
"Can I get your number?"
"My number?" I repeat dumbly, because what is even happening? How is this my life right now? My apron, the one with the Great Gingerbread Bake-Off logo, is dangling from my hands. I'd been about to slip it on over my dress when I was distracted by Keller using his British accent to form words, something that should be illegal in every country except for Great Britain, as surely they've built an immunity to how sexy their own accent is.
I'd be unsure if I even heard him correctly, but he is holding his phone in his hand, looking at me expectantly. And he did kiss me yesterday, so I suppose asking for my number isn't a total leap of my imagination.
"Your mobile?" he clarifies when I blink like a deer in the headlights. "Phone? Surely you have one. If not, I'd be happy to obtain one for you so that I might call you on it." He adds a flirty smile and I'm quite certain I need to drink more water because the dehydration is definitely making me lightheaded.
Dehydration or Christmas magic, take your pick.
"Why would you need to do that? Call me, I mean. Are we arranging a phone tree for the contestants?" I glance down the hallway to where the other contestants are mingling along with a few cameramen. I know full well he's not organizing a phone tree but I'm stalling, trying to understand the end goal. We're filming the finale of The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off next week—assuming we both make it through this round. He can't possibly be intending to hang out in Reindeer Falls any longer than that.
Can he?
Does he intend to stay in town in order to seduce me with offers of sleigh rides and fireside roasted chestnuts? ’Cause he doesn't need to try that hard. Honestly, I'd show him all the best places to make out in this very building if we weren't about to film.
"A phone tree?"
"You know, when you have a group list so you can message everyone and confirm that it's your turn to bring the donuts. That sort of thing?"
"Production provides the donuts, actually." He smiles as if I'm so adorably amusing. "So no." He shakes his head slowly, a small smile playing at his lips. "I'd like your number for personal use. So that I might call you and converse. And then perhaps entice you into doing something with me."
"Like a date?" I say it slowly, doubt clearly weighing my tone. Am I having an out-of-body experience or is Keller James really asking for my phone number? In order to take me to dinner?
He laughs. "Yes, exactly like that. Surely you're familiar with the concept?"
I mean, sorta. Sure, I date, but I can't remember the last time a man asked for my phone number in person. I meet guys on dating apps, like a civilized millennial.
"I don't know," I mumble. Not because I'm being coy, but because he's leaving in just a few days, isn't he? "Aren't you leaving soon?" I question, scarcely able to believe what I'm hearing. Scarcely able to believe I might have more time with Keller. "For somewhere that is not here?" I wave a hand in the air as if to indicate the entirety of the world, because I'm not really sure where he lives when he's not here.
"No." He shakes his head. "I like it here so I'm going to stay a while. If that's all right with you." He says it quietly, earnestly, his eyes searching my face as if my answer is important to him. As if I'm the entirety of the draw of Reindeer Falls.
"You're going to stay a while," I repeat like a parrot. He's going to stay in Reindeer Falls for the holidays? For me? "At the Busy Bee Inn?"
"At the Busy Bee Inn, yes. For the time being," he adds. Whatever that means.
"Do you have a place to live?" I question, worrying my lower lip between my teeth. "When you're not in Reindeer Falls?" Maybe he's a couch-surfer. Maybe he's one of those guys so afraid of commitment he doesn't have an apartment lease and just lives out of hotels while he's filming shows for the Food Network and then lands on friends’ couches until they get sick of him. I mean, he seems super charming and put-together right now, but he'd seem a lot less charming if he left all my toss pillows strewn about my living room.
Then again, I'd never make him sleep on the couch.
"I do," he replies slowly, a smile tugging at his lips as if he's amused with my insinuation that he might be homeless. "Does that make me a more viable suitor?"
"Viable suitor?" I start laughing again. "Stop Regency-romancing me," I gasp between giggles.
He moves forward a few inches until I'm nearly pressed between him and the wall, then he leans down and I think he's going to kiss me. Right here in the hallway in full view of the other contestants and the camera crew and a production aide who is taking a really slow walk past us in a sad attempt at pretending not to eavesdrop.
