“Perfect. All the flavors will meld together. I'll, I mean, we'll”-–I glared at Bethany, who was about to collapse on the floor in hysterics--“see you at the community center at noon sharp.”
He walked to the apartment door with our precious cargo tucked in the crook of his arm. “Until then, ladies, this was a blast. Happy Holidays.”
After he departed, I closed the door and rested the back of my head against it, daydreaming about what an incredible man he was, how I could still feel his arms around me from when we went for coffee, and how the experience should be repeated. Over and over and over and over.
When Bethany popped the top of a soda can, I jolted upright. She said, “Take his gorgeous body. Please. Then be the most excellent girlfriend of all lifetime and tell me about it. For my sake. For Christmas.”
My mouth curled upward. “I live to serve.”
Two days later after my evening yoga class, while I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, someone pounded on my apartment door.
Dixon shouted, “Samantha? Are you home?”
Oh no. He would show when I didn’t look my best. I rushed to the powder room and tilted my face closer to the mirror to inspect my après workout hairdo. The yoga session had been an extra sweaty one, and a tatty girl was not attractive. I squinted. Verdict—-wilted porcupine. Definitely not “guy meeting” material. Hell.
His fist rapped the door again. “Samantha? Open up. It's important.”
Important raised my radar. I shook the cobwebs from my brain and tamed the behaving badly strands behind my ear. I sang, “Com-iiinnng.”
Upon opening the door, I said with a hint of casualness in my voice, “Dixon. What a nice surprise. Come on-—”
He passed me in a rush, leaving a wave of citrus in his wake, and me, a tad bewildered. Determined to not transform into a befuddled lunatic, I shut the door and slid my fists in my hoodie's pockets. For work, he'd dressed in black tailored slacks and a buttoned-down dress shirt. Highly polished Oxford shoes on his feet. One arm dangled along his side and the other was tucked next to his hip cradling something. He looked more than incredibly gorgeous, in fact, totally professional.
Bethany's directive about “jumping him” went to my brain's forefront and resisted erasing. However, from his pleated brow and the rock-hard clench of his jaw, I could tell he had a major problem and no “jumping” would be happening. Like I would do it this quickly anyway. “Are you okay?”
He plopped the Aunt Nellie tin on the counter. “I don't know what to say, so I'll show you.” He removed the lid.
My gaze went to his hands, his eyes, and then the can again. My stomach sank to my feet. All our work, the beautiful Orange Slice Fruitcake for The Great Fruitcake Bake-off, had been demolished into oblivion and didn't even remotely resemble the original golden masterpiece.
“Wh”--I swallowed hard to hold back a sob--“what happened?”
He bit his lower lip before saying, “I'm so sorry, Samantha. I'd put the container on the coffee table and forgot all about it. Jones, my dog, and I were playing, probably a little rough. He-—we—-knocked it off and”--he indicated our entry--“well, this is the result. I was totally irresponsible. I should be fired.”
All the work. All the time. As disappointed as I was, anything I said wouldn't cure the disaster. He'd had an accident and expressed his regrets. I appreciated his honesty. “Oh my.”
“I'm so sorry. I wish I could fix this.”
“Hey, it's okay.” I patted his sleeve. “Not the end of the world.”
“Jones is sorry, too.”
“Jones? Like the last name? For a dog?”
“The shelter named him.” When he grinned, a dimple appeared in his right cheek. “He’s a poodle mix and my pal.”
Adorable. I couldn't help but respond back with a smile of my own.
He gestured to the tin. “So, we're eliminated?”
I shook my head. “I'm not sure. Let me think.”
“Okay.”
He stood stock-still as I pondered what to do, what to do. The ultimate answer to magically appear right now would be most welcome.
He cleared his throat. “I was wondering.”
“Wonder away,” I said.
“Do we have time to bake another? I'll go to the store.”
“A good idea.” But not really what I wanted to do. My finger bounced on my nose. Then abracadabra! “But I have another one.”
“A superb one?”
“Absolutely.”
“Absolutely?”
“Positively.” I strode to the pantry door and flung it wide. After a top to bottom search, I didn't find what I needed.
