Page 4 of Cinnamon Rolls and the Guy Next Door (Holiday Romance in Snowflake Falls #16)

Chapter Four

KIERAN

The Snowflake Falls Fall Festival sprawls the length and breadth of the town square.

White tents line the main thoroughfare, their peaks festooned with orange and gold bunting that snaps in the mountain breeze.

The air smells like kettle corn, apple cider, and hickory wood smoke from the barbecue competition three tents over.

Kids run between the booths with their faces painted like pumpkins and tigers, while a bluegrass band tunes up on the main stage.

The baking tent stands at the north side; big, white, and already hot from twenty ovens warming up inside.

I arrive on time, wearing jeans and the only clean shirt I own that doesn't feature skulls, motorcycles, or our Renegades logo. My hands are steady, but my stomach bounces like a popcorn kernel. Not from the competition, since I've accepted I'm going to embarrass myself.

It's from what's coming. Who's coming. One person in particular.

“Kieran!” Juniper's voice cuts through the noise of the crowd.

She's standing by the registration table in a yellow dress covered in tiny strawberries, her hair pinned up with wisps escaping to frame her gorgeous face.

The morning sun catches her ruby red hair, turning it to flame.

My body responds immediately, cock pressing against my zip, remembering exactly how she felt against me and around me last night.

“Hey.” I manage to sound casual despite the heavy rush of heat crawling up my spine.

“You made it.” She smiles, but there's nervousness in it. “I wasn't sure if you’d still want to enter…”

“I said I'd be here.”

We stare at each other. The space between us fizzes with electricity. I want to pull her behind the tent and kiss her until she can't remember her own name. Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets, fists clenched.

“Contestants!” A tall, silver-haired man with a neat beard climbs onto a small platform.

Magnus Huckle, according to his judge's badge.

“Welcome to the Snowflake Falls Baking Competition. Please find your assigned stations according to which competition you’re entering.

The divisions are breakfast pastries, pies, cookies, and cakes.

Five entrants for each division. We'll begin with the preliminary round in ten minutes.”

“Good luck,” Juniper smiles, touching my arm. The contact burns through my shirt, and I stare at her, unable to look away. This crazy need to possess her is overwhelming.

I clear my throat. “You too.”

We're stationed directly across from each other. She sets up her ingredients with practiced efficiency. I attempt not to notice how she bites her lip when she concentrates, but that makes it worse. My mind replays the soft sounds she made when I kissed her… those moans…

“Well, well! If it isn't Betty Crocker.”

I turn to find Viper and Hunter flanking someone who looks exactly like Clay. Colt's wearing Clay's cut, his president patch, and now he even has his hair styled the same way. If I didn't know better, I'd think it was actually Clay.

“President,” I nod, playing along.

“Heard you're competing.” Colt's impression of his brother is perfect. He has the same stance and the same cold expression. “Breakfast pastries? Interesting choice.”

“Gotta support the community,” I reply.

Hunter claps me on the shoulder, grinning. “This I have to see… Kieran baking. You documenting this, Viper?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely!” Viper holds up his phone. “For posterity.”

They position themselves along the viewing rope, making themselves visible. Colt stands dead center where everyone can see him. The Ridge Renegades president is attending a wholesome town festival. What could be more innocent?

Magnus reminds our group of the rules. “First round: classic cinnamon rolls. You have two hours. The top three of five entrants advance to tomorrow's finals, where it’s a free-bake, as long as it’s a breakfast pastry.”

I glance at Juniper. She's completely focused. Her station is organized; the ingredients are lined up neatly, and the tools arranged by size. Mine already looks like a crime scene waiting to happen.

“Begin!”

The tent erupts into motion. I start my dough, trying to remember everything Gram taught me. The measurements. The temperature. The way Juniper's hands felt on mine when she showed me how to knead.

Fuck. Focus.

I risk a glance at her. She's rolling out dough, a slight sheen of sweat on her collarbone. The urge to cross the tent and lick that spot makes my hands shake. My cock jerks against my pants, and for the first time in my life, I’m glad I’m wearing a frilly apron.

“Looking a little tense there, brother.” Viper's voice carries from the rope.

Several spectators laugh. Great. An audience for my humiliation.

