TASTING HER CHRISTMAS COOKIES

“The storyline is fun, cute, and filled with holiday charm. Drama, humor and plenty of emotions and steam will keep you entertained and immersed in this wonderful read.” –Gladys, Goodreads

“A fun and hilarious holiday rom-com!” –Socalgirl, Amazon

“If you enjoy a lot of funny with your contemporary romance then you will love and adore this book too.” –Nina, Goodreads

“Delightful holiday rom-com where opposites come together and generate steam!” –Margaret, Amazon

“Tasting Her Christmas Cookies includes all you could want for Christmas – holiday goodies, the man of your dreams, and sweet, sweaty sex with all the trimmings.” – Laura B., Proofreader, Red Adept Editing

“I just loved this book! This is a delightful holiday rom-com that will make you smile, laugh and melt your heart.” –Aunt G, Amazon

“This book could easily be a Hallmark or Christmas 24 film (if they have plenty of steam in them)! It has it all, the picturesque setting, the lovely and sexy Christmas story, the passion, drama and romance!” –Melinda, Goodreads

“I think I've found a new favorite author. Cheeky comments and sayings that will keep you laughing all the way!” –J, Amazon

Chapter 1

Holly

Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. My first Christmas memory is when my mom dropped me off at my grandmother's house then took off to find herself. Talk about being home for Christmas! The tiny 1950s-style bungalow was stuffed with all things yuletide: lights in every window, a nutcracker collection on the bookcase, and antique ornaments on the Christmas trees in every room. To six-year-old me, it was magical, though in hindsight it might have been veering dangerously into Hoarders territory.

Even more magical was how none of those decorations came down in January. The neighbors complained bitterly when Granny’s elaborate nativity scene lit up the sky in August. But my grandmother loved all things Christmas. Some might even call her a fanatic. Every six weeks, she even installed a whole new set of Christmas trees, supplied by her boyfriend, who owned a tree farm. Every night, I would drift off to sleep lulled by the blinking lights. That kicked off eight years of nonstop Christmas, and it was just the way I liked it. My grandmother and I baked cookies, decorated wreaths, and sang carols all day every day.

I didn't see my mother again until I was fourteen and my grandmother died. Granny and her Christmas tree farmer boyfriend were doing a raunchy role-play of Mr. and Mrs. Claus. She went with a smile on her face and cookie crumbs on her collar. Best way to go if you ask me. My mom missed the Christmas-themed funeral. I barely had time to pack all of my grandmother's decorations into a way-too-expensive storage unit before my mother dragged me back to her new husband and his deranged teen daughter.

They did not love Christmas. Instead of nonstop wholesomeness and baking Christmas goodies, it was nonstop drama revolving around my crazy stepsister, Amber.

I would be minding my own business, baking Christmas cookies and watching Holiday in Handcuffs in July, as one does, and Amber would storm into the kitchen, accusing me of trying to move into her territory because I dared to talk to some guy she liked. We had a group project, Amber, so I don't know, excuse me for trying to not flunk out of high school.

Ahem. Got a little carried away.

My stepfather regularly threatened to cancel Christmas when he would hear us arguing. One year he actually did, picking up the Christmas tree and throwing it out onto the street in a fit of teenage-girl-drama-fueled rage. He also threw out his back, prolonging the Christmas misery.

But my Christmas cheer would not be snuffed! As soon as I could, I escaped that house and into the money-burning embrace of culinary school. When you think about Christmas, what do you think of first? The presents? The twinkling lights? The happy families gathered around the fire? For me, it was the desserts. I loved the rich cakes, exquisitely decorated cookies, and homemade candy. Desserts were my specialty. I could make a buttercream so stable you could caulk a tub with it. My piecrusts would add years to your life, and I have been told my sugar cookies will cause a religious experience.

I wanted to be the next Christina Tosi with Milk Bar or Chloe Barnard with Gray Dove Bakery, but my big break as a dessert chef never happened. After graduation, I took a series of jobs at restaurants that were all horrible and awful in their own unique special way.

