Page 10 of Half Baked

Whirling around, I scowl when I find himverynear me. There are only inches between us, and I can practically feel the satisfaction wafting off him. I straighten my posture and tilt my chin up at him.

“Absolutely not.”

“That’s funny, I could have sworn I heard you ask something. My mistake, I guess.”

“I guess so.” I shrug.

With a breathtaking grin that stretches across his stupidly handsome face, he nods and says, “Have a good night.”

The warm summer breeze is doing nothing to lessen the heat rolling through my body on my drive home. I tell myself it’s from frustration, but once I step inside my front door, I locate my computer and search for videos of rescue swimmers.

It looks like a flour bomb went off in the kitchen of my bakehouse. I rub the back of my hand across my forehead and return my focus to work on the mocha scones. They’re the fourth type of scone I made today, seventh baked good overall. But who’s counting?

Nothing seems good enough for my audition. If I pick something outside of my favorite go-to items, I run the risk of blundering over the unfamiliar nuances. If I pick something I make all the time, it doesn’t feel special enough for an audition.

Self-doubt gnaws at me as moonlight shines through the front windows. I’ve been at this nonstop. Baking normally helps me slow down and quiet my thoughts, but now it’s causing themto whirl. And this is just the audition. What happens if they give me a spot on their show?

“Who am I kidding, they probably do a hundred auditions for one spot. They aren’t picking me,” I mutter under my breath.

“Don’t say that!”

My heart somersaults as I jolt upright, spotting my friend in the doorway. “Oh my gosh, Stevie. You can’t sneak up on a person like that.”

I clutch at my chest until the racing beats slow. Maybe I should start locking the door if I’m technically closed for the night.

“I literally called your name when I walked in,” she retorts, studying me. “I was picking up a pizza next door when I saw your lights on. What are you still doing here?”

“Trying to figure out what the heck to make for the audition this week.”

“You told us you had it all decided.”

“Well, I lied.”

“Obviously.” She rolls her eyes.

She sets the pizza on the counter and pulls out her phone. She’s typing furiously and then my own phone vibrates in my pocket. She obviously sent a message to our group text. But she’s not done, her phone to her ear now.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling Beckett.”

“Why?” I cross my arms and frown.

“To tell him I can’t make it tonight—hi, Beck! Yeah, there’s a bit of a crisis happening at the bakehouse. I’m going to have to stay here.”

I open my mouth to protest when she holds her hand up to me. Stevie is rarely stern; I must look even more of a mess than I thought.

“No, nothing like that. It’s just a thing for the girls. Thanks though,” she continues. “Yeah, sorry about the pizza. I can?—”

She waits, listening to Beckett, I assume.

“Are you sure?” Another pause. “Okay thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You didn’t have to cancel plans; I know he’s not in town often.”

“No, it’s alright. He’s actually been coming back more,” Stevie beams. She pulls her hair into a high ponytail and steps into the kitchen. “So, what all do we have here?”

By the time I am done walking her through my array of failed attempts at finding the perfect pastry, Ivy and Wren come marching through the front door. “Why didn’t you tell us you were still working on audition prep?” Wren asks with authority.

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