Page 10 of Resisting the Grump

When I finally reached the parking area, which was surprisingly far away from the big tents, I slowed down at the insistence of an excessive number of friendly-faced volunteers wearing hideous pink and white vests. Then, at the first opportunity, I broke from the stream of cars inching through the dusty gravel lot and drove to the farthest corner where I figured my car had the smallest risk of being dented by the car doors of enthusiastic cake eaters eager to put further strain on their cholesterol.

By the time I shifted my car into park and rolled the top up, I had about twenty minutes to figure out where I was going and reflect on what the hell I was doing there.

Fortunately, as if on cue, Mac called to remind me.

“Just parked,” I said, leaning back in my bucket seat and making no move for the door. “In case you’re calling because you were worried I’d bail.”

“I never thought you’d bail,” he said. “You take too much pride in your own professionalism to do that.”

I straightened my cufflinks at the comment and realized I was probably overdressed moments before I shuddered at the thought of traversing the dusty gravel in my freshly shined shoes.

“I trust you look dashing enough to make sure every woman you meet today has wet dreams about you?”

After the comment about my professionalism, he could’ve at least pretended I was here to do more than objectify myself. “I’ve been asked to judge desserts, Mac, so that’s what I’m going to do. If the women here wanted male attention, they’d go to a sporting event instead of trying to outbake their neighbor.”

“The ratio of female attendees will only highlight what a remarkable specimen you are.”

So maybe I didn’t hate him fueling my ego before I went in there.

“Anyway, I’m calling to remind you of your mission.”

I swallowed a groan.

“Which is to 1) not be a shocking asshole like everyone expects.”

Is that how he described me to people? Christ.

“And 2) win over everyone you meet.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“If you can’t find something nice to say about someone’s baked goods, say something nice about their smile or the weather. I really don’t give a shit. Just be likable.”

His pleading tone made it sound like I was incredibly unlikable, which I found harsh and disturbing. That said, I appreciated the not-so-gentle reminder that, even though I knew I was playing a role on TV, I wasn’t exactly starting with a clean slate as far as the public was concerned.

“There are going to be more losers than winners at this thing, but everyone’s a winner who gets to meet a celebrity, so go out there and make some people’s day.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. There were so many things wrong with that statement, it wasn’t worth wasting the energy it would take to dissect it.

“Make your mom proud, in other words.”

My jaw hardened. He knew better than to bring my mom up. She wasn’t well enough to know if she was proud of me or not. Hell, half the time I visited her, she didn’t even recognize me. If anything, that’s one of the main reasons it had been so easy to fall into the role of cruel and unusual critic in the first place. Because the woman who’d always been charged with keeping me in check didn’t remember how to scold me, much less how to dress herself half the time.

As for my dad, he was as passionate and critical about food as I was. We just differed in how we got paid to convey that passion. “I’ll be on my best behavior,” I said finally. “But I’m not going to be someone I’m not.”

“I urge you to reconsider that approach,” he said. “Everyone at that event is going to be role playing today. They’ll be pretending baking is an outlet that relaxes them instead of a source of stress that takes years off their life and adds inches to their waistline. They’ll be pretending they don’t care if they win, that they’ll be delighted if their neighbor wins, and that they’re not fussed if people like what they made. And the truth is every last one of them is going to cry cheap mascara down her chubby cheeks all the way home if she doesn’t run out of product. So the least you can do is pretend there’s nowhere you’d rather be, too.”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

“This is important, Oliver. Your career is in jeopardy. You have to show people you’re not one dimensional.”

“And you have to give me the benefit of the doubt because that’s your only option right now.”

“Fine,” he said. “Fair point.”

“Remind me who I’m looking for again?” I reached for the pamphlet in the passenger seat and flicked open to the board of directors page so I could find the face that matched whatever name he said.

“Julia Clarke and her mother Esther run it. There will be a tent where you can check in, and I’ve been assured that you’ll be shown the ropes and accompanied at all times.”

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