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Santa’s Mistletoe Playbook Chapter Six 75%
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Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

“‘ L o?” Bea couldn’t make words come out of her throat.

Probably because it was raw from screaming and other activities that made Curtis’ eyes roll back in his head and whimper in an utterly adorable fashion.

“Hey. How’s it going?”

Bea’s arm felt heavy as she tried to get the phone to settle by her ear. And no wonder. She’d never had a workout like she had in the last twenty-four hours. If she and Curtis weren’t slaving over a hot stove, they were slaving over a hot mattress. Muscles she had never used were burning. Parts of her were throbbing with memories of pleasure, begging for another round, while her thighs told her no way in hell.

Well. Not until after a hot shower and coffee.

“Who is this?”

“Neal! Your partner!”

“Oh. Ohhhh. My partner.” Bea’s eyes snapped open, and she found some indignation-fueled strength. “Hey, I was thinking… This is a lot of work. How about I text you a list of things that you can handle around your work schedule?”

“Um…”

“Thanks, babe.”

“But I don’t have an oven in my dorm?—”

“That sucks. You could ask to use the kitchens in the culinary wing?”

“Maybe, but?—”

“Unless there’s some reason you can’t handle it?”

“I can handle baking. No offense, but it’s like a bonus. Not real cooking.”

Bea wondered if lasers could really shoot out of her eyes. At that moment, Curtis snuggled up behind her, mumbling in his sleep as he groped for her.

“Great! I’ll need you to bring these over by Thursday night.” Bea hung up and started texting the most ridiculous, complicated elements she could think of.

“Whatcha doin’?” Curtis asked, yawning.

“Neal called.”

The effect was instant. Curtis shot up, glaring. “What did he want?”

“To see how I was doing. Not to tell me the truth. Not to ask me to meet him for dinner or to pick me up for a date—nothing like that.” There was a tinge of bitterness in her voice, but it died swiftly as she hit send. “I told him he needed to step up and do his half of the work and sent him a list of super complex elements to make, including miniature opera cakes and red and green panna cottas.”

“What? Why?”

“Because either he won’t do it and he’ll think that he’s screwing me up but then get a rude awakening on Friday night when we go into the contest ready without that stuff, or he’ll waste hours of his life—and probably Jasmine’s life—thinking he has to make some of it in order to keep me dangling on the hook.”

Curtis nuzzled her shoulder. “You’re a diabolical genius.”

“Only when I have you.”

Giggling, snuggling back beneath the covers, Curtis pulled her against him. “We should get up. We have a lot more to do.”

“I know. Thirty more minutes?” She swiveled her hips against his and felt his hardness ready to meet her.

“Temptress.”

“Ooh. Embroider that on the apron you get me for my birthday.”

“Hey, Bea. Hh. Hhh.”

Curtis stopped carefully wrapping the cooled sheets of gingerbread in plastic wrap as Bea held up her phone.

Thursday night. The final push. All elements needed to be made by Friday evening. Friday night would see teams of gingerbread enthusiasts and solo bakers assembling their creations in the Pine Ridge High gymnasium in front of hundreds of families.

“Oh, hey, Neal.” Bea had the phone on speaker.

“I’m really sorry, but I’m super sick. So sick. I didn’t get to make those things you asked me about.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And uh… I’m probably too sick to come to the event tomorrow. Hh. Hhh.”

“Are those supposed to be coughs?” Curtis whispered.

“Shh! Oh, that’s too bad, Neal.”

“Yeah. So. Uh… I’m sorry.”

“No worries.”

“But you’ll have to drop out. Right?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But you entered with a partner. You said you can’t switch categories once you’re entered.”

“You can’t. But you’re sick. I think they’ll make an exception.”

Neal’s sickly voice suddenly grew stronger. “I don’t think so. It says on the rules that all members must be present to compete.”

“Well. I guess I’ll just have to take my chances then.”

There was a pause.

If Neal expected hysterics and anger, he didn’t get it. “Uh. Okay. Bye?”

“Bye! Feel better.” Bea hung up. “See you tomorrow, loser,” she snickered, putting the phone back in her pocket. Bea fixed Curtis with a guilty smirk. “Am I as bad as he is?”

“Well, let’s see. Did you lie about being his partner?”

“No.”

“Did you lie about being sick?”

“No.”

“Are you using him just to get prize money while secretly having no respect for the fine and sacred art of gingerbreading?” Curtis took her by the shoulders and gave her a severe glare.

“No, Chef.”

“That’s what I thought.” He swatted her rear end. “Now. Back to making pizzelle batter. Not everyone can have a full moon made of white chocolate-covered gingerbread pizzelles.”

Bea nodded, then paused. “This idea might be too out there for some of the judges,” she sighed. “What if we don’t win? The money for the cupcake truck?—”

“Will come to us some other way, sweetie. I already won.” Curtis kissed her forehead. “I got you , didn’t I?”

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