Santa’s Mistletoe Playbook

Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

“ W hat in the world are you doing?” Curtis’ Belgian waffle froze before it hit his lips. His best friend, his culinary idol, was pushing away a plate of bacon, eggs, and waffles—and dumping his vegetable and herb drawers in the blender.

“Basil-celery smoothie,” Bea answered, adding water to the bilious-looking concoction spinning in the glass pitcher.

Curtis put down his fork. “No waffles?”

“Um. No.”

“Why? What’s wrong? Is this for a bet?”

Bea shrugged, bright brown eyes daring him to argue from under downcast dark brows. “I’m trying something new. Don’t make a big deal.”

Curtis shrugged. When Bea pierced him with her eyes, he couldn’t argue. It was a miracle he could still speak, what with the arrows in his heart. “Okay. Cheers.” He tapped his mug of coffee to the plastic cup she’d claimed from the dishwasher. “Want some coffee?”

Her mouth twitched once before forming a soft, “Not today, thanks.”

“Like… Should I call someone? You have coffee in your veins.”

“Neal doesn’t think coffee is good for people.”

“Uh-huh. But… What is that again?”

“Basil and celery.” Bea drank it and made a hideous face. “It’s… refreshing.”

“I’m sorry, did you say refreshing or retching?” Curtis rose, tempted to yank the glass away from her. Instead, he returned with the frying pan. “This is that cherrywood smoked bacon that you like.”

“I told you I would make brunch! You’re the one who got up early and made all this food I can’t eat!” Bea snapped.

“Wait, since when can’t you eat bacon, eggs, and waffles?” Curtis frowned. “And besides, you were my guest. The host cooks.” And you were so sexy, lying there asleep with your little foot kicked out from under the covers. And the way you sleep on your side, and you have a booty that I just want to grab and squeeze until you squeak… And then I want to grab your hips and slide into you until you’re nothing but a jiggly puddle of pleasure.

“My diet. My business.”

“Okay, okay. I just didn’t know. You can’t get mad at me for not knowing.”

“I… It’s okay. I didn’t know myself until this morning. I was thinking about some things that Neal said about my health.”

“You’re in great health. You’re never sick. You move like adorable lightning in the kitchen. You can lift an entire rack of cast irons.”

Bea nibbled on a piece of bacon.

“Not health, exactly. Maybe weight. A lot of comments about bakers being bigger. Moving away from sweets and desserts.”

Curtis’ eyebrows made an enraged bridge across his forehead. “Excuse me? Doesn’t that strike you as odd when he’s been your partner for every pastry assignment, and now he wants to be your partner in a contest where baking cookies is step one?”

“No! It’s not that he’s not a good baker, he’s just smart enough not to overeat.”

“You don’t overeat. You eat exactly enough.” Curtis flexed his fingers on the table. The way Bea was talking made him feel like ants were crawling inside of his skin. He wanted to hit something. Neal. Yes, hitting Neal would be good. “Funny how he never bothered to say anything or be your partner on any assignment until we hit pastry. He was always Jasmine’s partner.”

“So? What’s that mean? You think he liked her because she was prettier?”

“Huh? What the hell, Bea? You’re prettier! I mean, no! I mean, you’re both pretty, all the women are pretty—oh, God, why did I open my mouth?” Curtis left the table and began scrubbing the frying pan in the sink.

Bea was silent. In a moment, she was beside him, putting her mostly empty smoothie cup in the sink. “He hasn’t worked with Jasmine since the end of October.”

“Right. When we moved into the final patisserie unit.”

“She’s a good baker!”

“Sure, but no one is as good as you,” Curtis corrected. “This is my hill. I will die on it.”

Bea crossed her arms. “You make it hard to be mad at you when you’re complimenting me.”

“So don’t be mad at me. Just… Neal doesn’t know you that well. For whatever reason, he’s only just begun working with you. Don’t change yourself for someone who— No. Don’t change yourself for anyone but you.”

Curtis sighed as his arms suddenly filled with his cuddly, half-crying friend.

