Gingerbread Dreams

Chapter 1: Round One “They’re nervous.” Marcus LeGrand crossed arms, watching computer monitors. On them, the holiday baking show contestants entered the kitchen set for the first time; wide-eyed, drinking in gold-striped candles and spruce branches and shiny pots at clean new workstations, they wandered and milled and bunched together and eddied apart, talking and gesturing. Cameras assiduously captured every drop of footage, ready for editing and trimming later. “I hope they know what they’re in for.” “They’ll be fine.” Miranda Flowers, fellow judge and motherly host of Miranda’s Kitchen on GourmetTV, their television channel home, smiled sunnily at him. “They always are. Don’t be a grouch.” “He can’t help it,” put in Eric Ho, their third judge and the previous year’s winner. Young and cheerful and secure in newfound success, he genuinely wanted to see other bakers do well. “It’s his job to be the mean one.” “It isn’t,” Marcus said. It wasn’t, not exactly. Except the ways in which it was. Holiday stockings above a fake fireplace, courtesy of the set decorators, shimmered on a monitor. All carefully designed and placed just so. Crafting the illusion. December joy even though November had only just started, thanks to the television industry and filming schedules. He was used to it. Part of the role. “You have to admit it is, in some ways.” Miranda sipped herbal tea and considered the situation: the production office the judges’ panel was presently lurking in, the five hopeful bakers plus assistants on the monitors, the half an hour or so before they’d all be called in to greet this year’s Gingerbread Extravaganza contestants. “You’re the critical one.” “We all are. It’s our job.” But Marcus got up, abruptly restless; he couldn’t watch fresh-faced arrivals another second. He took a step. Paused. Uncertain where he’d meant to go. Not as if he had an escape. They’d been doing this particular reality food competition for three years now. Great ratings. Wholesome holiday-themed delight. The comfortable drama of oven mishaps and under- or over-spiced treats. He loved his job, he truly did. Or he had. Or… He didn’t know. He did not sigh aloud. Couldn’t admit to a crack in the persona. Marcus LeGrand, thirty-four years old, celebrity pastry chef. Owner of two bakeries, New York and Los Angeles. Sweet Creams I and II had also won awards, most of which sat on shelves. Trained at those exclusive big-name academies: in France, in America, in Sweden. Winner of all sorts of awards and competitions. Known for exacting standards, perfection in tiny details, and that time he’d made an assistant break down on television during an elaborate cake showpiece contest. He hadn’t meant to do that. He hadn’t even shouted much. She’d made silly mistakes, basic oven-temperature mistakes, forgetting-of-salt mistakes. He’d been nice about it the first three times—that part hadn’t aired on television—and the fourth time she’d started crying on her own and wailed that maybe she should just leave, if she was a liability. It’d been a competition; he’d said, “Perhaps you should,” and she’d run out, and somehow he’d earned a reputation as the dragon of the baking-show world. In some ways he didn’t mind. He had patience with cinnamon rolls, not people. Competence mattered. Excellence mattered. A lack of emotion mattered: hysterics did no one, not the baker nor the cinnamon rolls, any good. He crossed arms and perched a hip on the side of the tiny table in the tiny room, under overhead lights, because he did not know what he’d meant to do upon standing up. He didn’t like that. He did not mind being the more honest, the more rigorous, critical judge’s voice on this televised show. Someone had to; Miranda was too sweet, pun intended, and Eric was too young. Standards needed to be upheld. Twenty-five thousand dollars and the prestige of winning were at stake. He briefly wished he could’ve made the pun aloud. He didn’t—he never did; too out of character—but he wished it. For a second. He liked being employed by GourmetTV. He liked being a recognizable success. He’d earned all of it; and he thought fleetingly about growing up poor, about a father who’d left and a mother who’d worked her heart out for her son, about the need for himself to stretch cheap ingredients into meals and later his first paychecks into something for them both. He nudged those thoughts away with the toe of one polished shoe. He loved his mother, and she lived comfortably now. He’d become the best because he’d needed to be and because anything less was unacceptable. He had recognition from peers, and a celebrity-chef income, and a career here on GourmetTV. Viewers tuned in for incisive commentary and unpadded truth and incisive relentless judgment. He knew. A not insignificant amount of those viewers commented on his hair, his cheekbones, his eyes. They seemed to like dark messy curls, sharp edges, icy pale green glares at burnt edges or melted ice cream. Marcus, when shown