Somewhere around chopping my thousandth pound of onions to the tune of an angry chef screaming at the dishwashers, I realized I only had so many Christmases left—and I wanted to spend them baking. So I quit my job and started a subscription baking company. Every month, my subscribers received a beautiful box filled with yummy baked goods in the mail. I had a kick-ass Instagram account with beautiful photos. I was on my way to success!

And just to spoil it, yeah, turns out that wasn't a smart decision. I was up to my eyeballs in credit card debt before you could say “deck the halls.” I had started hemorrhaging money out of the gate. New York was expensive, and I was illegally subletting a bed in a studio apartment plus renting a shared kitchen space. My subscriber numbers were in the toilet, and I had had to resort to posting slightly raunchy photos on Instagram to generate any visibility. My costumes were starting to border on bodice ripping due to the amount of unpurchased desserts I ate. The topper on the Christmas tree? Someone had complained to code enforcement and we had all been evicted from the shared studio.

And lo on the third day of the month before Christmas did my true love give to me a mountain of debt, a failing business, and a Christmas stocking’s worth of broken dreams.

But I had one more cookie in my arsenal. I had managed to secure a spot in The Great Christmas Bake-Off. There was a huge payout for the winner, enough to wipe out my debts, including the payments I was behind on for the storage unit with my grandmother's Christmas decorations. Best of all, it came with housing.

It was a new Christmas season! This was my last chance, my big moment. I had to win the bake-off. Christmas and my grandmother's beloved holiday decorations were on the line.

“I am going to win The Great Christmas Bake-Off!” I yelled out. I was in front of a huge tower with a sign on top that said Quantum Cyber. It glowed against the grey winter sky. Some billionaire trying to overcompensate for his tiny Christmas package probably built the skyscraper. Still, it was going to be my home away from—well, basically just my only home for as long as I was in the bake-off.

A Goth girl was leaning against the door inside the sterile lobby space, inspecting the black polish on her nails. She let out an exaggerated sigh when I walked into the building, dragging all my worldly possessions behind me on a trolley.

“Once again we come to the worst holiday season,” my friend Morticia said. People always found her strange and a little scary. And once you got to know her… you realized your first impressions were in fact correct.

“Santa's going to bring you a lump of coal,” I said, hugging her.

“Better coal than anything related to the Christmas bake-off,” she complained. “You should see these people. You better win every round so I'm not stuck here by myself!”

“How's your decorating job going?” I asked her as she picked up one of the bags that was listing on the tower of boxes on the cart.

“I'm a serious artist. The only reason I'm here wasting my talents is because Penny McCarthy wanted me to help her with the Vanity Rag videos. They're partnering with the bake-off.”

“How's your foster sister?”

“Snagged herself a billionaire. She's very proud,” Morticia replied dryly.

I followed Morticia to the bank of elevators. She pulled a key card out of a purse shaped like a spider. If Christmas was my holiday, Halloween was Morticia's. She even had extra black lipstick on to combat all the Christmas cheer floating around.

“I can't believe I made it through,” I said as the elevator took us to the 95^th floor of the building.

“It's because of your Instagram account. Seriously, Santa is bringing you clothes and a Bible for Christmas,” she said, adjusting the spiky choker she was wearing.

“My Instagram account brings in a lot of subscribers for the Taste My Muffin baking box,” I retorted.

“I'm sure, especially seeing that sexy pilgrim outfit you posted yesterday on Thanksgiving.”

“Hey, I got a hundred new subscribers thanks to that picture. All the boys want to buy my baked goods.”

Morticia smirked. “They're paying to taste your cookies.”

Chapter 2

Owen

Christmastime—darkness, death, holiday parties. Thanksgiving wasn't even over—I still had leftovers in my fridge—yet here I was at the season's first holiday party. It was for the kickoff of TechBiz magazine's annual ranking of the best technology companies to work for. The magazine was trying to stir up press for the competition. The rankings were big news in the business world. But why it had to be rolled into a Christmas party was beyond me.

It was a typical generic corporate Christmas party. Here was the spread of cured meats and cheese, there a punch bowl of warm eggnog.

“Do you want a sip?” a woman in a tailored skirt suit asked, slinking up to me.

“No, thank you, Sloane.”

