Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,39
I wanted to reach out and smooth them away.
Get it together.
“Just do me a favor,” he said, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Don’t make something too sweet.”
“No can do. I have a Jell-O-shot cupcake tower covered in an inch of fondant planned. Guess you’re gonna have to suck it up.”
Jonathan grabbed me around the waist and growled, “Don’t play with me like that.”
Crap, his body was hard where it pressed against mine. It was like that night in the park—he was all bulging muscles and sinew under that suit.
It took a second, but he realized what he had done and released me. “I uh—”
“I need to start baking.”
I looked around at my competition. The low performers were mostly gone, and the other contestants were upping their baking quality.
Meanwhile, I wasn’t feeling all that confident about my dessert. I was making peppermint schnapps cannoli. I could make tasty cannoli in my sleep and had adapted a special Halloween version for Christmas. My old-school Italian grandmother had loved to cook, and the cannoli was her recipe.
But Keeley had a whole array of Platinum Provisions molecular gastronomy equipment set up at her station and was making an elaborate, complicated dessert. I didn’t need to read the tea leaves to tell that I probably wasn’t going to win this round. But I could at least win Jonathan and score some fan-favorite points.
It always seemed to tick Keeley off when Anastasia announced me as either the first or second fan favorite. And I had to admit that it was nice to actually be liked. Plus, a not-insignificant part of me wanted Jonathan to like me too.
My grandmother had always said that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. She also advocated overfeeding your man so that he would literally be dependent on you for his shortened life. However, I wasn’t going to take it that far.
I’m just doing this to make Keeley mad, not because I like Jonathan. I am a badass queen of the night.
I was also a queen of the night who knew how to make a mean lasagna.
The decorating party was in full swing when I walked in to present my cannoli to the judges.
“They taste like you just dug up my grandmother to make them,” Nick said after biting into one.
Mimi, a Halloween fiend, would have been proud.
Anu also insisted on tasting the lasagna.
“It’s not a dessert,” I demurred.
“I don’t care,” she said flatly. “If there’s lasagna, I want it.”
Nick took a large bite then came around the table and gave me a hug.
“I need you to come make this at one of my restaurants,” he said.
At the other end of the room, Jonathan was sitting on a chair next to a Christmas tree, surrounded by platters of desserts and half-consumed cocktails. Keeley was straddling him in some misguided attempt to give him a lap dance.
Christmas music blared, and the whole place reeked of sugar and alcohol. Keeley let out an exaggerated moan when she saw me standing there. At first, I wanted to just turn around and leave, but the expression on Jonathan’s face looked like it belonged in Dante’s inferno and not on a sexy Christmas card.
At that moment, as I took in the scene, I had it: my inspiration for my scholarship art piece. The theme would be all about sex and consumerism and trying to be the perfect wife, all wrapped around Christmas. It would be a three-part piece using a mix of collages, oil painting, and line drawings. And it would give me an excuse to take sexy pictures of Jonathan and bake.
That scholarship is mine!
The producer motioned to Jonathan. He shoved Keeley off of him. She rolled onto the floor with a squeal.
“Are those cookies?” Jonathan asked, wincing.
20
Johnathan
“You can’t eat your dessert until after you have your Christmas lasagna,” Morticia said, whipping the small metal dome off of the plate she was carrying. The smell of crispy cheese, red sauce, and meat hit the air.
It smelled delicious—like home and family. “I need that lasagna,” I said, salivating. I stood up and ripped the Santa hat off my head.
I did not cook. I did not know how to cook. If the world was going to be destroyed and the only way to save it was if I cooked dinner, we would be alien toast.
Morticia stepped up to me and pushed me back down onto the chair. “I believe,” she said in that raspy voice, “that we’re supposed to be feeding you.”