CHAPTER FOUR

CALEB

When six o’clock rolls around, Sierra marches into Brewed with Mandy not far behind her. They wear matching expressions of frustration as both women join me at the back of the cafe where the announcement of today’s winner will take place. Since Brewed stays open later than Buttercream Dreams, it made sense to have the conclusion of our first round here, with a declaration of the winner and encouragement for everyone present to attend our next event, Pastry Palooza, two days from now on Wednesday.

“Caleb.”

“Sierra.” I mimic her derisive tone, though it’s difficult to mask my amusement. She’s clearly pissed about my decision to use her muffins for my own benefit, but I couldn’t resist the temptation. Teasing her is practically my side hustle because it’s fun and Sierra makes it way too easy.

“Welcome everyone to The Cafe Clash!” James smiles and waves at a few latecomers. We chose an impartial party—McCoy Security—to handle tabulations and judging for the contest. As part of the family that owns the security firm and a military veteran, James McCoy is a popular man in Suitor’s Crossing and the perfect person to ensure nothing is rigged in anyone’s favor.

Not that this event is supposed to be anything but a fun way to increase visibility and profits for the bakery and coffee shop. The overall winner gets bragging rights, but that’s it. Otherwise, both Sierra and I come out victorious.

“Thank you for celebrating the Dough Joe Duel with us. I hope everyone enjoyed the delicious treats and drinks offered today. I know I did.” James pats his flat stomach, causing everyone to laugh. Raising a white envelope in the air, he motions for the crowd to quiet down. “Here are the results for today’s winner. They’ll have a leg up going into the next challenge—Pastry Palooza—on Wednesday. And the winner is… Brewed by a margin of seven! Congratulations to Caleb and his staff!”

Huh, that was closer than I thought it would be after my strong push at the end of the day.

Not that Buttercream Dreams is a slouch. Sierra works her ass off over there, and it shows. But her morning rush must have been crazier than I anticipated for the numbers to be so close.

“Congrats.” Sierra offers her hand in a show of good sportsmanship.

Lightly squeezing her palm, I hold on for a second longer than necessary before letting go, enjoying the zap of sparks shooting from the spot of contact. “Thanks, it seems my gamble paid off.”

“You mean the one where you filched my muffins for yourself?”

“Filched implies that I stole them when we both know I paid for them fair and square. So… you’re welcome?” I slather a thick layer of smugness over my face before sliding behind the front counter and grabbing a to-go cup. A scoop of ice gets tossed in, then hazelnut, caramel, caramel cold brew, and healthy doses of cream and sugar. Three swishes of a metal spoon and it’s good to go with a lid popped on top.

“For you.” I set the iced coffee in front of Sierra. “A consolation prize.”

She takes one hesitant sip, green eyes full of suspicion. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”

Not too difficult when I’m fucking obsessed with everything you do.

Wrong! I’m breaking myself of that habit.

Trying to anyway.

“Shannon stops by every morning for her vanilla latte, Willow’s Americano, and your hazelnut caramel double shot.”

“That could be for anyone.”

“Nah, only one person I know prefers something that sweet—the fiery little baker next door who’s mayor of Sugar Mountain.” Plus, we write customer names on the cups to keep everything straight, but I guessed it was for Sierra long before Shannon mentioned it.

“Flattery will get you nowhere. Especially after the stunt you pulled today with the muffins.”

“Does that mean our date is off tomorrow?” My bottom lip juts out in an exaggerated pout as I cross my arms on the counter and lean closer. For Pastry Palooza, we each have to create a treat inspired by Suitor’s Crossing, and since Sierra has an industrial-sized kitchen, she agreed we could both share quarters while preparing for Wednesday’s event.

Her gaze narrows. “It’s not a date. I should ban you from the premises, but I prefer to win fair and square. Lord knows you haven’t the slightest chance to beat me with anything baked in your tiny kitchen.” She tilts her head toward the swinging door that leads to the small galley where our limited baked goods are made.

“Game on, sweetcakes.”

***

The Buttercream Dreams stainless steel counter looks like the before shot of a baking competition show with boxes, bowls, and two standing mixers. Everything is laid out neatly and waiting to be turned into a winning recipe for tomorrow”s Pastry Palooza.

“Quite the set-up, Sierra Bear.” I palm some chopped pecans from a glass ramekin and pop them in my mouth.

She slaps my hand when I reach for more. “Paws off the nuts. I divided everything into separate stations: the base ingredients, fruits, candies, and salty add-ons. You didn’t give me a list of anything specific you’d need, so hopefully, you can work with what I’ve got.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a professional. I can make anything work.”

“Spoken like a true fan of Iron Chef. Maybe we should’ve chosen a special ingredient to base our recipes on in conjunction with the Suitor’s Crossing theme.” The reference to Iron Chef throws me for a loop. That’s one of my favorite shows, and I constantly play reruns of various chefs going head to head in competition.

Maybe that’s what subconsciously inspired The Cafe Clash…

“If the town had a signature ingredient, we probably would’ve thought of that, but since it doesn’t…” I shrug. “Looks like we’ll have to stick with our original plan. A pastry inspired by the town.” Catching the apron Sierra tosses at me, I tie the strings around my waist before grabbing what I need for my cinnamon rolls.

A companionable silence falls between us as we start working, and it’s nice not having the usual tension hanging in the air. Baking may not be my strongest skill, but it seems like its soothing qualities of measuring and mixing calms both of us as I notice the relaxed slant of Sierra’s shoulders and her quiet humming.

“So, Iron Chef. That’s a throwback.”

