Page 3 of Resisting the Grump

"Unbelievable."

I laughed to lighten the mood. Grace had no idea how irrecoverably horny I was lately. Not that you could really get naked with Oliver Harrington. He'd probably rate you on a ten-point scale, and I was done dating mean men who were tough critics. Done.

"What am I going to do?" she asked. "He's notoriously difficult to please."

"You're going to do your best," I said. "And if the sweet, buttery goodness of your pastries makes him forget what a miserable asshole he is for even a moment, you'll have won."

Grace looked at me, resolve shrouding her face. "You're right," she said. "He's just a man."

"That's right.” Just a beautiful, delicious, man. "And he won't be the first you've won over with your mad baking skills."

T W O

- Oliver -

People were cowering even more than usual as I stormed through the office. "Is Mac here?" I asked, pausing in front of his receptionist’s desk.

As soon as she nodded, I headed for his office door, ignoring her insistence that he was on the phone.

Mac looked up from his desk when I barged in. "I'm going to have to call you back."

"What the hell is this?" I held up the promotional pamphlet for the Star Baker Festival, which featured a full-page bio of me in the “judges panel” section. "At first I thought it was a joke, but according to the website, I'm this year's special celebrity judge."

"I thought it was a great idea," Mac said, like he hadn’t noticed I was appalled. "It’s about time the festival tried to raise its profile. Thing's been running for twenty years."

I couldn’t tell if I was more annoyed that I’d been included or more annoyed that I hadn’t been asked. "I never agreed to this."

"Only because I never asked." He leaned back in his padded leather desk chair. "But I did take the liberty of making all the arrangements so feel free to thank me later."

"This isn't my scene, Mac."

"I know," he said. "And so does everybody else, which is exactly why you need to do it."

"I'm not following."

"It’s time to break into the baking world," he said. "Prove to everyone you don't only have opinions about fine dining."

Was he for real? "I have no business at a festival like this, Mac. Making little old ladies cry is not my idea of a good time."

He leaned forward and folded his arms on his wide, wooden desk. "I appreciate that, and I completely agree that you should probably approach this differently than your normal gigs."

I blinked at him. Should I accuse him of losing his mind? The only thing that disgusted me more than being treated like a puppet was the idea of voicing the concern out loud.

"I think you should play up the fact that you'll be the heartthrob judge of the festival and serve charm on top of everything like it’s Chantilly cream."

"Absolutely not."

"Why?" he asked. "Look how well the occasional twinkly eye to camera has served Paul Hollywood."

"Christ." I pressed my fingertips to my temples and tried to talk myself down. "First of all, you don't pay me to have twinkly eyes."

"You can do it, though. I know you can. And if you don't pivot soon, people will start to think scathing restaurant reviews are all you do."

"That is all I do."

"What you do is what I tell you to do," he said. "And I want you to start working on your smile so the blue hair brigade at this festival doesn’t think you're growling at them when you show your teeth."

"That's ridiculous. I don't have an aversion to smiling."

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