Page 11 of Resisting the Grump

I hoped that wasn’t the exact language he used when he was setting up this gig. “Alright. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“I believe in you,” he said with obvious reservation.

“Goodbye, Mac.”

“Don’t be afraid to let those eyes twinkle.”

I ended the call and kicked off my afternoon of make believe by pretending I hadn’t heard that last line. This whole thing was sort of embarrassing for me, to be honest. After all, I was here as a “celebrity judge” even though I really only qualified as a celebrity if there were no other celebrities around. Plus, I was way out of my element. My palate was used to picking ingredients out of appetizers and main courses, my eyes trained to assess whether the right cooking techniques had been executed the right way. I didn’t know shit about cookies or brownies or cakes or… God forbid there were desserts here everyone knew the name of but me.

Maybe I should’ve taken this a bit more seriously and researched the last few years’ winners to get an idea of what impressed past judges. Or maybe I was blowing this out of proportion, and it was a goddamn cake festival.

I mean, what was the worst that could happen? I took a few bites of lousy cake? All I’d actually agreed to do was share my honest—albeit sugar-coated—opinion. And even if I wasn’t as dashing as he hoped I’d be, it sounded like I’d meet the brief as long as I didn’t bite anyone’s head off.

Seemed doable.

Total waste of my time, perhaps, but doable.

Then again, if what Mac said about my current reputation was true, I did need to take this seriously to a point. Not that I had a clue about how to take cake seriously.

But as I made my way towards the entrance, past women in matching Star Baker T-shirts dragging wheelbarrows full of labeled Tupperware, something told me there’d be plenty of attendees from whom I could take notes.

S E V E N

- Avery -

I was as proud as a seventh grader at her first bake sale, and I even put my hair in pigtails to celebrate the special occasion. It was a last-minute decision, but I thought they might help me channel my inner Pollyanna so I could be a sweet and wholesome mascot for the Cake Café.

At the very least, the pigtails helped distract from the fact that I was stuck in the same printed T-shirt as everyone else. It was bubble gum pink, white, and baby blue, which were colors I normally avoided like the plague. To make matters worse, they ran out of the smaller sizes so I had to settle for a triple extra-large.

I tried to tie it in a knot at first, but the knot was the size of a small handbag and looked absolutely ridiculous. The best solution would’ve been a seamstress, but there was no time for that. So I went with the only option that didn’t make me look like a tent myself; I belted it. Regrettably, the belt pinched right across the word ‘Baker’ so ‘Star’ was written across my chest, and it was borderline too short for me to wear it as a dress. However, it was going to be baking under the tent, I was going to be on my feet all day, and the table was tall enough—even before it was piled high with brownies—that I was confident no one would be scandalized. It wasn’t ideal, but at least my pigtails were a constant reminder not to take myself too seriously.

The brownies, on the other hand, I was taking very seriously. Fortunately, they spoke for themselves. It amused me that I was so proud of them. I’d always thought the chemistry of baking was the most interesting part, but this experience was changing my mind. Watching people’s eyes light up when they tasted what you made was unexpectedly fulfilling. I knew that was the part Grace lived for, but I never quite understood the thrill before.

It wasn’t until I was two hours into the first morning of the festival that I understood the appeal. I’d already lost count of how many people had tried my brownies and been so pleasantly surprised by their richness that they made noises I could only assume they normally saved for the bedroom. Not that I could blame them. The way the paper-thin, salted caramel layers melted on your tongue between layers of rich chocolate brownie was uniquely special and sinfully gooey.

In fact, if I was honest with myself, the brownies were a lot more satisfying than the sex I wasn’t having. No offense to my vibrator. It had been doing an adequate—if not somewhat predictable—job of helping me survive the longest dry spell of my adult life. But the brownies satisfied my senses in a way that was as hard to resist as it was to ignore.

Of course, it wasn’t just festivalgoers’ smiles I was gunning for. Grace made it crystal clear that this was an opportunity to secure future business and feed people for a good cause. In a nutshell, once my brownies made a good impression and I made a clear invitation to visit the café, the cherry-on-top goal was to encourage people to make a donation.

I hadn’t realized there was a charitable component to the contest initially, but it made me extra glad that I’d decided to take part. After all, the alternative would’ve been spending the weekend doing something far less impactful like rearranging my succulents, doing yoga, or painting my nails while I watched Real Housewives behave badly. And since none of those things would take very long, I would’ve had plenty of time to shoot invisible mind darts through the wall with the aim of puncturing a piece of Number Seven’s drum kit.

So there was no question I’d made the right choice by accepting the challenge and not half-assing it. Plus, now that I could see what being here meant to the other attendees, I was kind of proud to be part of this new world.

It was so different from the cutthroat networking events I’d been to in the corporate world where everyone spends the whole time sussing out what they have to gain from everyone else’s acquaintanceship. The event was, for the most part, a celebration of women supporting women. I genuinely felt like I’d tapped into some sort of genial sisterhood where there was only one sorority and everyone who wanted to be a member was allowed. You just had to love cake. Or cookies. Or chocolate. Something. As long as you weren’t indifferent to the seductive joy of sugar, you were in, and everyone was happy to have you.

Frankly, I hadn’t anticipated appreciating the atmosphere so much, but it was gloriously refreshing to be surrounded by women who were more likely to fix your crown than tear you down. Not that there weren’t less enlightened women in the mix, too, but they were easy to spot from a mile away. They were the ones taking notes and rationing their smiles. The ones checking out each other’s bodies instead of each other’s baked goods. The ones asking questions that made other women shrink instead of stand taller. And it made them stick out like sore thumbs. The rest of us, though, were enjoying the sugar high of our lives, and I couldn’t have been happier at how far away my old life felt.

Until I sensed a disturbance in the tent.

Something had pricked the delicious air of feminine unity wafting through the air. Something unexpected. Like a spooked cat, I sensed its presence before I pinpointed its location, the hair on the back of my neck and arms standing at attention.

He was even more beautiful in person.

My toes wiggled in my designer knockoff combat boots and my fingers longed to fuss with my hair even though it was too styled to do so. It was if I’d been plugged into something suddenly and couldn’t ground myself to disperse the charge coursing through me.

Oliver Harrington had entered the far side of the tent, his thick, dark hair like a lighthouse towering over the sea of estrogen in his midst. No question he was even more handsome in person. In photos, it was easy to appreciate his good looks, but in the flesh, you could sense his intensity by the powerful way he moved through the crowd. He had the posture and seriousness of Superman, and his broad shoulders made him look like he’d be more satisfying to climb than a tree.

From where I stood, even the way his dark eyebrows lifted and fell felt loaded with significance. But more than anything, it was his delicious confidence that captured my attention. Maybe he didn’t deserve it. Maybe he was a completely despicable man, but my body definitely wasn’t getting the memo that it should be repulsed. On the contrary, I felt crazed and confused. Like a brainless uterus with legs. It was ridiculous.

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