by Jana Aston
Though you never can tell. I once had a woman come in to taste wedding cake samples and she wasn't even engaged. You have to admire anyone that dedicated to finding an excuse to eat cake.
"Fella had one of our gingerbread chocolate-chip cookies and wanted to know where we got them. Told him you made them on site. That we have the best gingerbread maker in the world right here in Reindeer Falls."
Well, that is true. I do make the best gingerbread around. And soon, I'll be the undisputed champion of gingerbread because I've been selected to compete in The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off, and I'm going to win it.
The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off is a new show on the Food Network, and they're filming it right here in Reindeer Falls. It's as if this is my destiny.
Or as if the Food Network sent a scout to check out our town and realized it was television gold.
Either way.
I'm gonna win the heck outta that contest.
"English fella, in the parlor," Old Pete tells me, pitching a thumb in the direction of the front room of the Inn.
This English fella is likely the only fella out there because we're not exactly bustling on a random Tuesday afternoon. The Inn is more of a bed-and-breakfast, set in a sprawling old Victorian on the edge of town with a total of eight guest rooms and a very small restaurant. It's a part-time gig for me. I stop in a few days a week to bake desserts for the restaurant and baked goods for the afternoon spread for the overnight guests. And, of course, wedding cakes for any weddings booked at the Inn. In exchange for a modest paycheck I get to use the Inn kitchen whenever I like. They've got an industrial oven here I don't have at home, so it's a good deal for me until my own bakery opens.
Ginger's Bake Shop.
It's been my dream since I was too little to operate an oven without supervision.
And I've got a plan. A real one, a business plan. I've got my eye on the perfect property in town.
All of my bakery dreams are about to come true.
Winning The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off will be the icing on the cinnamon rolls. The topper on the wedding cake. The filling in the gourmet donut. The money.
Because the prize is ten thousand dollars. Which I could really use for Ginger's Bake Shop. I've been saving to make my dream a reality, but that prize money would make it a reality a heck of a lot quicker.
As would the free publicity.
"I'm sure I'll find him." I slide a tray of cookies into the oven and pat Pete on the shoulder as I walk past. "I made a fresh batch of snickerdoodles," I tell him, pointing to a plate piled high with his favorite.
I exit the kitchen without bothering to check my appearance, sure that I'm passable enough for a short chat about cookies with an Inn guest. I'm the baker after all, I'm sure they won't be shocked by an apron smeared with streaks of flour.
Probably an older gentleman hoping to nab my recipe for his wife in the hopes she'll make them when they return home. That's the main clientele of the Inn, as far as I can tell. Older couples or women on a ladies’ trip of some sort or another. Charmed by the town of Reindeer Falls and wooed by the magic of staying in a historic bed-and-breakfast.
So when I enter the parlor, I'm momentarily confused. My eyes bypass the guy with the laptop who looks like he's been transplanted from the nearest Starbucks, in search of anyone who looks like they'd be asking about my gingerbread chocolate-chip cookies. And I come up empty.
There's only one person here and it's laptop guy. I look twice to be sure, in case someone is hiding behind one of the three Christmas trees decorating the parlor. They are not.
He's at a table by the window, tapping away at the laptop. He's cracked it open an inch or so and the scent of winter wafts into the room, mixed with the smell of sugar making its way from the kitchen. As if it could snow at any moment.
He doesn't appear to have noticed my arrival, blindly reaching for another of the cookies resting on a plate beside a steaming cup of tea.
Handsome, I can already see that much. Broad shoulders, long legs bent beneath the table. He's wearing a pair of jeans that mold perfectly to him and a dress shirt, sleeves unbuttoned and rolled to the elbow. His muscular forearm brings that cookie to his mouth where a bite quickly disappears, jaw flexing as he chews.
When he raises a finger to brush away at a crumb clinging to his full bottom lip I know what my version of heaven looks like now.
It's this guy eating one of my cookies.
He looks up when I approach the table and it's like a punch to the gut.
Gorgeous.