"Do you think I kiss just anyone, Gingersnap?" Keller murmurs only loud enough for me to hear. "The way I kissed you yesterday?"
"I hope not," I manage to squeak out with the limited air left in my lungs. His lips are so close to mine I'm not sure I can hold myself accountable to my vow to stay focused.
"Trust the magic," he says, and presses his cell into my hands.
Chapter 9
I give Keller my phone number, obviously. I've already given him my kisses, so playing hard to get about a phone number seems silly. And by the time we begin filming the next episode an hour later I've got visions of sugar plums and true love dancing in my head. I keep peeking glances at him, fighting the smile that wants to overtake my face.
He's staying in Reindeer Falls, at least for a little bit. Maybe... maybe we could make something work? Maybe something more will develop between us and then we'll find a way to make a long-distance relationship work?
It could happen. Anything can, if I believe in the magic long enough to let it. Now I sound like Keller, I think with a smile. Also, I hope we're both talking about a theoretical magic and not a magical Christmas gnome that grants wishes.
Not that I don't believe in a little Christmas magic. Of course I do. It's the gnomes I don't trust, obviously.
"We're giving you one hour to create the ultimate gingerbread pie!" the host of The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off announces. It's actually the third time she's announced it. They had issues with the sound equipment so we're a few takes into filming this challenge. Which is helpful, actually. It gives me more time to think about what I want to bake before the clock starts ticking.
Should I make something a little unexpected? Like a pear-ginger pie? I can make a gorgeous latticework crust, but the timing will be tight. Do I make a ginger cream pie, in which I only have to bake the crust itself? Or will the judges think that too easy?
Apple-ginger pie? Too average.
Ginger-honey pumpkin pie? Too convoluted.
Gingerbread cookie pie? Too pedestrian.
I need the perfect ginger-based pie. One even Goldilocks herself would approve of.
The sound issues continue so they tell us to take five while they attempt to sort them out again. Keller drifts over to me with his charismatic smile and all thoughts of gingerbread flee my head. His dark hair is falling across his forehead and my fingers are itching to brush it aside. Or dig in and feel it between my fingers.
I've got it bad.
"Know what you're making?" he asks, seemingly unaware of all the dirty possibilities playing across my mind right now.
"Do you?" I retort, since no, I really don't.
"Gingersnap pie crust with a butterscotch cream filling," he answers easily.
"You're a little obsessed with gingersnap," I observe with a small grin. I find it charming, obviously. Does that make me some kind of egomaniac, to assume he's making a gingersnap recipe in honor of his nickname for me?
"More than a little," he replies, eyes dropping to my lips and back with a slow flirtatious glance.
"I think I'm going to make a pear-ginger pie with fresh cinnamon whipped cream."
"Ambitious, with the time given."
"Yeah." I worry at my bottom lip, pulling it between my teeth. Maybe I should go with a simpler option? Also, I'm not sure how it's possible but talking about baking with Keller feels like some kind of weird foreplay.
"You can do it," he assures me, voice low and sexy and rumbly.
"Of course I can," I agree, but now I'm staring at his lips and I think I might sound a little breathless. When the director announces they're ready to begin filming again, I jump. As if I'm a guilty teenager and was almost caught kissing Jordan Redman in the stairwell.
But I'm not a teenager. I'm a grown woman and I almost kissed Keller James. On set. With my parents in the audience. And my sisters. They're going to tease me about this so mercilessly.
The fourth attempt at filming goes off without a hitch and then the five remaining contestants are scrambling for the pantry, gathering ingredients faster than Santa’s elves. I'm going to make the pear-ginger pie, but with a caramelized filling. The caramelized filling will only take ten minutes on the stovetop versus the amount of time I'd need to bake a pear filling in the oven. Then I'll cover it with a gorgeous braided lattice crust and bake it until it's golden brown. Plenty of time.