“Shut up. You big Hallmark card. You’re making me make you soggy.” Bea wiped her eyes on his shirt.

“Say that ten times fast.”

“No.” Bea stuck out her tongue.

She’s even cute when she’s being rude.

Yep. I’m totally in love.

Bea was happy that her parents were going out of town for a few days to visit some of her mother’s relatives in Toronto. That meant that they couldn’t complain about the entire house being turned into gingerbread central. Or interrogate her when Neal finally came over to help work on their creation on Monday. She wasn’t sure who would come down harder on a potential suitor, her Korean mother or her Mississippi father.

“Let’s do this!” Neal said, whipping out his phone.

“What are you doing, exactly?” Bea asked as he started photographing all of the bits and pieces—mainly just big sheets of gingerbread to be used for walls and to have as spares.

“Taking pictures.”

“I see that, but why?”

Neal made a hissing sound of impatience. “Geez, do you want to keep them a secret from your partner or something? I didn’t think you were one of the mean girls, baby.”

“No, of course not. I just don’t want you to post them on your socials until after the contest. It’s not exactly cutthroat, but this year there is a lot more at stake, and it’s the last year we can enter before we’re ‘pros,’ you know?”

Neal clicked away, nodding.

The excitement about spending the day working with Neal dulled immediately. This is going to be work—not fun.

It was always fun before. Last year, she entered alone, but she hadn’t exactly worked alone. Curtis had been her one-man cheering section.

Even brainstorming with Curtis last night was fun, and he wasn’t even entered.

What had Curtis said? Neal and I don’t even know each other that well? Come on. We can do this. We’ll get to know each other.

Bea laughed at all of Neal’s jokes. Some of them were mean. Edgy, she corrected herself. He was edgy. He was a hot, ripped, edgy blonde chef with tattoos who fileted salmon in a way that made her knees buckle. Watching men with knives shouldn’t be so… exciting. Maybe it was a chef thing? She had to admit that watching Curtis break down a rack of ribs just…

No. She shouldn’t think about Curtis like that. Especially not right now. For the first time in her life, a man who could be classified as a “hottie” was interested in her.

There was a pause. Bea laughed again, just in case she had missed something funny. She wished they could talk about something other than Neal’s past, his cooking philosophy, or her recipes and ideas for the gingerbread.

The feeling that she was doing an unfair amount of work—as in all of it—was starting to settle on her shoulders. But, she had quickly seen Neal didn’t like criticism. She had brought up the basil celery smoothie recipe, and Neal went off on a tangent that was… What was a good term? Self-righteous.

Yes, maybe drinking that smoothie on a daily basis would make her drop twenty pounds in two months and make her liver all shiny, but… it wasn’t good . Adding mint and green apple would at least make it bearable. It needed other flavors to balance out the onslaught of gritty greens, but Neal said messing with his recipe was sacrilegious.

Neal liked that word. He was using it now.

“It’s… it’s totally sacrilegious that all the community events around here are only about sweets and baked goods. I never see them doing anything that real chefs should be doing! Venison! Elk! Now, that would be a contest worth entering.”

“Hey, there are lots of contests and community events in Pine Ridge that have nothing to do with food. Besides, bakers are chefs. We’re specialists, just like a pediatrician is still a doctor. And who could build a house out of elk?” She tried to keep the humor in her voice.

Neal squashed it, leaning back in his chair, shirt pulling tight against his abs. “Have you ever tried to grill an elk loin over an open flame?”

“No, but?—”

He leaned forward now, whispering to her, hand finding hers. “Eh, it doesn’t matter. Next year, I’m going to be out of this podunk town and back to Pittsburgh.”

“I’ve lived here since I was like five!” Beatrice loved Pine Ridge. “It’s small, but it’s not podunk! We have a branch of NYU, we have libraries, theaters, our own minor league hockey team?—”

Neal cut her off with a bark of laughter that made his pecs dance, temporarily short-circuiting her indignation. However, it came roaring back when Neal crossed his arms and challenged, “You can’t seriously be comparing a great historical city like Pittsburgh to this little town in the mountains?”