He's charismatic. I can see that in one glance. His eyes are warm. Compelling.
He's got presence.
He stands when he sees me, a warm smile covering his face as I approach. As if we're old friends. And something about him does seem familiar, but I've never met this man before.
I'd remember. You'd have to be blind not to remember him.
"Hi, I'm Ginger." I extend a hand in greeting when I reach the table, a hand quickly engulfed in his own larger one. His thumb brushes the back of my hand when we shake and I nearly swoon from the light sweep.
"Ginger the gingerbread maker?" he asks with what is indeed a British accent, something not common in Reindeer Falls. He towers over me by at least a foot. A foot of tall, dark, and handsome. My eyes flicker against my control to that lush bottom lip of his before I respond.
"Ginger the gingerbread maker," I confirm. I've been teased about this a time or twenty.
"Keller," he replies, and his voice... Oh, his voice. It's like a warm embrace. The handshake ends, but he doesn't pull away. Instead he reaches out, swiping his thumb against my cheek. "Flour," he says, brushing it away with a few strokes.
My heart stops and my eyes widen. Because I've finally placed how I know this guy.
"You're Keller James." I breathe the words in a state of shock. Keller James is a celebrity. A celebrity chef. A celebrity chef with his own show on the Food Network.
Which, in my world, is everything.
Plus, I've got a bit of a crush on him from watching his show. I know a show about food doesn't sound sexy, but sister, you've not seen Keller James with a knife.
Okay, yeah, that didn't sound right. But you get the drift. If you've seen Brunch, Biscuits & Tea, you know what I mean. There's something about him on camera that causes your heart to beat a little faster.
In person? He might give me a heart attack.
And suddenly I'm reminded I didn't even bother to glance in a mirror before stepping out of the kitchen. My hair is in a messy bun on the top of my head, a small hair net clasped over the mass. He just swiped flour off of my face in the same manner my mother used to when I was a child.
"I am. Are you a fan of Brunch, Biscuits & Tea?" There's a slight question in his tone, as if he's surprised that I'd know it. As if it isn't one of the top-rated shows on the network. As if it isn't so addictive that I rewatch episodes I've already seen whenever they’re on.
"You must be here for The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off," I reply. Celebrity judges. Oh, my word. No one said anything about celebrity judges.
"Ah, the competition," he replies, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts. As if he's already forgotten the reason he's in Reindeer Falls. He turns back to the plate with the half-eaten cookie and, snagging it, holds it up between us. "This cookie, Ginger, is outstanding."
Oh. My. Cookie.
That was so sexy the way he added my name when he complimented me. Right?
Maybe I'm reaching.
But the accent. The charisma. His expressive brown eyes. They're the exact shade of Madagascar bourbon vanilla. Rich and deep and tinted in amber.
"It's a candied ginger and sea salt chocolate-chip," I gush. They're one of my signature cookies and I'm really proud of them. I know it's cheesy, but anytime I can incorporate ginger into a recipe it feels like a win. "I'd be happy to share my recipe with you." Ugh. Right. As if this guy wants my recipe. Surely he's just being polite. The British are a polite
people. I think. I mean, I have no idea but I'm pretty sure that's right.
"Please, would you sit?" He gestures to the table. "I'd love a word, if you have a moment?"
He'd love a word. With me.
When I move to sit, he pulls the chair out for me, his arm brushing lightly against my shoulder as he slides my chair back in. It's the most erotic thing to happen to me in, well, ever. And yes, I know I should get out more.
After Keller sits he continues his praise of my cookies. The acidity level. The delicate crunch.
Sweet Pillsbury Doughboy, this is my idea of porn. Keller James sitting before me, praising my baking. If my bakery plan falls apart I know what my next venture will be. Bakery porn. It'll be nothing but attractive men eating my cookies. The camera will zoom in as their tongues flicker over their lips, sweeping up every last morsel. They'll probably be shirtless too. I bet I can get subscribers to pay at least four ninety-nine a month for such a service.
