Page 11 of His Big Holiday Firefighter (Bigger Is Best #2)

CHAPTER TEN

Noah and I arrived at the community center, our arms full of supplies and my breath a puff of white in the December air. The parking lot was already filling up with contestants and spectators, a low hum of excitement buzzing around us.

“Ready?” Noah asked softly as we approached the entrance. His voice carried that gentle steadiness that had become my anchor. His hand brushed my lower back, a touch that somehow was both grounding and electrifying.

Inside, the space had been transformed into a competitive baking arena. It wouldn’t put any television shows to shame, but I was still impressed. If there were two things Pine Ridge took seriously, it was Christmas and baking.

Individual stations were set up in a horseshoe pattern, each equipped with professional-grade equipment that gleamed under the bright lights.

Holiday garlands and twinkling lights softened the typically utilitarian space.

The air already carried the scent of competition, and the future reward of dozens of sweet holiday confections.

At the judges’ table sat Mrs. Henderson, resplendent in a colorfully bright holiday sweater that could probably be seen from space, and Mayor Thompson in her trademark red blazer. And, to my complete surprise, my former pastry instructor from culinary school.

“Chef Liu?” I blinked, my professional posture automatically straightening. “What are you doing here?” My brain caught up to my mouth. “Uh, wait, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m just surprised to see you.”

The elegant woman smiled, though her eyes remained as sharp as ever.

“Your grandmother invited me every year. Sadly, I wasn’t able to attend.

I thought it was time I finally accepted.

” Her gaze took in how close Noah and I stood, how our movements unconsciously mirrored each other. “Good luck, you two.”

We found our station, put on the festive competition aprons that had been provided, and set up.

We fell into the easy rhythm we’d perfected over the last few days.

I measured ingredients with practiced precision while Noah preheated our ovens and organized our workspace.

His firefighter’s efficiency translated perfectly to kitchen prep.

“Bakers!” Mayor Thompson’s voice carried over the growing crowd, bright with holiday enthusiasm. “Welcome to the 50th Annual Pine Ridge Christmas Cookie Competition! This year’s challenge: create three different cookies that tell a story of home.”

My hands stilled on the mixing bowl, the metal cool against my suddenly warm palms.

Home.

A week ago, that word had meant my sterile apartment in Seattle and my job. Now...

Noah’s hand covered mine, warm and slightly callused. “Hey. We’ve got this. Just like practice, but with better lighting.”

Mayor Thompson shouted, “Contestants ready?”

I glanced at the absurdly handsome man standing next to me. There was no one else I’d rather be doing this with.

Noah gave me a playfully confident wink.

“Ready, set... bake!”

We started with Nai Nai Lee’s famous snickerdoodles.

I handled the spice mixture, carefully balancing the cinnamon and nutmeg, while Noah worked the butter to the perfect temperature.

His movements were confident and sure. We moved around each other like we’d been baking together for far longer than we had, anticipating each other’s needs without a single word.

The dough was quickly formed into balls, then rolled in the cinnamon mixture. The first batch went into the oven.

The second cookie was Noah’s creation: a maple-pecan shortbread inspired by winter nights at the fire station.

I watched in amazement as his powerful hands, capable of carrying people from burning buildings, shaped the dough with an artist’s touch.

Each cookie was garnished with a perfect pecan half, arranged just so.

That kind of attention to detail spoke of hours of practice and a genuine love for the craft.

But it was our third cookie that I was most proud of. We’d developed it together during late-night practice sessions, combining my technical precision with Noah’s intuitive creativity. A chocolate-ginger cookie with orange zest and a hint of cardamom. Complex, unexpected, and somehow perfect.

Kind of like us.

Halfway through our bake, disaster struck. The temperature gauge on our oven started fluctuating wildly, threatening to ruin our entire batch. I watched in horror as the digital display jumped between numbers.

“No,” I muttered, panic rising in my throat. “No, no, no?—”

I immediately switched into problem-solving mode, my eyes scanning the room. All the other competitors were busy at their stations. Not a spare oven anywhere.

“James.” Noah’s voice cut through my spiral, steady as always. “Remember what your grandmother always said about equipment?”

“Sometimes things break so you can learn to fix them,” I quoted automatically. The words were a balm.

“She used to say it every time I messed up something at the bakery. And trust me, I messed up plenty when I was starting out.”

Noah was already adjusting the oven’s controls with practiced ease, peering at the digital display as it flashed erratically. His firefighter’s knowledge of heating systems was proving unexpectedly valuable.

He kneeled, checking the settings, his brow furrowed in concentration. He squinted, noting it had stabilized for a second at a dangerously low reading. “This is definitely the digital gauge,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. “It’s probably a faulty connection.”

Before doing anything drastic, he opened the oven door just a crack, letting out a puff of warm, sugary air. He quickly checked the internal temperature sensor. Satisfied the cookies were still baking properly, he closed the door and reached for a small tool pouch he’d packed with our supplies.

“We’ll have to turn it off for just a second.”

He flipped the switch. I silently prayed the cookies would be okay.

With deft precision, he unscrewed the small side panel next to the digital display. “Sometimes it just needs a little reset.” He pulled out a couple of wires that were slightly loose. He reconnected them, and I felt the tension in my own shoulders ease as he tightened the screws back in place.

“Come on, come on,” he urged quietly. He reassembled the panel and flipped the power switch back on. The digital gauge blinked to life, then stabilized at the correct temperature. A smile of pure relief spread across his face as he glanced up at me. “See? Good as new.”

The weight on my shoulders vanished. “You did it.”

“Just a little experience and a lot of practice,” Noah replied, wiping his hands on his apron. “Now, let’s keep an eye on those cookies. They’ll need to come out soon, and I don’t want to lose this batch.”

I nodded, feeling a renewed sense of partnership as we worked side by side, the red numbers on the competition clock counting down.

“Time’s up!” Mayor Thompson shouted, and applause erupted from the sidelines.

We finished our bakes with moments to spare, arranging our cookies on vintage plates from the bakery.

The snickerdoodles gleamed with their signature sugar coating.

The shortbread offered a perfect golden hue, and the chocolate-ginger cookies filled the air with their complex aroma.

As we stepped back to survey our work, I felt something settle in my chest. Whatever the judges decided, Noah and I had created something beautiful together.

On to the judging.

I watched Chef Liu’s face for any hint of her thoughts as she tasted our cookies.

Her expression gave away nothing, though I could have sworn I saw her eyes widen slightly at the chocolate-ginger creation.

Mrs. Henderson’s poker face wasn’t nearly as practiced; she blissfully closed her eyes as she sampled them.

Mayor Thompson just took careful notes in her notebook.

Finally, after all the entries had been tasted and assessed, the judges conferred, their heads bent together in serious discussion.

The crowd held its collective breath, the holiday lights twinkling overhead in the suspended moment.

I felt Noah’s hand slip into mine, warm and steady and right.

Our fingers interlaced as naturally as our lives had begun to.

“The winners of this year’s competition,” Mayor Thompson announced, her voice carrying clearly, “will be announced after a short break.”

I barely heard the collective groan from the crowd. I was too busy watching Noah, how his smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, how he looked at me like I’d already won everything that mattered.

Maybe I had.