“You know I’m on the selection committee,” she said craftily, drifting her manicured fingernails up my suit jacket sleeve. “Maybe if we have a repeat of our date from a few months ago, I could put in a good word for you.” She licked her lips.

I tamped down a shudder. I'd gone on one date with Sloane six months ago, and she hadn't left me alone since. Thankfully, Evan Harrington, whose hedge fund owned the magazine, stepped up onto the stage.

“They're about to start the presentation,” Sloane said, turning to leave but not before her hand brushed dangerously close to my belt buckle.

“You sure you don't want to give her another shot?” Walker, my chief operations officer joked, nudging me as he returned from the snack table. “You're getting older.”

“I’m not that old,” I hissed as Evan clinked his glass for our attention.

“Your younger brother Jack is going to be engaged any day now,” Walker whispered back. He was a Svensson. There was an excessive number of them, and they were all brothers—or half brothers in some instances—and they were all obnoxious, from the smallest, cutest little boys to the biggest, meanest Svenssons, who currently had a sizable portion of my company by the balls. Greg and Hunter Svensson had originally invested in my company and owned a large percentage of it. I tried to give them a wide berth.

“At the very least, she could give Quantum Cyber good marks in the contest,” Walker said out of the side of his mouth. “Greg's not happy with the recruiting numbers. He and Hunter are afraid we're going to lose our edge.”

“We're not losing our edge,” I hissed back. A server came around with desserts. I waved her away. I was not a sweets person. Walker took two of the mini donuts covered with chocolate frosting and red and green sprinkles.

“Thank you all for coming,” Evan said into the microphone. “We like to think the TechBiz list of the best places to work in the tech industry makes or breaks companies. Recruitment season for this year's graduates is starting in a couple of months. Ninety-nine percent of grads say that they use our detailed write-up and ranking system to decide which companies to accept an offer from or to even bother applying to. It's also used when smaller start-ups decide to sell. So put your best foot forward! I hear Holbrook Enterprises is the company to beat!”

We applauded politely as Walker and I glared over at the Holbrooks in the corner. Holbrook Enterprises had been at the top of the list the last two years, while my company had ranked tenth. Tenth!

“You'd think paying people a shit ton of money would be enough, but you would be wrong,” I said, glowering.

“People want atmosphere and a nice place to work,” Walker said, grabbing a mini cupcake off a tray. “They want fun activities, Christmas parties, nice food, and a CEO they feel like they could have a beer with.” I did not score well on any of those counts.

“You're just very frosty, Owen, get it? Because Frost is your last name?” Walker said, elbowing me in the ribs. See what I said about Svenssons? Obnoxious.

I spent the rest of the party pretending to be nice to my competitors and avoiding Sloane.

“Man, you go on one date with a woman in this city and it's like you agreed to marry her,” I complained to Walker under my breath.

“It's the population disparity. There are more women than men who are young professionals. It's flipped in San Francisco. Women are very territorial in Manhattan,” Grant Holbrook said loudly, swaggering over, arm around his wife, Kate. She looked up at him in bemusement then hugged me and Walker.

“Merry Christmas!”

Grant’s cousin Carter yawned beside him. “This party is boring. Holbrook Enterprises has a bomb-ass Christmas party planned. My wife—”

“You two literally are not even engaged,” Grant interjected.

“If I say it out loud, one day it will be true,” Carter said sagely. “She's got a ton of Christmas-themed cocktails planned.”

“You guys shouldn't even bother applying,” Grant said to me in that casual asshole way the Holbrooks had. “I have a Christmas wish list of companies I want to buy, and I think Santa’s going to bring me everything I want.”

***

“Honestly, I don't know how Grant manages to function given that he has to haul around his massive fucking ego,” Walker slurred. He had snuck a huge container of the boozy eggnog out of the party and almost sloshed it on me as we got into my luxury sports car. I would also have bet good money Walker had Christmas cookies wrapped in a napkin snuffed in his pocket. My COO had a sweet tooth.

My only vice was fast cars. In my tower, I had a whole floor of them. Usually I was too busy to drive them, but sometimes, late at night, when the roads were clear, I would take them out, zipping down the long avenues or out into the countryside.

My COO pulled a Christmas cookie out of his coat pocket, showering me with crumbs. I sighed. “I'm already ready for Christmas to be over.”

