Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,4

true love?”

The bachelorettes cheered.

“In addition to being able to showcase your baking prowess, you must also show how well you can create a dessert that features alcohol. Hillrock West Distillery, Jonathan Frost’s company, is our sponsor this season. And it looks like one of our contestants is already sampling their wares!”

Morticia had tipped the reindeer head back and was taking a swig of craft whiskey made by a small distillery outside of Knoxville, Tennessee. She toasted Anastasia with the bottle. I caught a flash of dark-red lipstick, wisps of black hair, and creamy skin before the reindeer head came back down.

“As usual, we take our baking seriously, so don’t be fooled by the dating shenanigans. We won’t mess with your desserts or your stations, because those are sacred!” Anastasia assured the women. “You have ample amount of time to bake tasty, photogenic desserts. While you’re baking, Jonathan is going to be doing a little speed dating to get to know everyone.”

The cameras centered on me. I smiled, hoping my face wasn’t too bruised. I decided Morticia had better be going home for that little stunt.

“Keep in mind that while the judges, Anu and Nick, are here to give you a ranking based on your baking, their score is going to be combined with the fan score. The viewers will be deciding which contestants they want to see with Jonathan the most. So be your charming, holiday-loving selves!”

There was another eye roll from the reindeer and more drinking.

“For this speed-date baking challenge, please make a fun, flirty dessert! The timer starts now.”

The other girls, in short-skirted Santa outfits, tall boots, and cute elf hats, giggled as they raced around, gathering ingredients. Morticia took another swig from the whiskey bottle.

I headed over to her. I knew I should just leave her alone, but I always did have issues—probably stemming from my childhood, not that we were going to go there—about not being able to just let go of people who clearly didn’t like me.

“Are you just going to serve alcohol as your dessert?” I drawled, hand in my pocket. The ice had seemed to do the trick; my face didn’t feel that sore as I grinned at her.

Morticia removed the reindeer head and set it on the table. “What’s wrong with a whiskey?” she remarked in that slightly raspy voice that sent shivers down my back.

She’s evil and crazy. Do not start fantasizing about her.

Morticia rummaged in the drawers and took out a knife, setting it next to the reindeer head with a thunk.

3

Morticia

Johnathan flinched at the knife. Good.

“It seems you’re not as much of a Christmas purist as you want people to believe,” I said as I grabbed the basket that I had festooned with ribbons and mini ornaments a week ago as part of my decorating contract with Romance Creative.

Jonathan stepped up to walk with me to the pantry.

“Move,” I ordered him as he cut in front of me.

“Not until you tell me why you hate Christmas so much,” he said stubbornly.

“You’re lucky I left my Taser with the rest of my clothes,” I snapped at him.

He stopped suddenly, making me almost run into him. A slow smile spread over his stupid, perfect face. “You mean you’re not wearing anything under that costume?”

I gave him my best death glare, but it was like trying to throw pillows at a block of ice. Jonathan Frost was unmoved.

“You know, if you need to scratch an itch under that suit, I’m happy to assist,” he purred, leaning over me.

Crap, he was tall. I could stand toe-to-toe with most men, but Jonathan made me feel short—and I didn’t like it.

“Don’t you have some more potential wives to impress?” I retorted, trying to squeeze past him.

“Mr. Frost,” one of the production assistants said, “we’re ready for your first speed date.”

He headed over to another table. I watched in spite of myself as Jonathan turned on the charm for another contestant while she giggled and made flirty faces at him. Morons.

I already knew what I was going to bake—a gingerbread amaretto chocolate tart. My grandmother, who had gone to the great cannoli club in the sky, had loved to bake. After Halloween, Christmas had been her favorite holiday, and she found any excuse to make a dessert.

“Thirty-five hours,” I chanted to myself as I walked into the pantry then froze.

“Hey, cousin.”

That voice.

“Keeley.”

“Morticia. Taxidermy any mice lately?”

“Sleep with anyone’s husband lately?” I shot back.

Keeley’s nostrils flared. She raised her hand as if she was going to slap