Moving to my side, he looked, too. “Is glue involved?”
“Sorta, but not the white school kind.”
His forehead scrunched. “So, what—-”
I raised my finger. “One sec.” I picked up my tablet from the counter and did some speedy tapping. “I think this will work. Have a look.” I transferred the device to him, so he could set eyes on the picture I'd found.
“Cake balls?” A grin spread across his face and the adorable dimple reappeared. “You-—we-—can do this?”
“Definitely.”
“Definitely?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Assuredly?”
As I grabbed my purse and pushed him out the door to go buy a can of frosting at the grocery store, I placed on him the “I'm so tired of this exasperated” squint. A tilt of my head, eyes rolled up. The same one my mother had doled on me, when as a small child, I'd annoyingly play twenty questions to test her.
“Trust me.”
The day of The Great Fruitcake Bake-off had my stomach churning in flippity flops. I couldn't even eat breakfast. And I never missed breakfast.
At noon, Bethany, Dixon, and I met at the entrance to the apartment complex's community center which housed several gathering areas, a kitchen, and a top-notch workout facility. As we stepped inside the largest room set aside for the Bake-off, I searched for our entry.
Dixon said, “I think it's--”
“Over there.” Bethany extended her arm to the right. “That’s ours.”
“Good eye.” Dixon picked up my hand and squeezed my wrist. I sent a grateful smile his way. “Let's check.”
As I drew closer, horror smacked me to my very bones. The lid partially covered the container. I rushed to the table and shifted aside the loosened top. My hands flew to my mouth to stifle my scream. Inside, the cake balls had been destroyed. Like someone had taken a ball-peen hammer and smashed them to oblivion.
Bethany's eyes formed softball-sized rounds. “Dear God. We're cursed. What happened this time?”
Dixon rubbed the crease in his cheek. “I swear on a stack of bibles, ours did not look like this when I turned it in yesterday afternoon.”
“I believe you.” I stared at him, trying to tame my frustration. “Let's review exactly what you did do.”
He shaded his eyes with his hand for a moment, searching for answers. “Left your place, stored the container in my fridge. I turned in our entry. I rechecked the form, making sure to add my name. That nice lady”—-he nodded toward the door where a table had been set up and manned by a volunteer--“took everything. I followed her over here where she arranged the cake.”
“The End.” Bethany scowled. “Rats.”
“It didn't get jostled?” I asked, twisting the hem of my black velvet t-shirt.
“No, she let me open and check inside. All looked perfect.” His tone sounded a tad defensive even though we knew he hadn't done this. He couldn't. It just wasn't in his nature to be this destructive.
Softening my voice, I said, “I'm not blaming you. I could have been the problem. I'd never made cake balls before. Maybe I didn't make them correctly.”
“You know you did.” Bethany lowered her voice, “Look over there. See the gruesome twosome by the punch bowl? I bet a million dollars Crazy Wanda and Jake-the-Snake did the dirty deed.�
�
“Bethany!” I gasped. “That's-—”
“Don't you remember their whispering at the sign-up?”
“Yes. I'm just...shocked.”
“Mean. Mean. Mean. She'd do anything to knock your sweet self from the podium.”
Dixon asked, “But why?”
I said, “I believe she's incredibly jealous of my previous wins. I wouldn't put anything past her to wreck our entry.”
Bethany twirled a finger in her hair. “Too bad we don't have another cake.”
Dixon stilled. Like an ice sculpture. Like an icicle. Like an icy treat fresh from the freezer.
His stance baffled me. I asked, “What is it, Dixon?”
He swiveled to face me. “You may not want to-—”
“Want to what?”
“Come on,” Bethany said. “Cut to the chase.”
His gaze zoomed in on me, and in a matter of fact manner, he said, “I have a cake.”
Confused, my brow v-eed. I set my fists to my waist. “I’m not understanding. You baked a cake on your own?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Not...exactly.”
“Explain exactly ASAP. We have”--I whirled around to check the wall clock and then whirled back--“twenty minutes to fix this or quit.”
