Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,6

the heavy costume off. I had no qualms about walking around in my bra and panties, but all the other bachelorettes were nipped and tucked and plumped to TV body perfection, whereas I was probably going to look like a deathly specter in my black underwear. Plus, I didn’t want to give Jonathan any ammunition to insult me.

The other girls had wised up that if they wanted that billionaire for Christmas, they’d better step up to the stove. They were working furiously at their stations. But my ganache was glossy and perfect and would be hard to beat. I scooped the shavings into the pot, creating a thick, rich chocolate sauce. I whisked it to make sure they were incorporated then added the amaretto and a pinch of cinnamon. I set it aside to cook slowly while I started the garnish.

Candied cranberries would provide a pop of red color and a bit of sourness as a counterpoint to all that chocolate. They burbled away in their syrup while I started the most technically difficult portion of the dish. I was going to make pine-scented sprigs of holly out of sugar.

Sugar leaves and flowers, normally used on wedding cakes, added a bit of flair. I mixed up the powdered sugar, a bit of gum paste, and amaretto for flavor then carefully rolled out the paste and cut out each individual pine needle and shaped it with a small, pointed wooden stick. It was tedious work, but slow and careful was the best way to make art. One couldn’t rush perfection.

While I worked, my mind wandered. Jonathan’s deep voice boomed around the studio. He was still working his way through all the contestants.

Guy like him is probably going to try and come down all their chimneys, I decided meanly.

I wasn’t going to let him come down mine—not that I wanted to. I knew guys like him didn’t go for girls like me. There was no way in hell he would be interested. Not that I cared—I didn’t like him anyway.

“You’re hot,” that deep voice said in my ear.

It took all of my practice in meditation not to flinch. “And you must have a death wish,” I hissed at him.

“What? I was just asking after your well-being,” he said, still too close to me as I looked over my shoulder. “It looks like you’re hot in that costume. Why don’t you take it off?” He grinned.

I ignored him. Or tried to.

Jonathan started whistling “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

“I’m trying to bake.”

“And I’m trying to date!” he said.

“Not interested.”

“We have to,” he said, coming around to the other side of the bench. “Besides,” he whispered, “I think you secretly think I’m hot.”

“I secretly think a lot of things about you,” I said, turning my attention back to my sugar pine sprigs. “None of them use the words ‘Johnathan is hot’ in any form or combination.”

“Can you pretend to be interested?” Gunnar begged from behind one of the cameras. “Zane, why don’t you try and get a shot of her trying to teach Jonathan how to make the sugar leaves?”

“Don’t touch my stuff,” I warned.

“All the other girls let me touch their stuff,” Jonathan said, leaning against the table in a casual, sexy way that made the overheated and slightly tipsy part of me think maybe a Christmas package wouldn’t be all that bad.

No!

Gunnar mimed signing a check. I rolled my eyes, prayed to the goddess for strength, then grabbed a swig of whiskey just to cover all my bases.

I stared at Johnathan. He made bedroom eyes at me.

“Wow, what a fine specimen of a man,” I said robotically. “I think I want him under my Christmas tree. There,” I said to Gunnar, “that all you need?”

Jonathan’s grin was predatory. “If you take off that reindeer suit, I’ll give you a Christmas miracle.”

4

Jonathan

I’ll give you a Christmas miracle. Geez, what had I been thinking?

Morticia was not impressed. She didn’t even deign to respond with a cutting comment, just returned to her sugar plants. I had been dismissed.

“Almost wrapped up for today,” Gunnar said, waving me back to the judges’ table.

I watched Morticia as she deftly formed the leaves then took the tart dough out of the fridge and quickly rolled out a crust, draped it, then pressed it into the tart pan and put it in the oven.

She was exactly the opposite of everything I desired in a woman—abrasive, mean, all sharp angles, and dark makeup. Morticia wasn’t like any of the bubbly young