some of these comments by their social media team, had said, “What on earth do they mean by ‘I’d literally die to have Marcus LeGrand insult my failed cupcakes on national tv’? Or ‘please roast me like you did that contestant’s lemon tarts’? I mean, I do understand what this person means, but…why?” He did not think he was unattractive. He understood the conventions: tall, dark, slender but muscular, brooding, bluntly opinionated, knowledgeable about his profession. He knew about the requirements for television personalities. He’d even dated, occasionally. Not lately. Not much. Relationships tended to end poorly—not tragically, but inevitably. They went one of three ways: the man in question wanted to change him, to swoop in and rescue a poor lonely cynic from solitude; or wanted to enjoy the fame and wealth and access to good restaurants; or else wanted precisely the chilly personality projected on television screens, desiring a sometimes disturbing level of sarcasm and abuse. Marcus did not need rescuing. He did not especially want to change; he liked precision and high standards, and he would not compromise that. He also did not, despite rumor, enjoy making contestants and assistants cry; he every once in a while wanted to curl up on his sofa with an entire pot of pumpkin chili and read a book on the history of craft beer, which he in fact preferred to wine, not that anyone believed that. He wanted someone who’d sit with him, not interrupting, perhaps reading their own book; but fitting legs or bodies together under a blanket, settled in and happy and contented. Perhaps later they’d go for a walk: to a farmers’ market, or down on a beach, barefoot in cool sunset sand, holding hands. He knew that he couldn’t escape the television personality. He’d made a kind of peace with that. He did not regret his choices. He eyed the monitors and contestants again. So young, so enthusiastic. So eager. Excited about this opportunity, this big chance, this moment to impress the world. He got up from the corner of the table. “I’m stepping out for a moment.” Eric turned his way. “We’re on camera in—” “I’ll be back before then.” “Everything okay, sugar?” Miranda ruffled maternal feathers at him. “Was it those muffins from the morning craft services table? I thought they tasted a bit odd.” “They were edible. Too much baking powder. Don’t worry.” He straightened suit-jacket cuffs, took a step, ducked out. Caught a breath, in the hallway. Exhaled. He saw no one, which was just as well; he didn’t know how to explain. Probably wouldn’t need to. Just another eccentricity. No questioning of authority allowed. He followed the hallway to an exit door, to the postage-stamp sized miniscule patio. Someone’d thought, in the design of this studio, that perhaps people could use a small outside area; it held a couple of hopeful palm trees and a couple of benches. Someone’d optimistically wrapped the palm trees in holiday lights, not yet turned on. He leaned against the wall. Tipped his head back, let California autumn fall over his face, kept both eyes shut under pumpkin-orange sun-heat. The door creaked. A step rustled. A quiet voice said, “Oh, I didn’t know anybody’d be out here,” in a tone both surprised and not unwilling to share sunshine. “Hi, I’m Nate. Nate Miller, but just Nate, really.” Marcus opened both eyes. A vision of fresh-faced merriment beamed at him in shades of cinnamon and pine, skinny jeans and stylish just-woken-up spice-hued hair. The hair had no doubt taken ages to achieve. The clinging sweater above the jeans had strings of Christmas lights patterning the green, and shoved-up sleeves revealed innumerable constellations of freckles across strong forearms. The now-named Nate turned a star’s-worth of grin on him as if finding a friend. The grin swept out and caught Marcus’ words in its net. Startled, he forgot to answer. Nate’s eyes were green too, more color-drenched than his own green-grey, and somehow that felt right, as if they ought to be, as if he’d known they would be, as if a puzzle-piece had settled into place. He didn’t trust that feeling. He sucked in a breath. Squared up shoulders to fight suspicious comfort. “Oh,” Nate breathed, startled in turn. “I didn’t realize—you looked so—you’re Marcus LeGrand. I’m so sorry. I mean I’m sorry for disturbing you, not that you’re you. Which is awesome. You’re awesome. Someone make me stop talking. Please.” Marcus waved a hand. “It’s all right. I’ve heard it before.” Had that sounded arrogant? Probably. “Oh God,” Nate eked out, now wide-eyed as holiday forests. “Should I even be out here? Should I be talking to you? You’re a judge and I’m—is this illegal?” “Illegal?” Marcus lifted eyebrows at him. “Not as far as I know.” “You know what I mean!” “Yes, I do. And no, you don’t need to worry.” He put out a hand. He hadn’t meant to. Somehow found Nate’s dismayed shoulder, several inches below his own, and rested weight there. “It’s not exactly encouraged, but it’s fine if we run into each other. If