"Ginger?"
Keller looks concerned, and I get the impression he might have had to repeat my name to get my attention. I might have zoned out a little with my bakery porn scheme. Fine, I might also have been imagining him shirtless.
"Yes?" I lean forward a little, wondering if it would be rude to ask him to have one of my biscuits, just so I might hear him go on about them in his British accent.
"Is something possibly... burning?"
Oh, my God.
The snickerdoodles.
My eyes widen in horror and I stand up so fast I'm surprised my chair doesn't fall over.
"Excuse me," I manage to blurt out as I stand and then, because my mother didn't raise an animal, I add, "It was nice meeting you!" as I sprint back to the kitchen.
Stuffing my hand into an oven mitt, I yank the offending tray of smoking snickerdoodles from the oven and drop them with a resounding thud onto the stovetop. Then I slump against the kitchen island in mortification.
I just destroyed a sheet of cookies in front of a celebrity chef. Worse—a celebrity chef who will be judging my baking skills in The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off. Groaning, I slap my forehead with the oven mitt. I haven't burned a tray of cookies since I was seven. My mortification knows no bounds.
I hear a soft laugh and look up to find that Keller has followed me to the kitchen. Just great. He's leaning against the doorframe, shirt stretched delightfully across his broad shoulders. Stupid shirt.
"They can't all be winners," he says, seemingly amused by whatever expression is on my face.
I tear my eyes away from him and turn to tug open the window over the sink. It tends to stick, what with the age of the Inn and the windows being original. I've managed to raise the window about an inch when I feel Keller behind me.
"Let me," he says and then slides his palms into the open gap, easily lifting the window wide open with a single push.
He pressed against me when he leaned in to assist with the window. Just barely. Just momentarily. So briefly it should hardly have mattered.
I'm sure it didn't to him.
I, however, am flustered.
Keller James is in my kitchen. All six feet whatever of him. All larger than life. All flashy smiles and disarming charm and goodness help me, the scent of him does something to me. He smells like some combination of cedar and vanilla.
Watching me burn stuff.
I bet Betty Crocker never had these kind of problems in her kitchen.
I turn around to thank him and find that he's still standing entirely too close. To be clear, he's a good two feet away and he's been nothing but respectful.
I'm the creep. I'm the one thinking things I've no right thinking. I've mentally violated the poor guy in six different ways since he said hello when all he's done is ask about my cookies.
Ugh. Creep.
Thankfully he's got no idea. I've got the kind of face that says I'm thinking about the church choir or what's on sale at Target. I do not have the kind of face that says I'm thinking about, well, you know.
Things.
Sex things.
Yeah, fine, okay. Even in my own head I whispered the word “sex.”
I turn my choirgirl face to Keller and smile. "Thanks for your help."
"My pleasure." He flashes a grin that would make even a nun feel things, then while I'm distracted he grabs an oven mitt and a spatula and goes to work dislodging the ruined cookies from the pan.
My mortification knows no end.
Keller James is tidying up my hot mess cookie disaster the day before the start of a baking competition in which I'll be standing before him while he judges me.
I am not off to a great start.
"You don't have to do that," I quickly object, eyes wide as I watch him nearly saw the cookies free from the pan. But he simply shrugs off my objections to his cleaning, as if this is all super normal.
"Just tell me one thing, Ginger the gingerbread maker."
"Sure."
"What am I missing out on?" He flashes a grin in my direction and logically I know it's the same exact grin he uses on television when he's describing the perfect puff pastry for the viewing audience, but it feels decidedly naughty when it's aimed at me in the privacy of my kitchen. Well, the Inn's kitchen.
"Excuse me?" I'm sure I'm blushing. Sure I'm reading way too much into that smile. Sure he cannot be flirting with me.
"What were these meant to be?" he asks, tapping the spatula against the now-empty pan.
Oh. Right. Exactly. He was just asking about the cookies. I exhale the breath I didn't realize I was holding.
