Page 26 of Miss Humbug
“It’s a yule log cake. People love those around here. It’s a promising contender if we execute it correctly.”
I burst out laughing. “Execute? What is this, war?”
His face remained unchanged. “Do you know who runs the bake sale and judges the competition? Church ladies.” He let that sit.
The church ladies ran a tight ship, er bake sale. “No further questioning, your Honor.”
I flashed to memories of Grans filling up her kitchen with treats ahead of a big sale event. Grans would have me use the food scale to ensure each bundle weighed as close to the same as the others. Each item got tagged, ribboned, and labeled using a rubber stamp with her custom logo. Excellence was expected and Grans and the church ladies wouldn’t allow anything less.
I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten so much. “Hold up. I don’t have stamps and ribbon.”
Ethan slid a hand to mine. “Your grandmother has all that stuff. Ask her for it. The ingredients we’ll have to buy.”
“Me—I’m buying the ingredients. This is my thing.” I let out a breath. “I already feel like I’m asking you too much.”
Ethan blinked at me. “You don’t know how to bake, Marlowe.”
“I can make brownies.”
“From a box?”
It counted. “Okay. I’m just saying, I’m not entirely helpless.”
“If you make a dry cake, you’re out.”
The fact I was about to ask what made a cake dry proved his point. “Let’s save cakes for later. Bake sale first. Where should I start?”
“Go through those cookbooks and pick out recipes. Cookies, cookie bars, maybe some brownies. I’ll review the options and we’ll narrow to final choices. Then make an ingredient list, go to the store, and bring the stuff back to your house.”
Okay, I could do this. I had project management training. “I’m going to need my laptop and some quality time with Excel.”
“You need spreadsheets to make cookies?”
“You don’t?”
He smirked. “Whatever works. You want to win, right?”
I did. Very much.
And of course, Ethan was aiming for his chance too. He wanted the land as much as I wanted—and possibly now needed—the house.
I’d truly forgotten so much.
Strike professional baker from my career options. One afternoon baking on my own and I needed to call in reinforcements.
The organization part I could handle. Recipe finding, inventory of baking supplies, ingredient lists. I’d found the holy grail cookbook on Grans’ shelf. As soon as I pulled it down, the memories flooded back. Yellowed pages, some wrinkled and stained from where ingredients fell against the recipes, revealed a history of treats I’d eaten in childhood.
Ethan assured me he had plenty of free time around his work schedule. He showed up with extra brown sugar—how did he know?—and a relaxed, confident attitude that put me at ease.
With our first batch of sugar cookies in the oven, I grabbed a new flour bag and carefully opened it. I turned toward the stand mixer at the same time Ethan moved past me.
We collided.
Poof. Flour shot from the open sack into my face. I yelped and squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the powder cloud to settle. I sputtered. Flour dust landed in my mouth.
I opened my eyes to Ethan mere inches from me.
“You have a little dust on your cheek.” He said it with a straight face.