“Buckle up, Blitzen, because we are just getting started!”

I dropped Walker off at his condo building then drove home to the Quantum Cyber tower. My offices were in two-thirds of the building; the rest of the floors contained one of Archer Svensson’s hotels. Several condos were also part of the hotel. I owned three of them.

I loved my penthouse. It occupied three stories, with a sick roof deck and a master suite that was bigger than most Manhattan apartments. So sue me. I liked nice things.

To combat all the sweetness from the holiday party, I opened the fridge and pulled out my Thanksgiving leftovers. One thing I would say for the Svenssons: they could throw a good Thanksgiving. Or rather, their girlfriends could. Corn-bread stuffing, deep-fried turkey, green bean casserole—I snacked on it as I went upstairs to the master suite.

Curious. The bathroom light was on. Usually I was particular about turning the lights off. Maybe the holidays were starting to mess with my brain.

The room was hot. I threw open all the French doors to the balcony. It was way too warm; I usually kept the penthouse just warm enough so the pipes wouldn’t freeze. I started to undress, stripping down to my boxer briefs, ready for an ice-cold shower. Cold water was better for one’s health. I hung my pants on a hanger that had been lying on the bed. Also curious. Usually I didn't leave the hangers strewn about the room. I was about to pull the boxer briefs down when I realized there was someone in the room with me.

Chapter 3

Holly

I was huffing and puffing as I pushed the trolley into the private elevator lobby.

“Man, I need to cut down on the holiday treats!”

“Don't blame the holidays. You've been stress eating since March,” Morticia said. I stuck my tongue out at her.

“Not that it doesn't look good on you, though your Christmas mugs do runneth over,” she said, gesturing to my chest then helping me roll the trolley over the hardwood floors. “Gunnar Svensson, one of the show's producers, thinks people will love you. I really talked you and your baking boxes up to Penny. She wants to do a special for the Vanity Rag. She's basically running things over there. Good thing, especially since Evan Harrington is a moron.”

“He's rich and handsome!”

“And engaged to a harpy.”

“This is the place where the contestants are staying?” I said in awe when we walked into the penthouse. It was huge!

“Vanity Rag doing a web special on decking the penthouse halls,” Morticia explained as we went back to heaving the cart. “I need to buy decorations.”

I had a flash of an apocalyptic holiday scene—black snow, a burned tree, a weeping angel—it would look like The Nightmare Before Christmas.

“I'll come with you to help pick out décor,” I said hastily.

“Good choice,” Morticia replied.

“This penthouse is nuts.” I said, trying not to drool. “There is an actual staircase! I can wrap it in garland, real garland that smells like pine, with cranberries, big white ribbons, and fairy lights!”

Morticia smirked and tucked a strand of her long black hair behind her ear, showing the piercings. “I knew you would want to jizz Christmas all over this place.”

“How is Romance Creative able to afford all this?” I asked her.

“They worked out some deal with the tower owner to film The Great Christmas Bake-Off here,” Morticia said, sauntering into a large living room. It was fancy but bare.

“I hope this is on the list to be decorated.”

“Of course,” Morticia said.

“And no skeleton reindeer or creepy elves on the shelf,” I added.

“The elf on the shelf is not creepy!”

I froze. The voice that haunted my Christmas nightmares—Amber.

“Heya, sis,” she said, sauntering down the stairs.

I glared at her. “Don't tell me you're part of the bake-off. No. I literally cannot have this. You ruined enough Christmases for me. I cannot take another!”

When I went off to culinary school, Amber had decided that she would go to culinary school too. I did my best to avoid her, but I believed in spending the holidays with family, even if it killed me, so I had to see her over breaks. At the very least I didn't have to work with her at my various restaurant jobs.

“You always do this!” I yelled at her, “You stalk me and try to ruin my life! It's just like culinary school when you flirted with the dean so he would give you my schedule so you could take the same classes as me.”

“I'm not here for you. I'm here to snag a billionaire,” she said, admiring her freshly manicured nails. “Rumor has it one of the Frost brothers is going to be a judge. Chloe landed Jack Frost last year. Now I want my own billionaire too. I even adjusted my look,” she said, fluffing her hair, which she had dyed a peroxide blonde.