Then why did you bring your (admittedly handsome) ass over to this “little town”? They have culinary schools in Pittsburgh!

But Beatrice didn’t say that. She didn’t want to argue—and she’d had another worrying thought. If Neal was going back to Pittsburgh after graduation—that didn’t bode well for long-term plans.

Neal looked at his phone as it dinged. “Hey. How much piping are you going to do? What kind? Wet on wet? Flooding?”

Bea’s eyes narrowed. Neal used terms that sounded foreign in his mouth—clumsy. And he only used them after he got a message on his phone.

“You mean buttercream or royal icing?” she asked, heading to the kitchen.

“Uh. Let me—both. Yeah, tell me about your plans for both.”

“Well, you’re half of the team. You tell me.” Bea crossed her arms and stared at Neal from the corner of the kitchen, peeping around the doorway. He was typing frantically.

Something is off. On one hand, we have Green-Smoothie-Neal, who preaches against sugar and chocolate, keeps subtly telling me to change my diet every chance he gets, and disses baking and sweets constantly.

And then we have a guy who wants to be my partner for everything baking related—and seems to want to win this competition—which is about everything he puts down.

Neal was hot as hell… but she actually didn’t like him very much.

“Um, royal! Let’s use royal icing. With lots of embargos.” He peered harder at the phone screen. “I mean, embellishments !”

The pit of her stomach turned to ice.

Someone is feeding him what to say. He’s sending someone our pictures! And the plans he wrote down on his phone!

“Hey, Neal, I don’t feel great. Could you come back tomorrow?” Or maybe never.

I’m overreacting.

“You can keep working on this, right? We need every day to work on this. Every piece has to be ready to assemble on Friday night!”

“I’ll be ready.” Me. Just me.

I think.

Bea waved weakly as Neal left.

If Neal is doing something shady—I’m out of the competition. We entered as partners. Both of us would be sunk.

Crap.

She reached into the pocket of her apron.

Time to call Curtis.

Better yet…

Bea: Can I come over?

Curtis: Absolutely.

“Did you have a nice work session with Neal?” Curtis tried to keep his voice neutral, politely interested.

Bea plunked down two reusable grocery bags on Curtis’s kitchen counter.

“Not… great. Can I work over here, or are you busy?”

Curtis shrugged. He delivered groceries between classes, but his schedule was flexible. He started unpacking her bags as Bea put her hair up. A smile wormed its way onto his face as ease set in. Bea moving around his place like she belonged there made him relax. He did the same thing when he went over to her home. They were such good friends. Such great working partners. The smile vanished. In a few months, college would be over. They would both find jobs—and those little short-term “make-ends-meet” jobs would last for a few months, or maybe a few years. Maybe they’d never find their way back to each other and their dream of a cupcake truck. Bea moved through his knife block, fingers sure as she gripped a paring knife. “I need to make several other edible confections. What goes well with gingerbread?”

“Um. Anything in the warm spices family? Apples? Pumpkin?”

“That’s what I was thinking. I think some carved apples dipped in homemade caramel. They can be the rockers on my cabin’s porch.”

“That’s amazing! Um. Hey. Bea. Do you still want to start that cupcake truck? Maybe have a bakery somewhere someday?”

Bea stopped unpacking some truly huge apples. “What? Of course I do.”

His throat felt oddly tight. “Remember we used to say that we’d open it together?”

“Remember? As in like two days ago?”

“Yeah,” he rasped.

“Curtis? Did something happen?” Bea came over and looked up at him, gripping his wrist tightly. “Is it your dad? Your mother? Is there bad news?” Her perfect, pale face puckered with worry, lower lip tucking between her teeth.