you want an example, we’ve seen Evan Goldman before at other competitions; we’ll know some of you already. As long as we’re not actively fraternizing, it’s okay.” Nate gazed at him, vibrating with apprehension. Sunshine splashed their skin, their shoes, the bare stretch of Nate’s nutmeg-sprinkled arms. Marcus drew a breath, and found that he’d slid his hand upward, resting closer to Nate’s neck, thumb rubbing gently over the knit of the ridiculous sweater. Nate did not draw away from him, only kept looking up into Marcus’ eyes as if finding certainty there. A fraction of the tension eased from his shoulders. Trust took its place, open and sincere. Marcus cleared his throat. Hastily. And moved the hand. “You’re fine.” Nate blinked, blinked again, almost visibly shook himself. Found a persona, a flirtation. “Well, in that case. Glad you think so.” He even winked, though the frayed edges were mending underneath. “What’s a gorgeous pastry chef like you doing in a place like this?” Marcus glanced around: palm trees, studio walls, scuffed concrete underfoot. And a shameless holiday gingerbread artist who inexplicably wanted to flirt with him. “I’m working. So are you.” “Not out here you’re not.” “No…I’m not. Shouldn’t you be inside being filmed?” “Yeah, but they did my close-up sound bites and reaction shots already. I’ll go back in a sec.” Nate looked him up and down. “You actually are as tall as I thought you’d be.” “Thank you?” “I’ve tried some of your recipes. That strawberries and cream cake, I mean, wow. And my little sister loves those peanut butter cookies, we make those all the time, they’re sort of simple but like…really really perfect.” “Flattery won’t get you an advantage, I’m afraid.” “What—no! Oh, God, no.” Nate’s eyes and shoulders and talkative mouth got collectively horrified. “That’s not what I meant!” “I know. But you should go back in. Or I will.” He did believe the words; that reaction was real. For no reason at all his mouth wanted to smile. Or perhaps for a reason: he could not recall the last time he’d had a conversation with someone who wore emotions so openly, so readily, easy as breathing. Interest, desire, admiration, dismay, apology: Nate hid nothing and carried himself like a standard-bearer, a herald in unapologetic clinging jeans and a festive sweater. He was himself, sweater included. Marcus considered his own suit. Thought about removing the jacket, rolling up sleeves. He didn’t. But he thought about it. “You should stay.” Nate put that head on one side. The freckles on his nose twinkled, an invitation in gold and spice. “You were here first. And you look like you need…space, I guess. Room to breathe. I can go. Is there anything I can get for you? Water, coffee…gingerbread?” His eyes turned the competition reference into a joke, shared and merry; Marcus nearly laughed, though the sound came out a breath of surprised amusement. “I suspect we’ll all be sick of it by the end of the week. Though I do like gingerbread, I’ll admit. Even poorly done versions. I love the flavor combinations. I could eat quite a lot of it.” Nate raised playful eyebrows at him, thumbs hooked into pockets, even-keeled again after momentary distress. “Huh.” “What?” “You like things.” “Oh…yes. I suppose I shouldn’t.” “No, you absolutely should. I like knowing you’ll be happy.” “You don’t even know me.” “I know,” Nate said. “But you like gingerbread. So I’ll do my best to impress you.” “You ought to in any case.” Nate laughed—Marcus had been serious—and announced, “See you in there!” and disappeared back through the patio door. Marcus watched the holiday sweater vanish, and forgot to move, mostly because he couldn’t stop staring. Gorgeous and freckled and kind. Friendly and warm as cinnamon sugar. A contestant, and not someone he should be thinking about, even more so because Nate was so friendly and so open and so unabashed. Not anything like Marcus himself; no, Nate deserved equal forthrightness and generosity of self. Someone who’d be a better match. A partner. Nate’s backside, in those jeans, had been delectable. Nate’s whole body was. Marcus wanted to strip off the terrible sweater and find out how far the freckles extended. He could map them out with his tongue. He could slide a hand to the nape of Nate’s neck again. He could make those green eyes light up again with pleasure. He couldn’t. It’d be wrong as far as this competition. And it’d be wrong for Nate. It’d end badly. All that transparent emotion crushed by Marcus’ weight. Nevertheless he wanted to smile more, not because this would ever go anyplace but because he’d get to see Nate again in the judging room. And all week. And there’d be gingerbread. Hopefully impressive. Nate had promised as much. Not a bad week, he thought, even if anything more was entirely out of the question; he’d have the memories, the flavors, to linger over. To savor. He straightened a sleeve once more and headed for the door. His fingers tingled as if they held the warmth of Nate’s skin.