Santa’s Mistletoe Playbook

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

“ B ea! Beatrice, did you go into my ChefStream account again?” Curtis’s long, loping strides easily allowed him to catch up to the brunette putting on her black chef’s coat.

“Yeah, why?” Bea turned her round face toward him, wide, almost almond-shaped eyes showing her puzzlement.

“I keep telling you not to watch Christmas Cookie Magic without me! You made it all the way to the season finale!” Curtis slammed his locker door open and glared down at his much shorter best friend.

“But I didn’t watch it! I’m waiting for you to catch up. I swear.” Her pale pink lips pouted up at him. “Please don’t change the password… and force me to call your mother to ask about the names of your childhood pets again.”

“You are a terrible, untrustworthy hacker.” Curtis snatched her red apron just as it was about to go over her head.

“And you are a terribly selfish, overly tall thief. Give me that!” Bea wrenched the apron back and took his black beanie for good measure, even though she had to jump in order to make the grab. “Stop being freakishly tall, you giant zucchini.”

“You wound me, my adorable miniature cream puff.”

“Come on. Last class before break!”

Curtis didn’t need any urging. He followed after his best friend and fellow NYU Pine Ridge culinary student, reveling in the way her hips swayed, her short, round body like a delectable Christmas plum pudding.

God, I want to cover her in brandy, whipped cream, and put a cherry on top of each of her big, soft ? —

Lustful thoughts were stopped with a screech of mental brakes when Beatrice halted in front of him, transfixed by a red and white notice taped to the stairwell door.

If he bumped into her, his hips colliding with an acre of luscious rump, it wasn’t his fault. Right?

We always flirt. Little touches. Little jokes. Cooking is sexual. Food is sensual. How do people not get that?

Curtis thought back to yesterday’s assignment—eclairs. Watching Bea pipe out the perfect phallic shapes, watching them rise with heat, then slathering them in chocolate ganache…

He could sell tickets. He’d be rich. No, he’d be broke, because he would buy all the tickets. That was one show he wanted to keep to an audience of one.

“Did you see this?” Bea screeched.

He nodded stupidly, pretending that he’d been doing anything other than looking at her hips and thinking about the way she licked chocolate off a whisk.

“ Gingerbread Showdown is going to have a special live show on Foodie TV on Christmas Eve! And the winners of the Pine Ridge Gingerbread Building Extravaganza are going to appear on it! Live !”

“Bea. Breathe. You’re going to pass out.”

“There’s a cash prize for first place in each division, and a grand prize for the one voted the best of all three divisions. You know I came in second last year. This is my year—especially with Neal on my team!”

“ Neal ?” Curtis hoped his voice didn’t sound as harsh to Beatrice’s ears as it did to his.

“Neal! He’s not leaving for winter break until Sunday. Friday night is the Gingerbread House Extravaganza…” Bea stopped and bit her lip. “If we win, he’ll have to spend Christmas Eve in New York City to appear on the show. Not with his family.”

“Well. You two are an item, right? You’re practically family?” Was the hint of sarcasm really just a hint, or did the mistrust of his culinary rival bubble over?

“An item? I don’t think so. Dating, yes, but I’m not his girlfriend.” Bea’s cheeks were usually the color of porcelain and cream. Now, they were mottled pink as she started to march down the hall toward the large practice kitchen of the culinary department.

Curtis’ lips itched like he’d just had an allergic reaction. Neal was one of those body-building health nut types who wanted to create a name in the culinary world through nutrition with flavor. Very admirable. Very respectable.

How could someone with such high ideals be so very slimy?

To graduate, culinary students had to pass a course in desserts and patisserie. It struck Curtis as odd that Neal suddenly latched onto Beatrice after a year and a half of being in the same program as her and months of ignoring her obvious crush on him. It didn’t escape his notice that Bea became a different person when Neal was around, either.

He’s using you. He’s partnering with you on everything because you’re the best. He’s not into you—he’s into what you can do. He’s a slimy, slippery organ-meat-eating, farm-to-table low-life.

“I… I’d enter with you. If he can’t make it.” Curtis’ voice was a rough rasp.

“Huh? Oh, he’ll be here for the contest at least. If we win… Well, he only lives in Pittsburgh. It’s not like he’s flying home and can’t drive back to be there for Christmas dinner. Or he could always spend Christmas with my parents and me.” Bea’s voice turned dreamy.

“Huh? But I’m spending Christmas with?—”

“I don’t mean instead of you! I mean with you. With us.” Bea put her arm through his with a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head. “The three of us could totally take over the meal prep. Mom would love it.”

Neal won’t love it when I accidentally-on-purpose drop a hot roasting pan on his foot.

“I—”

“It’s not like Neal and I weren’t already going to enter the contest. There’s just a lot more at stake now.” Bea walked ahead of him, voice dropping, “And it’s going to be so romantic. We’ll have to spend every night this week together.”

“How do the contest officials know when you start? Like, how do they know someone hasn’t been working on it for weeks and freezing their pieces or something?”

“Every contestant will be emailed the theme of this year’s contest—tonight at midnight.” Bea looked at her watch. We’ll also be given a list of distinct elements we have to use at different parts of the construction, like German gingerbread for a certain percentage, specific spices or colors of icing… This is going to be the last year I can enter, too. Once I graduate in May, I’ll have a job in the culinary industry by December, and no professional chefs or bakers are allowed in the contest.”

Curtis nodded and crossed his fingers. “Yeah, that’s the plan! Both of us will have a spot. Maybe a spot together?”

“Streets Sweets—Cupcakes on Wheels!” Bea beamed. “That’s the plan.”

“Beatrice!”

Curtis flinched like he’d tried to pick up a hot cookie sheet without an oven mitt. Beatrice’s smile transformed, muted—like she was trying to be a different version of herself. The Neal-Approved Version.

Neal would never approve of a cupcake truck. He wouldn’t even approve a cupcake!

Frankly, Curtis didn’t think that Neal would ever approve of Beatrice. Not the real one.

“Gotta go,” Bea hissed as they separated.

“Wait a minute—you still owe me, you hacker.”

“Oh? What do you want me to do about it, you tall drink of water?” Bea teased. Flirted.

“I suppose you could make it up to me. Come over and re-watch episodes eight and nine tonight? If we can still keep our eyes open, we can watch the finale.”

“Can we make the pistachio shortbread from episode one? Ooh! I could practice some new techniques I’ve been thinking of. I have to stop home and grab my pizzelle maker. Gingerbread pizzelles would make the coolest half-moon windows in a big Victorian gingerbread masterpiece!”

“Beatrice! C’mon!” Neal’s impatient voice cut into their conversation.

“Oops! Neal needs me. See you after class.”

“Sure. It’s a date.” Curtis moved to his station and gave a nod to his partner for the evening.

A date. If only.