“Gag,” Morticia said.

Amber glared at her. “Naturally, Holly, you would be friends with the queen of the dead.”

I stepped between them before Morticia could plant her heavy boot in Amber's face.

“Don't you dare try to steal my man,” Amber warned me. “You were always trying to steal my boyfriends.”

“No I wasn't. I literally was not trying to steal any of those crusty males you were stalking. You have the worst taste in men.”

“Liar!” Amber hollered.

“I cannot even believe I’m having this conversation. St. Nick, give me strength! I am almost thirty. I am not acting like a teenager around you. I refuse!” I said, throwing up my hands.

Amber flounced away.

Morticia gave a black-eyeliner stare at Amber's back. “She was picked to add drama, so I've heard.”

“Which means she's going to be here for the majority of the competition.”

“Yep.”

“Great. Just great. I need a drink.”

“Do you want a white Christmas or a red Christmas?” a fun-looking girl with a pixie cut asked, holding up a bottle of wine in each hand.

“Just put an IV of each in each arm, please, spirit of Christmas alcohol,” I said, following her to the couch, where she had glasses laid out.

The girl laughed. “I’m not a Christmas spirit, just Fiona!”

“Good enough for me!” I said as she filled the glasses.

“To Christmas baking!” We clinked glasses.

“I couldn't help but overhear,” Fiona said to Morticia, “but are you the one who got us all private rooms?”

“Morticia has ways,” I said.

“Thank every spirit of Christmas. I've done another competition like this, and we were four to a room. One person got sick, and it spread like wildfire,” Fiona said.

“And that's why I insisted we use a huge penthouse,” Morticia replied, sipping the dark-red wine. I'd never seen her drink white. “I did make sure Holly got the best room, though if I'd known how cool you were, I'd have made sure you got the second best,” Morticia continued.

“What I have is actually bigger than my entire apartment in Manhattan that I shared with two other people, so namaste,” Fiona said, making a little bow.

“For what it's worth, Amber did get the worst room.” Morticia smirked.

“I'll drink to that!”

***

Morticia hadn’t been lying, I decided later, after Fiona had helped drag my bags and boxes upstairs to the master suite. At least, I assumed that was what it was, because if it was just a normal bedroom, the actual master suite might make me spontaneously combust. The suite was enormous and luxurious. My toes sank into the carpet of the private sitting room, which led into the bedroom. A king-size bed was centered along a wall facing a set of French doors that led to a private balcony that looked out over the Manhattan skyline. There was a huge plush robe in the walk-in closet. I stripped down and put it on then walked into the master bathroom and just about died.

“Totally decorating this for Christmas,” I said, switching on my phone. I needed to do an Instagram story for my measly number of followers. They were a small but dedicated fan base. Instagram had been propping up my existence for the past year. At first, it was supposed to be all baking. Then I started filming myself in cute outfits baking. I felt a little dirty, but then most of the messages were nice. A few were creepy, but I blocked the senders. None of the guys seemed normal enough to risk swapping messages with.

“We are having a Christmas bath scene in the near future,” I said to the camera, “with holiday bath bombs and themed cocktails. But unfortunately, it won't be tonight. The bake-off starts tomorrow, baking fans!”

I looked longingly at the bathtub. Then, making sure the phone was definitely not recording, because I did not need to be that kind of Instagrammer, I took a quick shower. I seriously could not get over how huge the bathroom was. I could live in it. With a toaster and a mini fridge, I would totally be good.

After wrapping myself in the robe, I tied a T-shirt around my hair. I had frizzy hair on a good day; keeping my curls manageable was a perpetual struggle. I applied a gingerbread-cookie-scented moisturizer while my videos uploaded. Because I was busy scrolling through my phone and answering comments as I came out of the bathroom, I didn't notice the half-naked man until he swore.

I looked up and screamed.

“Help! Help! Stalker!” I shrieked and ineffectively pointed at the stranger. Between the rippling muscles, the washboard abs, and an ass I could bounce a quarter on, I hoped he wasn't actually here to hurt me, because he could do some damage. Pointing and shrieking wasn't going to stop him. Fortunately, he looked more shocked and horrified than angry and violent.

