salt right now. Just in case.”
“Good thinking,” I say. “And good luck.” As she scurries off, I turn to Gigi and whisper, “Last chance to tell me to stand down. Speak now, or don’t be sad when my melted ice cream disaster is slightly less awful than your melted ice cream disaster.”
She grins and tips her head back. “Never. Hit me with your best shot, buddy, and I’ll see you after the judging.”
“See you soon,” I murmur, watching her move to meet the staff member approaching through the shaded tent.
For a moment, I dare to hope it might be cool enough in the shade to make a difference, but as my own helpful staff member shows me to my station, it becomes clear it’s actually more stifling under here. The flap on one side of the tent blocks the sea breeze—good for keeping sand out of our sweets, but bad for air flow.
Very bad.
By the time Mr. Skips has welcomed the onlookers and explained we’ll each have forty minutes to create our ice-cream inspired offering, the back of my shirt is sticking to my skin and I know modifications must be made. Removing my cufflinks and tucking them into my pants pocket, I roll up my sleeves and remove my vest, draping it over the stool at the back of my station.
I turn back to the shelves below my counter.
That’s when I see the red ice cream machine tucked behind the silver one on the top shelf. If I weren’t a good three feet away, I wouldn’t have noticed the second one, I’m sure. I would have snatched up the silver and gotten down to business. It’s going to take at least twenty-five minutes for the ice cream to freeze in the machine, after all, so there’s no time to waste getting my recipe assembled. And who would imagine there was more than one maker on offer?
Glancing around the stations as the other contestants set to work, I see that almost everyone seems to have a red or blue machine. No silver. And on the shelves in my line of sight, it appears each chef has only one maker to choose from.
Huh…
I crouch to arrange the machines side by side and glace quickly at the specs for each. The silver one is an older model and requires a pre-frozen bowl—a bowl that is presently sitting in the machine in the sweltering heat, nowhere close to frozen. If I’d put my base in there, I would have had a lightly chilled soup forty-five minutes later, not anything close to ice cream.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think…
But, of course, I do know better. And I do think.
I stand with the red machine in hand, casting a narrow-eyed glare Hawley’s way as I plug it in. But the bastard isn’t looking at me. He’s pouring cream into a saucepan, an innocently focused look on his face.
Too innocent and too focused.
But I don’t have enough time or evidence to call him out for attempted sabotage right now. Though, of course, it had to be him. The rest of these contestants actually have a shred or two of integrity.
After a quick check to make sure Gigi and Willow both have the right sort of machines—they seem to—I set to work.
I’m bringing my London Fog ice cream base to a simmer—heavy whipping cream, sweetened condensed milk, Earl Grey tea, and my signature blend of spices—when Gigi clears her throat. Loudly.
I look up, sensing the sound is meant for me.
Our eyes meet across the counter of the cook station between us, currently occupied by an older woman I didn’t have the chance to meet last time. Gigi casts a wide-eyed glance at the counter behind me, where my ice cream maker is starting to smoke.
Gently.
And then, not so gently.
Lunging across the small space, I jerk the plug from the socket, earning myself an unpleasant shock in the process.
Cursing beneath my breath, I lift a hand to one of the staff members gliding up and down the aisles. I explain the situation with the malfunctioning machine and the unsuitable machine still on the shelf, and the helpful young chap rushes off to secure me another.
I set to work on my lavender sugar cookie batter, knowing the cookies have to be in the oven in five minutes if they’re going to cool enough to top the ice cream.
I’ve just barely plunked the ingredients in the standing mixer, however, when the staff member returns with Mr. Skips.
For once, the