It was only by a miracle that he didn’t bend down and smack a kiss to those perfect full lips and pull her soft curves against him. Way to ruin a friendship, bonehead. “No, nothing bad! I was just thinking, we graduate soon. M-maybe we should start a joint business savings account or something? So w-we could save up to put a down payment on a cupcake truck?” Curtis blurted. “I was thinking we should do something so we could be back together sooner,” he concluded, trying to keep a smile on his face as his eyes threatened to prickle and spill over.

Bea threw her arms around him and squeezed, her short form packing a surprising amount of strength. “Oh, Curtis! You’re so sweet. You— You worried me, you big buffoon!” Bea backed away, hands on her hips. “I thought something terrible had happened!”

“Us not being together every day seems pretty terrible to me.” He sounded like a whiny toddler, his own arms crossing.

It was too much, the sight of them, physical polar opposites, locked in a petulant staring contest. They burst out laughing.

“C’mon and help me carve fruit and make some caramel for testers? If Neal and I win, I get half the money. That’ll be the downpayment on the truck.”

“Really? Oh, Bea! I love you!” Curtis grabbed her back as soon as he’d released her.

No! No, no. I shouldn’t have said ? —

“Love you, too.”

Bea shifted anxiously on Curtis’s dilapidated futon as she watched the final two contestants of Christmas Cookie Magic make elaborately sculpted masterpieces. Her sheets of delicate gingerbread shingles—for the cabin roof—were about to come out of the oven.

Curtis elbowed her as they sat together. Normally, a giant bowl of homemade gourmet popcorn sat between them. Tonight, there was an empty space, but somehow, they’d filled it, almost hip to hip. His pointy elbow speared her shoulder, one of the hazards of being best friends with someone almost two feet taller than you. “What?”

Curtis pointed to the screen where the final contestants were facing off. “Her final piece is way unbalanced. Five bucks says she drops her sculpture.”

“No bet. She’s got nerves of steel.”

Another squirm. Bea licked her lower lip. When she was tense, she wanted to bake. She’d been baking all afternoon. All weekend. Heck, she’d been baking all week, so why wasn’t she calm? Why was the tension rising, instead of falling?

“ I don’t have nerves of steel.” She perched on the edge of the futon. She wanted to rush into the kitchen and make something, anything! She didn’t even need to eat it, she’d be perfectly happy watching someone else take pleasure in her skill. Like Curtis. Curtis always moaned when he took a single bite of her food, his deep brown eyes closed in bliss.

Neal’s face superimposed itself over Curtis’. He would frown and push away her desserts, even her chocolate truffles.

So why does he want to work with you on a baking competition?

Because he’s using you. And he wants the prize money.

“Doesn’t like me.”

“ Huh? Are you kidding? I’m crazy about you, you little bundle of bonbons!” Curtis exclaimed, confusion in his voice. “What did I do, Bea?”

She jerked her head towards his, startled to find him so close to her, his wide, wounded eyes and mop of brown curls inches away. “Nothing! No, sorry… I was thinking. About the contest. And the show. They’re going to announce the winner in a second.” She pointed toward the television screen.

“Shhh. Here they go!” Curtis gripped her hand as they both leaned forward.

It felt… comfortable. Perfect.

“Bea! This will be you on Friday night,” Curtis whispered.

“Yeah… If Neal can get his act together.”

There was silence.

“Is he…? What’s he doing, exactly?”

“I can’t tell.” She leaned against Curtis suddenly. “But you were right. We don’t know each other that well. He and I. Not you and I.”

“Huh. Well… That’s not good. Want me to go with you to talk to him?”

“I don’t need you to come fight my battles, but you can help. Help me figure out if I’m being crazy. Let me tell you about some of the— Hold on, this might be him.” Beatrice pulled her phone from her back pocket as it jangled. A frown crossed her lips as she read the screen.

PRCC.

“What’s PRCC?” she hissed.

“Is it billing?”

“Geez, I hope not. Hello?”

“Hello, is this Miss Beatrice Miller?”

“Yes?”

“Ah! This is Jakob Minegold, a volunteer from the Pine Ridge Chamber of Commerce. I’m calling because there’s a paperwork discrepancy with your entry for this Friday’s Gingerbread Extravaganza.”

