“One minute, chefs, sixty seconds!”
Fifty-eight by the time she got done talking. He dropped his cookies onto the platters, not worrying too much about stacking nicely and neatly. As long as nothing sat on his icing to dent it or peel it away. Henry’s stomach clawed up into his throat, and only sheer will kept it from jumping out of his mouth along with the bagel from craft services.
“And that’s time, my lovelies!” Sylvia clapped a couple of times. “Step back, close your eyes, and we’ll roll on with the judging.”
“And we’re cut!” The director walked back out. “Get into final positions, then new shooting in sixty.”
The cameras winged around into a familiar pattern, the same one they always took during judging.Breathe. Just breathe.He had good gingersnaps, peppery and crisp and well-spiced. It was the stupid chocolate chip giving him agita, but surelysomeonehad fucked up worse than him. Anyone would do.
Breathing is good.The anxiety was easing, the longer he waited, the longer he had for his icing to set up and his cookies to cool. And there was still no leakage on his crescent moons. He was good. He was good enough and, as much as it burned him to admit it, good enough would have to work today.
He took a moment to scan the room. Tristan was still sexy, no change there. Willa was sitting on her stool, grinning like the damn cat that ate the canary. Nina wasn’t ripping the hair out of her head, which was good news for her. She’d recovered. Henry really, really hoped he could say the same about himself.
Backstage, Jacob cleared his throat loudly. “Okay, and we’re rolling in five, four, three, two—” Point.
Sylvia stood with her normal, final-judging expression: a slight smile and sober eyes. “Katherine, if you could come on up and show us what you’ve got.”
Henry’s stomach dropped like a stone. They were starting with Katherine. They were starting on his end, right behind him. What the actual fuck? He watched in abject fear as Katherine carried up a two-tiered platter of precise, attractive cookies. Farmers’ market baker or not, Katherine had proven too capable for comfort this round.
“You okay?” Tristan’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”
Henry shook his head, forcing the easiest smile onto his face that his current level of nerves would allow. “I’m good to go. No worries.” TV cameras be damned, there was no controlling his expression. “A little less sure than I’d like, but I’ll be fine.” He could go home. He could lose out on this, prove he hadn’t been worth inviting here. He could be another gay boy who fell and never got back on his feet... the way society expected, the way his mom had confessed to worrying herself sick over.
All because of stupid fucking bedtime cookies ...
“Thank you, Katherine. I’ll just be stealing a few of those.”
Katherine laughed at Sylvia’s closing joke. Her closing joke. The judging was over. He hadn’t heard a word of it and it had to be him next. He leaned closer to Tristan. “How did she do?”
“You were right there.”
“I wasn’t paying attention, okay?”
“You really are nervous, aren’t you?” Tristan shifted his stool closer to Henry’s station. “She had an okay critique. They liked the Russian tea cakes, but weren’t blown away by the clove cookies.” He sighed. “Where’s the cocky fucker I hate? What’d you do with him?”
“He left when I burned the second batch of cookies today.”
Katherine passed by, and Tristan quieted his voice even more. “You’re good, Henry. You’re really good, and your cookies look good. I’m not going to tell you you’ll be fine, because what the hell do I know, but if you go out, I bet it’s on a damn strong bake.”
Sylvia’s voice came from the front. “Henry, let’s see what you’ve got to bring to the table.”
Henry took a few deep breaths, smiling weakly at the flashed thumbs-up from Tristan, then carried his two platters up front. He gave them a last once-over, then waited for the judging.
Eli smiled at him. “So, what do we have here?”
“These are gingersnaps with white chocolate, and my bedtime cookies, which are chocolate chip and pecan with some quick-setting icing on top.” Although probably not quick enough.
“Bedtime?”
Henry nodded. He pushed himself into customer-service mode, explaining things like he would in his shop. “I designed the recipe to go with warm milk. They’re still good on their own, though.”
Eli chuckled. “Well, I think I’d like to start with the bedtime cookies, and let the irony be damned.” He picked up four and handed them out. One to each of the other judges, one to Sylvia, and the last one for himself. Eli broke his in half. “Your icing isn’t quite set. It’s not liquid, but it’s a little messy.” He flashed his fingers, smeared with sticky pale icing. “Cookies are still warm.”
Of course they’re still warm.
Eli bit into it and chewed for several centuries, at least. When he finally swallowed, he nodded. “It’s got a good flavor. I like mine chewier than this, but you did what you set out to do. It really would be great with milk.”
“Yeah, I agree.” Dexter set his down. “In fact, it almostneedsmilk. I wish you’d given us a jug of it or something to go along with them. They cling to the mouth a bit.”