"Snickerdoodles." I nod toward a plate on the island, with a haphazard stack of them. Pete never takes cookies in a layer, preferring to eat from whichever side of the plate he's standing nearest until what's left resembles a game in which a tower of blocks are picked at until it all falls down. "But you're in luck. I have more." I push the plate in his direction. He nabs one with a grin and takes a bite, eyes still on mine as he does so.
"They're Pete's favorite," I offer nervously while I wait on Keller's opinion of my snickerdoodle. Then I nearly laugh at the absurdity of it all. My snickerdoodle.
"Pete?" He asks the question with a raised brow and a hint more interest than necessary.
"The owner. You asked him who did the baking for the Inn," I remind him.
"Ah, right, Pete."
"So you're staying here at the Inn? While you're in Reindeer Falls for the bake-off?"
"I am. Perhaps you'll show me around?"
I. What?
"There's no gym," I blurt with a glance at his flat stomach. He must work out, right? No one eats cookies and looks like that just by luck. God, what did I just say? Did I just ogle him and then imply he works out? "Not that you need it," I rush to add. "You're lovely just as you are."
Lovely just as you are. Yeah, I just said that. This day just keeps getting better and better. Keller is staring at me like I'm some kind of mystical forest nymph, taking another bite with a gleam of humor in his eye.
"There's no gym at the Inn," I clarify, since he asked me about showing him around. That was what he meant, surely. "Pete should have explained that when you checked in. Given you a pamphlet of the area. There's a gym a block or so away. And some nice hiking trails."
"Maybe you can show me the hiking trails then," he says as he pops the last bit of cookie into his mouth and dusts the sugar off his hands. I nearly choke because is Keller James suggesting we go hiking together? "I have somewhere I have to be right now, but I'll see you again? Are you here tomorrow?"
I frown, confused. Of course I'll see him again. Tomorrow, at the Gingerbread Bake-Off. And what did he mean by show him the hiking trails? Like, point them out and tell him to enjoy his hike? Or does he want to go hiking with me, like a date?
He laughs while I'm still processing what he's just said, trying to make sense of it all.
"You're cute when you scowl, Ginger. I like it."
And then he's gone. And I'm very, very confused.
&n
bsp; Chapter 2
It seems my confusion has no end in sight because the following day I bump into Keller James moments after I arrive at the Reindeer Falls Community Center where The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off is being filmed. And he's not who I thought he was.
I mean, yes, he's Keller James. Tall, dark and handsome. British. Celebrity chef and host of his own show on the Food Network: Brunch, Biscuits & Tea. Yes, he's that Keller James.
But he's not a judge on The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off.
He's a contestant.
Apparently some Grinch at corporate thought having professionals competing against regular folk like myself would make great Christmas television.
I hope Santa has taken note and that person gets the lump of coal they so rightly deserve come Christmas morning.
Professional chefs! I huff in annoyance, for what feels like the millionth time today. I know that technically I'm a professional as well. I am a certified pastry chef, thank you very much. But I'm not a Food Network star.
In addition to Keller there's the guy with the wedding cake show, the lady with the cupcake show and the guy who drives his RV from one bakery to the next across America.
In another twist, the amateur bakers are all somewhat local. Each of us, as our claim to fame, has won a local holiday baking contest of some kind or another. I've been the Saginaw County Gingerbread Grand Champion for three years in a row, in case you're wondering.
Also competing is the winner of the Ann Arbor Gingerbread Festival, the winner of the Holidays in Holland Baking Competition and the Great Lakes Holiday Pie Champ. Local champions is what they're calling us, which should mollify me but has not. I'm just nervous. I'll be fine once we're under way because really, no one knows gingerbread like I do.
I think the real point here is that I thought Keller was flirting with me yesterday when really he was just digging around for gingerbread secrets.
Jerk.
"You can do this, Ginger. You've been training for this your entire life. You've made countless batches of gingerbread, in nearly every variation there is. You've had the basic recipe memorized since you were nine. You started making your own versions when you were ten. You were literally born for this."
