Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
Doesn’t take a degree in psychology to know that’s also probably part of the reason I’m sweating right now, silently willing the judging to wrap up as soon as possible.
No matter how grown up I am, or how much I know I’m loved by Gram and Harrison and my aunt and uncle and Ruby, having parents who don’t really care for you all that much can make a girl a little sensitive to criticism.
Two different chefs have already tasted my mini apple pies topped with hand-churned cinnamon ice cream and a caramel drizzle. I couldn’t think of anything more American—or New York, hello, Big Apple—than classic apple pie and my take on the recipe is unique, zesty, and packed with flavor. The addition of the ice cream and drizzle add another layer of pure decadent yumminess.
Until this moment, I’d been confident that I’d nailed the perfect offering for the first challenge, but now I’m starting to wonder if apple pie is too simple.
Too trite.
Too…apple flavored.
The final judge, the grouchy one with the goatee, takes another bite of the crust—just the crust—pauses, then nods.
He sets down the plate, scribbles in his notebook, then strides to Mr. Skips, the organizer of the competition and one of the sweetest men in the sweets business. He ran the best wedding cake bakery in Brooklyn until he retired a few years back, leaving the business to his grandson.
Too bad he’s not a judge this year. He’s good friends with Aunt Barb and a huge fan of pie. And me. When we were kids, he always brought Ruby and me kites when he came to pick up his Easter desserts, and he still pops into Sweetie Pies regularly.
Not that I’d want special treatment or anything, but at least I’d know at least one judge appreciates my medium.
Some people just don’t like pie.
Those people are obviously crazy, but…
After a few seconds that stretch on for an angst-filled eternity, Mr. Skips whirls around, strokes his cute little gray beard and clears his throat. “Good news, Sweet Lovers! We’re ready to announce the point tallies for the first round! As a reminder, the rules stipulate that the contestant with the most points at the conclusion of the last event wins.”
He takes a deep breath.
Then a freaking pregnant pause.
We all hang on his words—all ten contestants and the couple hundred onlookers gathered around the edge of the tent. He finally exhales, rattling off the fifth-place winner with seven points out of ten, and then my name is next.
“Gigi James with eight points for her lovely apple pie.”
I beam. I hoped to make the top three, but there are a lot of talented chefs here. I’ll take fourth and 8 out of 10 and be proud of my performance, thank you very much!
“And in third place.” Mr. Skips glances back to his notes again, and chuckles, “Or well, I guess tied for fourth? Tied for third?” He laughs again. “In any event, West Byron, also finishes with 8 points for his innovative and refreshing strawberry shortcake.”
What the…?
I jerk my gaze to West, who’s blinking too, seemingly equally surprised that we’re tied.
But he doesn’t seem upset, and shockingly I find I’m not either. His shortcake was stunning. I wanted to eat it up with a spoon.
Or pop a dollop of that cream on a certain part of him and lick it off.
Stop it. No unicorn peen thoughts allowed, especially not while still on the field of battle.
Forcing a just-friends smile, I wrench my gaze from West’s as Mr. Skips finishes calling out the scores.
Willow takes second place with her funnel cake flavored cupcake with caramel apple icing—a triumph I hope will restore her confidence after the fire. And then, as much as I hate to see the smarmy pastry chef come out on top, I’m not surprised when Hawley nabs first place with nine points.
I saw his pastry—a chocolate cherry crème puff in the shape of a…wait for it… Big Apple. With cherry glaze running down its perfectly rounded shape and delicate dark chocolate shavings dusted across the plate like autumn leaves, it was stunning.
Still, I find it hard to admire the man, there’s something slimy about him, no matter how well-groomed he or his crème puff appear to be.
As soon as we’re dismissed, I make it a point to head in the opposite direction of Mr. Pastry, hurrying around the back of the tent to find Rosie, Ruby, and the rest of my girls.
“You did it! Third place!” Ruby enthuses, pulling me in for a hug.
“And only one point between you and that massive prick in plaid,” Rosie says, making me laugh. Because, of course, Rosie can spot a prick a mile away.
“And tied with Mr. Yummy Shortcake.” Allana bobs her dark brows as she pats Reggie, her sleeping baby boy’s bottom. “If I weren’t a happily married woman, I would totally let him split my scone.”