“I have another Orange Slice Fruitcake. In the fridge. My aunt is Aunt Nellie. She gives me a gift basket every year. I took hers out of the tin and put in it in the fridge when we needed a container for the one we'd made.”
“Oh my God.” Surprise from his confession nearly blew me off course. I pressed the back of my wrist to my forehead. “The Aunt Nellie from television? The one with the cooking show? She's your aunt?”
He nodded. “That's her, my dad's sister.”
Bethany did a little jig. “Praise the Lord. A miracle.”
“Wait a minute.” I did a circle walkabout and thought. Pausing, I asked, “But wouldn't we be cheating?”
Dixon asked, “Is it cheating to destroy someone else's work?”
“Yes,” we chorused.
“Then we should do this.” He stepped closer to the table. With a soft and low voice, he said, “Is anyone watching?”
Bethany's gaze skimmed the crowded room. “The coast is clear. Wanda and Jake have moved to the cookies, probably to test some of her sick concoctions.”
“Good.” Dixon swept the tin top into place and tucked the whole caboodle underneath his gray corduroy jacket. In eight long strides, he was through the door.
“His solution doesn't resemble cake balls.” Staring after him, Bethany rubbed one side of her face. “Will this work?”
“Don't see why not. We followed Aunt Nellie's orange slice recipe. I didn't change the form to say cake balls.” I shrugged. “If this does the trick, we’ll have the ultimate in revenge.”
A mischievous grin twisted her mouth while her shoulders shook. “You, my dear, are not the revengeful type.”
My quirk matched hers. “That I'm not.”
With a diabolical laugh, we rubbed our hands in our best villainous imitation and crowed, “He-he-he.”
Dixon was back in a flash, and from how his chest--very wide and delectable, I might add—-heaved. He'd run the whole way. Carefully, he lifted his jacket an iota of an inch. “Here.”
I said, “All clear, Bethany?”
By only shifting her eyes, she scanned the room like a seasoned secret agent. “All clear.”
I took the tin from him and placed it in the empty spot. When I opened the lid, the sweet overpowering fragrance of orange and sugar filled the air. My mouth watered. Quite delectable. “Aah.”
“I'm not worried,” Dixon said. “I removed the plastic wrapper before stuffing our new entry inside.”
Bethany said, “Ours looked just like this one.”
I said, “I know. A perfect match before we made cake balls.”
“Good job, girls.” Dixon’s finger floated lightly along my spine.
Trills of delight raced up my backbone. “I don't feel one bit bad, especially if it means we beat them. The dirty rotten cheaters.”
“Me neither,” he said.
Yet... I wasn't truly happy with the whole exchanging affair. The entire episode had gone so fast. But, I was spitting mad at the awful twosome. Still...
His arms swept around our bodies to crush us to his chest. An unspoken thought inside me said his move was a result of the Bake-off and what we'd surreptitiously pulled off, a confirmation of our scheme. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Get over it, Sam. You are so super-analyzing his every move.
I wrapped my arm about his waist and reciprocated, resting the side of my head against his upper arm for a while. The feeling you belong here smacked me.
Straightening, I unwound my arm from around him. “Let's just hope our scheme works.”
Judge Three harrumphed. “Ladies and gentlemen.”
We wheeled about to face the front of the room where the judges stood next to a folding table covered in a red paper tablecloth peppered with large white snowflakes. Coordinating paper plates and forks were stacked in front of the officials along with several sharp knives for cutting the cakes into neat, edible bites. Red plastic cups had been filled with water.
“We’re ready to commence the tasting,” Judge Three said. “This year, we have twelve entries. One, in particular, baked by our five-time champ, Samantha Greene--”
The audience clapped. With a queenly wave, I acknowledged their recognition and ducked my chin.
“--who teamed up with our newest resident, Dixon Roberts.” Dixon received a smattering of applause also.
Judge Three glance at the other two officials. “Ready to commence?”
Judge One brandished a fork. “Ready.”
Judge Two, whom I recognized as the blue-haired lady who usually carried her toy Chihuahua in her tote bag everywhere she went—-hopefully, she'd left the tiny pooch home today—-said in a quaint voice, “Will contestant number one bring up their entry?”
