Page 25 of Santa's Mistletoe Playbook

How could someone with such high ideals be so very slimy?

To graduate, culinary students had to pass a course in desserts and patisserie. It struck Curtis as odd that Neal suddenly latched onto Beatrice after a year and a half of being in the same program as her and months of ignoring her obvious crush on him. It didn’t escape his notice that Bea became a different person when Neal was around, either.

He’s using you. He’s partnering with you on everything because you’re the best. He’s not into you—he’s into what you can do. He’s a slimy, slippery organ-meat-eating, farm-to-table low-life.

“I… I’d enter with you. If he can’t make it.” Curtis’ voice was a rough rasp.

“Huh? Oh, he’ll be here for the contest at least. If we win… Well, he only lives in Pittsburgh. It’s not like he’s flying homeand can’t drive back to be there for Christmas dinner. Or he could always spend Christmas with my parents and me.” Bea’s voice turned dreamy.

“Huh? But I’m spending Christmas with?—”

“I don’t meaninsteadof you! I mean with you. With us.” Bea put her arm through his with a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head. “The three of us could totally take over the meal prep. Mom would love it.”

Neal won’t love it when I accidentally-on-purpose drop a hot roasting pan on his foot.

“I—”

“It’s not like Neal and I weren’t already going to enter the contest. There’s just a lot more at stake now.” Bea walked ahead of him, voice dropping, “And it’s going to be so romantic. We’ll have to spend every night this week together.”

“How do the contest officials know when you start? Like, how do they know someone hasn’t been working on it for weeks and freezing their pieces or something?”

“Every contestant will be emailed the theme of this year’s contest—tonight at midnight.” Bea looked at her watch. We’ll also be given a list of distinct elements we have to use at different parts of the construction, like German gingerbread for a certain percentage, specific spices or colors of icing… This is going to be the last year I can enter, too. Once I graduate in May, I’ll have a job in the culinary industry by December, and no professional chefs or bakers are allowed in the contest.”

Curtis nodded and crossed his fingers. “Yeah, that’s the plan! Both of us will have a spot. Maybe a spot together?”

“Streets Sweets—Cupcakes on Wheels!” Bea beamed. “That’s the plan.”

“Beatrice!”

Curtis flinched like he’d tried to pick up a hot cookie sheet without an oven mitt. Beatrice’s smile transformed, muted—likeshe was trying to be a different version of herself. The Neal-Approved Version.

Neal would never approve of a cupcake truck. He wouldn’t even approve a cupcake!

Frankly, Curtis didn’t think that Neal would ever approve of Beatrice. Not the real one.

“Gotta go,” Bea hissed as they separated.

“Wait a minute—you still owe me, you hacker.”

“Oh? What do you want me to do about it, you tall drink of water?” Bea teased.Flirted.

“Isupposeyou could make it up to me. Come over and re-watch episodes eight and nine tonight? If we can still keep our eyes open, we can watch the finale.”

“Can we make the pistachio shortbread from episode one? Ooh! I could practice some new techniques I’ve been thinking of. I have to stop home and grab my pizzelle maker. Gingerbread pizzelles would make the coolest half-moon windows in a big Victorian gingerbread masterpiece!”

“Beatrice! C’mon!” Neal’s impatient voice cut into their conversation.

“Oops! Neal needs me. See you after class.”

“Sure. It’s a date.” Curtis moved to his station and gave a nod to his partner for the evening.

A date. If only.

CHAPTER TWO

“We’re getting the instructions tonight, right? The themes, the requirements?” Neal’s torso was straining the seams of a tight black chef’s coat embroidered with a slender golden N.

“At midnight,” Bea answered, short of breath. All of her life, she'd been plump and cute like a roly-poly puppy. Her boyfriends had been a curious mismatch of losers, geeks, and first dates that didn’t warrant repeats. Oh, sure, she had a hot best friend—if you considered being built along the lines of a palm tree hot, anyway. But a hotboyfriend? Never.

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