Chapter 39

39

Grady

Monday morning dawns cloudy and rainy and ugly, but I'm still smiling while I sweet talk the lemon tarts that I'm decorating with fresh meringue and candied mint leaves.

"So creamy and silky and perfect. You know you're the queen. The goddess. The foodgasm to end all foodgasms with that perfect mix of tangy and sweet and?—"

"If you don't stop talking to those tarts, I'mma have to quit," Georgia informs me. "Your smile says you got laid, but your mouth says she was really damn easy, because does that actually work for you?"

So phone sex late last night wasn't the same as the mind-blowing experience of having Annika firsthand Friday night, but it was still damn good.

"Nope," I say to Georgia. "The women hate it. So last night, I resorted to meerkat por—never mind. Workplace. You want to snap a picture of these beauties, or should I?"

She's been handling the morning rush while I finish the tarts and the goat puffs.

Yeah.

Goat puffs.

I made cream puffs with goat faces so I can up my Instagram game this morning.

Or possibly lower it by seventy million points.

They're ugly-ass goats.

Bailey's pie cupcakes next to the killer brownies that I'm telling myself are inspired by Annika's Friday evening trip up to Thorny Rock Mountain make my goats look like something a kindergartener did.

Georgia huffs. "You are not taking pictures of those for Instagram. Are you trying to lose this bakery war?"

"They looked better in my head."

"You are so off your game."

"Don't knock the goat puffs until you try them. Next. Level. Eat one and tell me they suck. Go on."

She eyeballs the full tray of double cream puffs with white chocolate piping for horns and dark chocolate for eyes and nose, then takes one and bites into it.

"Ohmygah," she moans.

"See?"

"Wha di ya puh inee?"

"What did I put in these? Secret ingredient. Creamy, right?"

"Perfection," she says before shoving the rest of it in her mouth, then dropping one in her apron pocket.

For later, I presume.

"Fine. We can sell these. But we're going to have to give out samples, because nobody's buying these on looks alone."

"They would've a month ago."

"A month ago you wouldn't have painted psycho ram faces on them."

"Rams? They're goats."

"Dude. Stick with the taste. Your decorating game is shit."

I can decorate a wedding cake that would make my mother weep. My decorating game is fine .

I also know how to fuck it up really well when I want to.

"Okay. Not pissed at you anymore for ugly pastries. By the way, the reporter from Copper Valley is here and wants to talk pre-game."

" Fuck . Dammit, Georgia. Now?"

She grins. "Five minutes ago, actually. That's what you get for trying to decorate booby cream puffs like goats."

I glance at the cream puffs again, and—huh.

Yeah, maybe I did have boobs on the brain.

I finish up the lemon tarts and wash my hands fast before heading out to the dining room, where Star Knightly, the special reports news anchor for Copper Valley's News Team Twenty-Five, is interviewing my customers about who they think will win in the bakery contest that we're still negotiating.

I don't want to talk to a reporter this morning.

Not about my rivalry with Annika's family.

"Ah, there he is. Grady Rock." Star turns a practiced smile on me, and my gut goes tight like I got into a batch of whipped cream that turned. "The man of the hour. Your fans here tell me you're going to crush the competition the way your brother crushes baseballs."

"We'll all be winners when we're eating cookies and donuts," I tell her.

Like I'm suddenly the motivational speaker of bakers.

Hard to remember to be an asshole when I'm still riding the high of having Annika toss and turn her way across the tent Saturday night until she finally settled in as my little spoon and stayed there, peacefully, the rest of the night.

I want to take care of her.

Not tear her down.

Star studies me, still smiling, but I don't entirely trust her.

"So the people who love to eat are the real winners?"

"Aren't they always? I mean, when the food tastes good."

"You don't think your competitor bakes good food?"

"Mine's better. Of course." I need to shut up.

Or one of my ovens needs to erupt in flames, or one of my customers needs to choke so I can leap in and save him and get rid of this gnawing, ugly guilt that's probably curdling the cream in my goat puffs right now.

Food senses things.

Star is still smiling at me. "Tell me about your specialty."

"His banana pudding donuts," Pop interjects for me.

For once, Long Beak Silver isn't with him.

Good.

Bailey would probably call the health department and roll that video for them if he was.

"These goat puffs are going to give them a run for their money though," Georgia says behind me.

"I like his long johns," Sloane calls from one of the tables, where she's having pastries with Georgia's grandpa, who's been the local doc in Shipwreck since before I was born. She adds a wink, and Star's brows lift almost imperceptibly.

She's not the only one who notices.

The general murmur around the dining room from all the regulars tells me exactly what's about to get texted six ways to Sunday all across town today.

Sloane has a thing for Grady! Let's see if he's smart enough to do something about it!

"If you like his long johns, you should try his fritters," Georgia tells her.

"Ah, young love," Star says, and I don't know if she's talking about me and Sloane or me and Georgia, but either way, she's wrong. "You'll be cheering on Crow's Nest in the baking contest?"

"As if I could ever cheer against Grady," Sloane replies.

Pop beams.

Cooper walks in the door.

And pandemonium breaks loose.

"Whoa. What's with reporters in all the bakeries? And where's my banana pudding donut? A slugger's gotta eat. Dude. You made boob puffs. Awesome. But I've never seen nipples like that. Are they alien boobs?"

Georgia slides the tray of goat puffs into the display case, then holds out a double cream puff to him. "Try it."

My brother swallows it whole, but his brows shoot up and he moans in appreciation. "Holy fudgenuggets."

"Good?" I ask him.

He reaches across the display case to fist-bump me. "Like heaven in my mouth. You're going places, bro. You're going places."

Star's camerawoman gets the whole thing.

"Boob puffs?" Star asks.

"I, ah, was trying to up my Instagram game. They're goats."

"Oh, like Sarcasm's softball team is called the GOATs?"

"No, because I have a pet goat. He's a rescue. Name's Sue."

"Sue's the best goat in the whole world," Cooper says solemnly. "Gives good advice for hitting baseballs."

Star melts into a puddle of Cooper worship at his feet.

He winks at me.

It's a you're such a dumbass wink with a shade of got your back so you can go text your real lady, dude .

Yeah.

My real lady.

Who wasn't too thrilled that Bailey and Maria said yes to the cooking contest before she got home from camping with me yesterday morning.

I slip into the kitchen while Georgia's distracted with selling cream puffs, and I pull out my phone.

There's already a text waiting from Annika.

No words.

Just a GIF.

Of that dude from that cartoon movie who can blow his top off with flames shooting out of his brain.

I text her back a picture of Sue picking his nose with his tongue.

She doesn't reply.

And I hope I haven't just fucked up the best thing I've ever had in my life.

Again.