And so it went. Contestants two through eight followed. After each taste, the judges scribbled their score and notes on a prepared tally sheet while the rest of us chomped our gum or tapped our toes. I alternated between scrubbing my palms and rubbing the tops of my hands on my jeans, possibly buffing my nails to a bright gloss.
“Number nine.”
Crazy Wanda walked by me with Jake-the-Snake in her wake. As she passed, she spit out of the side of her mouth, “Loser.” Bethany lunged after her to do—-I don't know what. Probably, to yank out her bleached blonde hair by the roots which Wanda deserved.
Dixon restrained Bethany before she could do major damage. “Easy, girl. Let's take the high road.”
Are we taking the high road? I wondered.
Bethany huffed and tugged her jacket's sleeves into place. “Okay, for now. But if she wins, she'll regret messing with us. I'll think of a devilishly evil plot. She'll be missing a lot of her dyed, dry, fried hair, too.”
He snorted. “I'll provide the scissors.”
Wanda and Jake stood in front of the judges. When she bent over to cut her cake, I noticed she wore a newly painted holiday shirt, the neckline slit dropped deeply into her bosom area. What a lame distraction.
The judges forked a chunk and began to eat. Everyone could tell Judge Two nearly choked. Judge Three dismissed Jake and Wanda, and they returned to their spot by the cookie tray. “Number ten,” said Judge Three, “is Chocolate Chip Fruitcake Delight.”
“They lost.” I grinned. “The judge at the end of the table despises chocolate chips in fruitcake.”
Dixon asked, “How do you know the insider intel?”
“He lives nearby. Told me years ago. I've never entered anything with chocolate chips because of him.”
“Good to know.”
“Special Ops, that's me.” I gnawed on my thumb nail as entry eleven marched forward. When Dixon's and my turn came, the swirling tension in my chest ratcheted up a notch. I may not act like I desired
to win, but secretly I did. We had to squash Wanda and Jake by pulling off a prize ribbon. Besides, victory should be ours after all the accident and sabotage issues. We deserved it.
“Entry twelve from Samantha Green and Dixon Roberts.”
“Here goes nothin'.” Bethany patted our shoulders, and then shoved us forward.
Dixon picked up the tin container and solemnly carried it to the judges' table. I cut slices for each judge and set them on the paper plates. As Dixon passed their pieces, regret and doubt began to consume my insides. Maybe we shouldn’t have substituted. Maybe we should withdraw. Maybe we are...cheating.
From the corner of my eye, I observed Wanda and Jake staring and waiting. Jake caught my gaze and raised his hand to his forehead; his finger and thumb fashioned the letter “L” meaning loser.
I saw Fire Engine Red. No way will those meanies beat me. Not after what they'd done.
Judge One chewed thoughtfully, pursed his lips, and took a second bite. A third bite confirmed his decision, and he wrote something on his score sheet.
Judge Two smashed her fork on her plate to make sure she picked up the leftover dabs of cream cheese frosting. After she swallowed, a slow pleased smile crossed her lips and a small “mmm” escaped.
Judge Three scooped up a generous portion. Setting his fork next to his plate, he grinned and broke protocol by commenting, “Delightful.”
Dixon and I flashed happy grins at each other. His hand grabbed mine, and surprisingly, he didn't release. The voltage racing through my veins-–wow!
Across the room, Bethany lightly clapped and bounced like a three-year-old handed a triple-flavored ice cream cone.
Without moving, I snuck a peek at Wanda and Jake. Black thunderclouds of anger cloaked their faces.
With the scoring completed, Dixon and I walked back to our former spot, our bodies brushing others as we pushed through the exuberant crowd. Bethany threw her arms around my neck and his, and said in a low voice, “I think our plan worked.”
“I can't believe this,” I whispered back. “Did you see Wanda and Jake? They are spitting mad.”
“You might need a bodyguard.” She rose to tippy toes and whispered in my ear, “Wonder if Dixon will step in.”
Whispers of Winter: A Limited Edition Collection of Winter Romances Page 43
