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Page 51 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

THE BAKE-OFF & BURNED EDGES

~MARIGOLD~

T he morning of the Harvest Pie-Off dawned crisp and clear, with the kind of golden autumn light that made everything look like it belonged on a postcard.

Marigold stood in front of her bedroom mirror, adjusting the cheerful yellow sundress she'd chosen for the occasion—something bright and cheerful that matched her unexpectedly buoyant mood despite yesterday's confrontation with Rowan.

The dress was simple but flattering, with cap sleeves and a full skirt that swirled around her knees when she moved, perfect for a day of baking and community celebration.

"Ready for this?" Gus had asked when he picked her up, his pink hair particularly vibrant in the morning sunlight as he leaned against his truck, grinning with the kind of infectious enthusiasm that made it impossible not to smile back.

"As ready as someone can be for their first small-town baking competition," she'd replied, adjusting the basket of supplies they'd assembled for their entry. "Though I still can't believe you talked me into this."

"You're going to love it," he'd assured her, his confidence unwavering as he helped her into the passenger seat. "The Harvest Pie-Off is one of Willowbend's finest traditions. Plus, I have it on good authority that we make an excellent team."

Now, standing at their assigned station in the town square—a folding table draped with cheerful gingham cloth and equipped with basic baking supplies—Marigold felt a flutter of nerves mixed with genuine excitement.

Around them, other teams were setting up their ingredients and equipment, the air buzzing with competitive energy and friendly chatter.

The whole town seemed to have turned out for the event, families spread on blankets in the grass, children running between the stations with sticky fingers and wide eyes.

"Ladies and gentlemen, bakers and taste-testers!" The announcer's voice boomed across the square through a somewhat crackling PA system. "Welcome to Willowbend's annual Harvest Pie-Off! Today, twelve teams will compete for the coveted Golden Rolling Pin and the title of Best Pie in the County!"

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause, the enthusiasm so genuine and wholesome that Marigold felt her own spirits lift despite her nervousness.

This was so different from the competitive atmospheres she was used to—instead of the cutthroat tension of ballet auditions or the calculated networking of city social events, this felt like a celebration of community, where winning was less important than participating and having fun.

"Each team will have exactly two hours to prepare and bake their entry," the announcer continued, his voice growing more theatrical with each word.

"At the end of that time, our panel of distinguished judges will taste each creation and award points for flavor, creativity, presentation, and that special something we like to call 'heart'! "

Gus nudged her with his elbow, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Heart is my specialty," he said with mock seriousness. "I've been practicing incorporating feelings into my baking for years."

"Is that your secret ingredient?" she asked, playing along with his theatrical tone. "Literal emotions?"

"Only the best ones," he confirmed solemnly. "Today's pie will be infused with joy, a touch of excitement, and just a hint of the butterflies I get when you smile like that."

The compliment, delivered with his characteristic blend of sincerity and playfulness, made her cheeks warm with pleasure. How did he manage to make even silly banter feel romantic and meaningful?

"Contestants, you may begin... now!" The announcer's shout was accompanied by the blast of an air horn that made several people jump and laugh.

Immediately, their station erupted into controlled chaos as they began assembling ingredients for their chosen recipe—a mixed berry pie with a lattice crust that Gus had suggested and Marigold had enthusiastically endorsed.

They'd practiced the recipe twice in his kitchen over the past week, perfecting the balance of tart and sweet, the consistency of the filling, the delicate weave of the pastry strips.

"Flour!" Gus called out like a surgeon requesting instruments, his movements efficient and practiced as he began preparing the dough.

"Flour, delivered!" Marigold replied with equal drama, measuring the ingredient with careful precision. "Sugar requested and standing by!"

Their teamwork was seamless from the start, each anticipating what the other needed almost before they needed it. When Gus needed space to roll out the dough, she was already stepping aside with the berry mixture. When she reached for the butter, he was handing it to her before she could ask.