I concentrate on my rolls, trying to get the swirl even. Across from me, Juniper works like she's dancing, her movements smooth and efficient, making baking look like an art form. When she bends to check her oven, her dress rides up slightly, showing the backs of her thighs.

Fuck me.

Colt appears at the rope near my station, his voice low. “Kieran. Remember why you're here.”

Right. The alibi. Make sure people see me with him. I nod, but my eyes drift back to Juniper. She's got flour on her cheek. I want to brush it off. Want to pull her against me, dust her in icing sugar and lick every inch of her, until…

“Time!”

Two hours gone in a blur. My rolls look... adequate. Lopsided, not uniform. But they're baked and they have cinnamon in them.

Fuck it.

The judges move through the stations, tasting, making notes. Magnus reaches mine, takes a bite, and chews thoughtfully, brow furrowed.

“Interesting texture,” he says diplomatically. “A bold choice on the cinnamon ratio.”

Translation: I fucked up the measurements.

When he reaches Juniper's station, his face lights up. “Exceptional. Perfect rise, beautiful swirl, balanced flavors.”

She blushes, pleased. I want to kiss that pink skin, follow it down to see how far it goes.

The judges retire to deliberate. The crowd mingles, sampling non-competition baked goods from vendor booths.

I stick close to Colt and the others, playing my part while watching Juniper chat with the other bakers.

She laughs at something one of them says, and jealousy spikes through me, hot and irrational.

Magnus returns to the platform. “Results for the breakfast pastries competition. The following three bakers advance to tomorrow's finals…”

My stomach drops. Here we go.

“In third place, Beatrice Howl.”

An older woman with wild gray hair gasps, pressing her hands to her face.

“In second place, Juniper Winslow.”

Relief floods through me. She made it. Of course she made it; her rolls were perfect.

“And our first place preliminary winner... Kieran Laird.”

What?

The tent goes silent. Then erupts.

“That's impossible?—”

“Must be a mistake?—”

“But his rolls were uneven?—”

Magnus raises his hand for quiet. “We look forward to seeing our bakers tomorrow at the free-for-all final.”

I find Juniper in the crowd. She's staring at me with an expression I can't read. Not hurt or angry. Confused, maybe? Suspicious?

She starts to walk over, but then Colt appears at my shoulder, his impression of Clay's swagger perfect. I don’t want her anywhere near him, so I turn my back. It isn’t polite, but I can’t think of any other way to avoid them interacting.

“Good job, brother. Told you that donation to the festival committee would pay off.”

He laughs like it's a joke, but several people exchange glances, and Juniper, who’s paused by the display tables, blinks in surprise.

“I didn't—” I start.

His voice drops. “Relax. I’ve taken care of it. Two of the judges are in my pocket. Not the upstanding Mr. Huckle, of course. Let the audience think what they want. See you tomorrow for the finals.”

My stomach turns. People are already whispering, looking between me and the judges' table. Two of the judges, a nervous-looking younger man and a woman with severe-looking glasses, won't meet anyone's eyes.

Juniper’s walked back to her station. She's turned away, talking to another contestant, but her shoulders are rigid.

The tent starts clearing. I catch up to her outside.

“Juniper…”

“Congratulations on first place.” Her voice is polite.

“I wasn’t expecting that. And I didn’t know about the donation.”

“I didn't say you did.”

“But you heard what Prez said?”

She finally looks at me. “I heard. I also saw your rolls. They were good, Kieran, but…”

“But not first place good.”

“I didn't say that either.”

The space between us feels like miles instead of feet.

“We should celebrate… both of us making the finals.” I’m desperate to have her in my arms again and make this shit right.

She shifts her box of supplies. “Maybe after tomorrow. I really need to practice.”

“Juniper—”

“I'll see you tomorrow, Kieran.”

She walks away, and I watch her go, Colt's implication stretched between us like poison. Tomorrow I'll make sure the competition is fair, even if I have to stand over the judges myself. But right now, she thinks I cheated.

Viper appears at my elbow. “We need to be visible at the cider tent for the next hour.”

I follow him, playing my part, but all I can think about is the disappointment in Juniper's eyes.

I’m going to make this shit right. No matter what it costs me.