“But—I got a confirmation email. I have the rules and my requirements,” Bea’s voice immediately climbed the octave.

“What’s up?” Curtis hissed.

She held up a finger.

“Oh, your information is all correct, but you’ve listed that you’re partnering with a Mr. Neal Ambrose.”

The uneasy feeling in her stomach turned into a full-blown tsunami. “I am.”

“But he’s already registered in the partner category, and his form says his partner is Jasmine Winesap. Ms. Winesap’s application also lists his name. I called her and confirmed he’s her partner. I’m assuming there was some sort of mix-up as you list him, but he doesn't list you. I called to get the name of your actual partner.”

“Oh. Oh, right. Could you hold on a moment?”

“Of course.”

Bea hit the mute button on her screen and sat down hard on Curtis’ wobbly kitchen chair, heart hammering.

“Bea? Is it your mom? Did they get in an accident? Is their flight delayed?”

“Neal is Jasmine’s partner. Neal is Jasmine’s partner. He registered as her partner, not mine. He… He got the contest email at midnight—but not as my partner, as Jasmine’s partner!” her voice was rising to a screech, air escaping too fast.

Curtis blinked at her, his long, narrow face slack in shock, then tight in anger. “What’s his dorm number? Where’s my cast iron pan?”

“Stop! What am I going to do? He has all our ideas—my ideas—and all the plans for the cabin, my ideas for what kind of side confections and other edible elements we’re going to make. He took pictures! Why would he even…”

Curtis’ face lost its murderous look. “Because he wants to open some fancy hunt-it-catch-it-grill-it-in-the-woods restaurant, and there’s prize money and a shot at an appearance on television at stake.”

“But Jasmine?—”

“She’s a good baker—and she likes Neal. Probably just for how he looks.”

Beatrice pushed the phone against her chest.

Honestly… That’s probably why I liked Neal, too. Wasn’t it? I liked that some hot, muscular guy might be interested in me.

Geez, I don’t need this kind of interest.

“I have to drop out,” she whispered. “Once you’re registered in a team category, you can’t switch to solo. I don’t have another partner, and there’s no way in hell Neal would dump Jasmine for me. He made sure I’d have to drop out because he doesn’t think she can beat me.”

“She can’t beat you.” Curtis slid his arm around her shoulder. “I mean—they can’t beat us .”

“No! Oh, God, Curt, you’re the best.” Beatrice’s eyes overflowed as she clung to her friend, her mind having the completely poor timing to realize that Curtis had long, lean muscles, that he smelled amazing, and he was warm, always so warm, not just with his words, but in the way he felt against her. “But I can’t. You aren’t registered. There’s no way?—”

“That I could possibly make an exception? I can, my dears. I just need the name, please. Curtis what?”

Bea gasped and stared down at her phone. “I had you on m—” The mute button glared up at her, mocking and without the telltale blue glow that meant she’d silenced her end of the call.

“I believe you missed the hold button, Miss Miller, but it worked in your favor. I’m not a judge, and I have no influence on the matter, but I sincerely hope you and Mr. Curtis trounce that young charlatan.”

Aside from the fact that the man on the other end of the phone sounded like he’d fallen out of an old-timey novel, Bea decided he was the coolest person on Earth. Next to Curtis.

“Curtis West,” Curtis spoke over her shoulder. “Can’t Neal be disqualified? He filled out the form twice.”

“No, sir, he filled it out once —but he was claimed twice on others’ forms, once by Beatrice Miller and once by this Jasmine woman. Technically, no one has done anything wrong. Morally… Hm. Technically, I am not supposed to allow a new entrant, only make corrections to existing entrants’ forms. However, morally—I know where the manual upload button is on the registration website, and I’m rooting for you and Miss Miller.”

Beatrice looked at Curtis, a smile starting to form. “Let’s kick his ass.”

Curtis took the phone from her hand. “Let’s fill out that form.”