"You know," she said as she carefully cleaned and sorted the mixed berries—blackberries, raspberries, and blueberries from Gus's own garden—"I never imagined I'd be doing something like this. Public baking competitions weren't exactly part of my life plan."

"Best things usually aren't planned," Gus replied, his hands working the dough with the kind of practiced ease that spoke to years of experience. "Sometimes the universe just drops perfect moments in your lap and all you can do is enjoy them."

As they worked, their conversation flowed as naturally as their collaboration, punctuated by bursts of laughter when one of them would make a dramatically exaggerated face at the timer or pretend to be overwhelmed by the "pressure" of competition.

The other teams around them seemed to be having similar experiences—friends and family members working together with varying degrees of skill and lots of good humor.

"Marigold," Gus said suddenly, his voice taking on a different quality that made her look up from the cinnamon she was measuring. "You know how beautiful you look right now?"

The unexpectedness of the compliment, delivered in the middle of their busy preparations, caught her completely off guard. "I'm covered in flour and berry juice," she protested, wiping her hands on the apron they'd brought. "I'm probably a mess."

"You're radiant," he said firmly, pausing in his work to really look at her.

"Especially when you're at peace like this.

It makes your eyes twinkle and your whole face glow with joy.

I don't think you realize it, but everyone can see it—this happiness that just radiates from you when you're doing something you love. "

The sincerity in his voice, the way he looked at her as if she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, made her breath catch in her throat.

She'd grown so accustomed to being valued for her technical skills or her ability to perform that being appreciated simply for existing in a moment of joy felt revolutionary.

"I think," she said softly, "this might be the first time in my life I've felt this... free. Like I can just be myself without worrying about judgment or expectations."

"That's because you're with people who love you for exactly who you are," he replied, returning to his dough with satisfied efficiency. "No performance required, no masks necessary. Just Marigold being wonderful at being Marigold."

The casual way he said love—not as a grand declaration but as a simple fact, as natural as observing the weather—made something warm bloom in her chest. Whether he meant romantic love or the deeper affection of chosen family, the word felt right coming from him, felt like something she could trust and believe in.

Their pie began taking shape with surprising speed and coordination.

The crust was perfectly tender, rolling out smooth and even under Gus's experienced hands.

The berry filling had achieved the ideal consistency—thick enough to hold together but not so dense as to overwhelm the fruit's natural flavors.

As they began the intricate process of creating the lattice top, their movements became even more synchronized, like dancers who'd rehearsed together for years.

"Under, over, under, over," Marigold murmured as she wove strips of pastry with careful precision, her ballet training translating unexpectedly well to the delicate finger work required.

"You're a natural at this," Gus observed, watching her technique with obvious admiration. "Look at those perfectly even strips, that beautiful pattern. It's like edible artwork."

The praise made her glow with pride, not because she needed external validation but because it came from someone whose opinion she genuinely valued. Gus's expertise in the kitchen was evident in everything he did, so his approval felt earned and meaningful.

As they worked on the final details of their lattice, disaster struck in the most innocent way possible. Marigold reached for the bowl of remaining berry filling just as Gus stepped backward to get a better view of their progress, and they collided with a soft thump that sent the bowl flying.

"Oh no!" she gasped, watching in slow-motion horror as purple-stained berries and their sweet juices arced through the air before splashing across both of them in abstract patterns.

But instead of frustration or anger, Gus burst into delighted laughter, his face now decorated with streaks of berry juice and his pink hair sporting a crown of actual blueberries. "Well, that's one way to add personality to our presentation!"

The sight of him standing there covered in fruit, grinning like this was the best possible outcome, struck Marigold as so absurdly wonderful that she started laughing too.

Not the polite, measured laughter she'd perfected for social situations, but the kind of full-body mirth that came from pure joy and the kind of freedom that allowed for beautiful disasters.

"We look ridiculous," she managed between giggles, noting the berry stains decorating her yellow dress like an abstract painting.