Page 5 of Rival Hearts
Not that Buttercream Dreams is a slouch. Sierra works her ass off over there, and it shows. But her morning rush must have been crazier than I anticipated for the numbers to be so close.
“Congrats.” Sierra offers her hand in a show of good sportsmanship.
Lightly squeezing her palm, I hold on for a second longer than necessary before letting go, enjoying the zap of sparks shooting from the spot of contact. “Thanks, it seems my gamble paid off.”
“You mean the one where you filched my muffins for yourself?”
“Filched implies that I stole them when we both know I paid for them fair and square. So… you’re welcome?” I slather a thick layer of smugness over my face before sliding behind the front counter and grabbing a to-go cup. A scoop of ice gets tossed in, then hazelnut, caramel, caramel cold brew, and healthy doses of cream and sugar. Three swishes of a metal spoon and it’s good to go with a lid popped on top.
“For you.” I set the iced coffee in front of Sierra. “A consolation prize.”
She takes one hesitant sip, green eyes full of suspicion. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”
Not too difficult when I’m fucking obsessed with everything you do.
Wrong! I’m breaking myself of that habit.
Trying to anyway.
“Shannon stops by every morning for her vanilla latte, Willow’s Americano, and your hazelnut caramel double shot.”
“That could be for anyone.”
“Nah, only one person I know prefers something that sweet—the fiery little baker next door who’s mayor of Sugar Mountain.” Plus, we write customer names on the cups to keep everything straight, but I guessed it was for Sierra long before Shannon mentioned it.
“Flattery will get you nowhere. Especially after the stunt you pulled today with the muffins.”
“Does that mean our date is off tomorrow?” My bottom lip juts out in an exaggerated pout as I cross my arms on the counter and lean closer. For Pastry Palooza, we each have to create a treat inspired by Suitor’s Crossing, and since Sierra has an industrial-sized kitchen, she agreed we could both share quarters while preparing for Wednesday’s event.
Her gaze narrows. “It’s not a date. I should ban you from the premises, but I prefer to win fair and square. Lord knows you haven’t the slightest chance to beat me with anything baked in your tiny kitchen.” She tilts her head toward the swinging door that leads to the small galley where our limited baked goods are made.
“Game on, sweetcakes.”
***
The Buttercream Dreams stainless steel counter looks like the before shot of a baking competition show with boxes, bowls, and two standing mixers. Everything is laid out neatly and waiting to be turned into a winning recipe for tomorrow's Pastry Palooza.
“Quite the set-up, Sierra Bear.” I palm some chopped pecans from a glass ramekin and pop them in my mouth.
She slaps my hand when I reach for more. “Paws off the nuts. I divided everything into separate stations: the base ingredients, fruits, candies, and salty add-ons. You didn’t give me a list of anything specific you’d need, so hopefully, you can work with what I’ve got.”
“Don’t worry, I’m a professional. I can make anything work.”
“Spoken like a true fan of Iron Chef. Maybe we should’ve chosen a special ingredient to base our recipes on in conjunction with the Suitor’s Crossing theme.” The reference to Iron Chef throws me for a loop. That’s one of my favorite shows, and I constantly play reruns of various chefs going head to head in competition.
Maybe that’s what subconsciously inspired The Cafe Clash…
“If the town had a signature ingredient, we probably would’ve thought of that, but since it doesn’t…” I shrug. “Looks like we’ll have to stick with our original plan. A pastry inspired by the town.” Catching the apron Sierra tosses at me, I tie the strings around my waist before grabbing what I need for my cinnamon rolls.
A companionable silence falls between us as we start working, and it’s nice not having the usual tension hanging in the air. Baking may not be my strongest skill, but it seems like its soothing qualities of measuring and mixing calms both of us as I notice the relaxed slant of Sierra’s shoulders and her quiet humming.
“So, Iron Chef. That’s a throwback.”
Sierra rolls out a ball of dough, sparing a glance my way before focusing on the slow glide of the rolling pin. “My mom and I used to watch it every Sunday night. She was obsessed with Bobby Flay.”
“And you?”
“Hardly, I’m more of an Alton Brown fan.”