Competition. Day one. Judgement number one. They’d been given an hour, most of which was up already. Nate’s hands shook, fortunately only after he got cookies in the oven. Rosemary Kane, his assistant and best friend, did not pause in setting out plates but did notice the shakiness. “You doing okay?”
“Fine. We’ve got just under fifteen minutes—these should be done right on time, but if they’re not—”
“They’ll be perfect. You know they’re perfect. We’ll knock their socks off.” She sounded utterly confident; Nate wished he was.
He trusted this recipe—ginger and clove, molasses and allspice, cinnamon and brown sugar, deep rich evocative layers. He trusted his own skill. He’d been enjoying himself in kitchens for years; Nate’s Bakes, coincidentally not too far from the studio they were in to