Sierra rolls out a ball of dough, sparing a glance my way before focusing on the slow glide of the rolling pin. “My mom and I used to watch it every Sunday night. She was obsessed with Bobby Flay.”

“And you?”

“Hardly, I’m more of an Alton Brown fan.”

“Like the nerdy type, do you?” I tease, although a part of me catalogs how very not nerdy I am. I don”t wear the signature glasses. I”m not particularly savvy on a scientific subject—none of the stereotypical nerd qualities. Truthfully, I lean more towards hipster lumberjack with plaid flannels and jeans that fit properly, along with the occasional beanie.

“Competency, intelligence. Those are my kryptonite,” Sierra says with a smirk as if I don”t embody those things.

“I”m extremely competent at making the finest cup of coffee you”ll ever drink. It takes a certain intelligence to create the perfect roast.”

“Does it?” A smile hides in the corners of her mouth. My goal is to make her laugh because she doesn”t do that enough around me.

“Come on, tell me you”ve had a better caramel double shot than the one I made for you yesterday.”

“Fine, you know how to make a cup of coffee. But the way to a girl”s heart isn”t through her stomach, contrary to her male counterpart.”

“Who”s talking about hearts, sweetcakes?” Twin spots of red appear on her cheeks. She pushes a little harder on the rolling pin until the dough beneath spreads too thin and tears from the extra force.

“Damn it,” she mutters.

Good to know I affect her as much as she does me.

“If the way to a girl”s heart isn”t through her stomach, then what is the way?” I ask, curious about her answer. I”ve known Sierra for a couple of years now, and I”ve never seen her date. A good thing, too, because it”d probably send me into an early heart attack from all the shock and jealousy. Okay, maybe it would give me minor heart palpitations. Because I swear I”m getting better with this obsession I have for her.

“Through her mind, duh. Women want to be wooed,” she states matter-of-factly. “There’s also the fact that the brain is actually your biggest sex organ—” Sierra pauses as if she can”t believe she said that out loud. “Um… forget I just… uh… What are you making?” She fumbles over her words before completely dropping the topic.

“Smooth…” I laugh but allow the subject to change. We definitely shouldn’t talk about sex. Not when just being near Sierra has my cock semi-hard and eager to fly into full mast. “An apple tart. I”m going for a nostalgic feel, especially since we have the apple orchard at the edge of town. You?”

“Cinnamon bacon scones. It”s a play on heart sparks with the spice.”

“Nice.” Silence reigns supreme again, until we transport our goods to the ovens.

Sierra sets the timer, then leans back against the messy counter with a sigh. “This is going to be a nightmare to clean up.” The back of her hand swipes across her forehead as her weary gaze studies the work to be done. Her picture-perfect set-up now lies in ruins with half-empty ramekins and flecks of sugar and flour decorating the counter.

“Cleaning will be easier with the two of us, though.”

I reach for a folded rag when powdered sugar catches my eye. Fluffy. White. Openly available. An idea tickles my brain at the sight, and I can”t resist my next move. Casually pinching the sugar between my fingertips, I flick it at Sierra, where it lands on her chest.

There’s a pause.

Then an adorable growl.

“What was that?”

“What?” I ask innocently, fingers walking across the table in search of more ammunition.

“We are not having a food fight in my kitchen.”

I flick brown sugar at her this time. “Who said we”re fighting?”

“Seriously?” She brushes at the sprinkles of white and brown on her apron, but the sugar just smears. “And you called me a menace.” Reaching forward, she grabs a handful of blue sprinkles and tosses them at my face. I duck but feel the little pellets hit my ear and the top of my head.

That’s my girl.

“Oh, it”s on now!” Tucking a bag of flour against my chest, I dodge a second onslaught of sprinkles before sending flares of flour cascading over Sierra’s head.

Sprinkles, nuts, flour, sugar. It all flies through the air to coat every square inch of our bodies, until both of us are heaving with laughter, slumped on the floor in a truce.

“Well, if it wasn”t a nightmare to clean before, now it definitely is.” Sierra giggles, her chest heaving from exertion, and I wish the vee of her shirt dipped a little lower, so I could follow the map of baking products decorating her cleavage.

“Nightmare on Treat Street,” I bite out—trying to keep things light and professional rather than turning the conversation back to sex and learning exactly how sweet Sierra tastes.

“Oh my gosh, you did not just say that.” She lightly punches my shoulder, and it occurs to me that for someone who purportedly doesn’t like me, Sierra touches me an awful lot. Sure, they’re mostly annoyed slaps or shoves, but like a kindergartner who can’t voice their crush, it’s the equivalent of me pulling on her hair to get her attention.

“What? You”ve got to love a good rhyme.”

“Obviously, I named my bakery Buttercream Dreams.” Her head rolls against the cabinet behind us until her nose nearly brushes mine. Surprise lights within her features at our sudden proximity. We”re sitting close, our faces inches apart. Flour clings to the wisps of hair that escaped her braid, and my stupid self immediately finds it endearing and sexy as hell.

“The timer should go off soon,” she whispers, confusion shining in her eyes as they flick from mine down to my mouth. Or maybe that”s wishful thinking.

Leaning closer, I wonder what she’d do if I kissed her right now. Maybe the animosity she”s held against me all these years will transform into passion. Desire. “Sierra…” I feel the softest caress of her lips on mine, before the timer dings, and she jerks back.

“Oh, we better get that. We don”t want them to burn.” Hopping to her feet, Sierra grabs mittens to pull out the hot trays, and I bang my head back against the cabinet in frustration.

Thwarted by the damn Pastry Palooza.