won’t work,” she calls out. “I refuse to be distracted by…any of that.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say with a grin, pleased that she finds me as distracting as I find her.
“Welcome contestants! And welcome, Brooklyn!” The short, pudgy man with the thick gray beard who seems to be running the competition waves to us from a small stage at the front of the tent. Behind him, several hundred people have gathered.
People who cheer as he turns to wave their way.
They’re so loud Willow flinches and looks ready to dive under her counter to hide. And I confess, my own pulse picks up a little. I didn’t expect this to be so public. Or performative.
But as the cheering crowd is allowed past the entrance ropes to surround the tent—settling into lawn chairs they’ve brought with them or onto blankets spread on the grass—it’s clear we’re going to have an audience.
“Gigi! Gigi! Over here!” The call comes from behind me, and I turn to see a group of women—all ages and colors, with seemingly nothing in common but the big smiles on their faces—waving her way.
“Give ‘em hell, kiddo!” an older woman wearing an unusually sexy pair of overalls shouts out. The woman beside her with the wild blond curls and killer smile seconds the sentiment.
“You’re already our winner,” says a younger woman with luminous dark brown skin and a stunning, big-eyed baby strapped to her chest with a shawl. Beside her, a pretty woman with brown hair and a heart-shaped face that reminds me a little of Gigi’s shouts, “You’re the goddess of pie, and don’t you forget it.”
I glance back at Gigi to see her blushing and shushing them, but it’s clear she’s happy to see her fan club.
I am too. She absolutely deserves a fan club.
Still, it makes me a little sad that I forbade Abby from coming. I didn’t want her to be forced into close proximity with Wretched Hawley or to worry about how she’s handling being near her ex for the first time since their split.
But now’s not the time for emotions.
Now is the time for cooking.
I roll up my sleeves and get to work.
Thank you, mum, for the inspiration.
Forty minutes later, I put the finishing touches on the strawberry shortcake.
It smells fantastic and looks pretty enough for a centerfold shot in Bon Appétit magazine.
The scones and shortbread cookies, of course, I’ve made countless times, but the lemon infused cream was a new adventure—and a tricky one. If you don’t get the measurements exactly right, the lemon will curdle the cream instead of leaving it delightfully zested.
But my cream is fucking gorgeous, perched like a cloud atop my perfect strawberry filling—not too liquid, not too dry.
I’m about to whip out my phone to document my beauty for the shop’s social media when Gigi shrieks, “Willow! Fire! You’re on fire!”
I whip my gaze to the right.
Oh, bloody hell.
Flame dances up the strings on Willow’s apron. A ridiculously fast-moving flame.
“Oh.” The tiny woman’s eyes go wide, but she doesn’t move to extinguish the flames. She simply presses both hands to her face and shouts, “Oh, no,” in a slightly louder voice.
Instinct kicks in, replacing panic. There’s no room for anything but swift, efficient action.
I drop my phone on my counter, grab a damp towel, and rush to Willow’s station, arriving just as Gigi slides over the top of her counter to land beside the frozen woman.
She has a wet towel in hand, as well.
Fucking sexy as hell, I think as Gigi reaches for Willow’s thigh, covering it with her towel. I do the same, joining in, and we smother the fire together.
A few seconds later, the fire is out, leaving behind nothing but the acrid smell of singed cotton.
“Oh my God, oh my God!” Willow hyperventilates as the last of the smoke wafts from her apron.
Gigi rests a hand on her shoulder and guides her to a stool at the rear of the station, closer to the onlookers on the grass, who are now applauding our rescue.
I wave in acknowledgment then crouch on one side of the stool as Gigi cradles Willow’s hand on the other.
“Breathe, sweetie pie,” Gigi says, petting her trembling fingers. “Just breathe.”
Willow nods, gulping. I glance around for a cup, but don’t see one. I do spot a water bottle sticking out of Willow’s purse beneath the counter, however, and fill it at the sink.
“Thank you.” She accepts the bottle and takes a small sip. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Nonsense. Fires