Page 26 of Perfectly Complicated
“Hilarious,” I deadpan, wiping my finger on a napkin.
She studies me. “You do know how to make a gingerbread house, right?”
“Of course I do.” The only gingerbread house I ever made was in kindergarten—graham crackers propped up by a milk carton that collapsed before it got home. But she doesn’t need to know that. “Practically an expert, Bennett.”
“Are you feeling okay?” She puts her hand on my forehead. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re sick or delusional right now, Riley.”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Because I can’t wait to see the look on your face when I win.” She flashes me a wicked smile that promises zero mercy and maximum humiliation.
I should back out now, let her savor this one victory, but instead, I dive into this task with the enthusiasm of a kid who’s just inhaled a dozen pixie sticks. Because watching Janie Bennett get competitive is like watching a wildfire—mesmerizing and dangerous and probably something to stay far away from.
But when did I ever back away from something that might potentially burn me?
Never.
I’m a hockey player who’s not afraid of getting in the middleof a fight. And I have a feeling this woman is about to humiliate me worse than a team of defensemen.
Thirty minutes later, I’m experiencing serious gingerbread remorse. The back of my neck is covered with sweat, my apron is splattered with frosting like a Jackson Pollock painting, and what I’m generously calling a “house” resembles something designed by a drunk architect during a hurricane.
I’ve broken more gingerbread pieces than I’ve successfully kept upright and muttered countless swear words under my breath.
Meanwhile, Janie’s creation should be featured inArchitectural Digest.
“How’s it going over there, Riley?” she singsongs without glancing up from her masterpiece.
“Great,” I lie, watching my roof slide sideways.
She wipes her hands on her apron and shifts to study my creation. Her lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh. “What isthat?”
“I’m going for the post-apocalyptic Christmas mobile home,” I reply.
“You’ve got so much candy on there, it looks like Willy Wonka’s factory blew up.”
“Well, candy covers a multitude of architectural failures.” I try rearranging a few pieces, but it doesn’t help. At this point, the only way to fix it is to start over.
With only a few minutes left, Janie finishes placing the last pieces of candy on hers.
Her creation is almost perfection, like Martha Stewart and Bob Vila had a baby that turned out to be a Colonial Revival gingerbread house. Every gumdrop is intentionally placed, every icing line ruler-straight.
I grab a bag of coconut flakes and start dumping “snow” over my disaster, hoping to hide the imperfections just as the judgecalls, “Time!”
We step back to survey our work, and the contrast is brutal—her masterpiece next to my condemned housing situation.
The judge saves ours for last, like she’s building suspense for the finale ofThe Great British Baking Show.
When she finally arrives at our table, she studies Janie’s house first. “Well, we have a technical masterpiece…” She gestures to Janie’s perfect creation. “And one that’s…” Her eyes land on mine and she pauses, searching for a word other than “disaster.” “Veryoriginal.”
“Thank you,” I say, as if she’s just compared me to Picasso.
She does a double take and frowns. “You look familiar. Do you play hockey?”
“Why, yes, I do.” I smile. Anything to earn me bonus points. “Are you a hockey fan?”
“A huge one. You play for the Crushers, right?”
“Yep.”