“Stop screaming!” he bellowed. A freezing breeze blew into the room. It was as if the man had brought the rage of winter into the master suite with him. He looked like it, too, with his ice-blue eyes and silver-white hair. “This is my penthouse. You are not authorized to be here. That makes you the stalker!”

I stopped screaming. It clearly wasn't helping anything. I also couldn’t help but notice that the bathroom wasn't the only thing that was huge in the room. With him wearing nothing but boxer briefs, I could tell Santa had brought the handsome man a very large Christmas package indeed. The breeze blew in from the balcony, swirling the strange man's clean and masculine scent around the room. I forced myself to ignore it.

“Get out of my house,” Big Christmas Package said flatly.

“You get out!” I shrieked. “I'm a bake-off contestant. This isn't your room!”

“What the—” he grabbed his clothes, tugging on his pants. “The Great Christmas Bake-Off? I cannot have Christmas invading every element of my life. This is ridiculous. Christmas is ridiculous. It's such a stupid, childish holiday.” He punctuated his words by snatching up articles of clothing.

“Hey now!” I said, hands on my hips, fear subsiding. “Christmas is never ridiculous. It's the best holiday ever. And if you can't see that, well then, you’re just a grinch, aren’t you?”

He advanced on me. I was suddenly very aware of how large he was. Christmas package notwithstanding, this dude was tall, broad shouldered, with rippling muscles. He could probably split me in two.

Yes, please.

“You're some stupid little baker who never outgrew the childish fantasy of Christmas,” he sneered.

My nose was inches away from his chest. He glowered down at me. I was too angry to be aware of his half-naked body. Okay, maybe I was like fifteen percent aware. But the majority of my energy was focused on being offended on behalf of Christmas.

“Don't insult baking,” I said, giving him my best “I want to speak to the manager vibe,” though it was ruined by the fact that I had to crane my neck up to see him and that I was completely naked under the robe. “And never insult Christmas!”

His nostrils flared slightly.

“Men like you constantly belittle the work that women do to keep cultural traditions like Christmas alive,” I continued, poking him in the chest.

“We decorate homes to make them cozy.”

Poke.

“We cook holiday dinners and bake festive desserts.”

Poke.

“We host parties that bring families and friends together.”

Before I could poke him again, he grabbed my hand in his much-larger one. Then, realizing what he’d done, he quickly released it.

“I will not stand for your bad attitude!” I declared.

He glared down at me, strong jaw clenched, eyes cold as a frozen lake. “I can't even believe this,” he finally snarled. He grabbed his briefcase and stormed out, still shirtless.

“Oh my God!” Fiona exclaimed, wide-eyed, as she ran into the room. She hugged me then pushed me to sit on the bed. “Are you okay? Who was that? Why was he in here? Someone call the police!”

“I knew it! You're trying to steal my boyfriend,” Amber yelled at me, rushing into the room. “That’s Owen Frost, and he's mine!”

Chapter 4

Owen

What was that girl doing in my bedroom? I fumed as I stalked out of the penthouse. I paced around in the elevator lobby. I was still shirtless. I didn't even have my shoes on. The elevator dinged, and the doors opened.

“Look who's back!”

“Belle?” I said.

My older sister leaned casually against the wall of the elevator. She had my coloring, and though she didn't quite have my height, she was still tall. When we were kids, she would be the one to take care of me and my younger brothers because my own mother couldn’t be bothered. She had disappeared for several years and shown up again last Christmas. My brothers and I were all afraid she would leave again one day. Therefore we would do anything and everything to keep her happy.

Belle, of course, knew this, and like any big sister, she took full advantage. I had decided she enjoyed seeing how far she could push us.

Belle smirked. “Is that how you decided to introduce yourself to the contestants? You're going to be a very distracting judge,” she said, motioning me inside the elevator.

“I am not judging. And where are all my clothes?” I asked as she pressed the button for the floor below.

“In your other condo,” she said.

“You moved all my stuff?”

“We needed the bigger condo for The Great Christmas Bake-Off. You're one single man. You don't even have a girlfriend. There's no reason for you to own such a large penthouse.”

“But I need it!” I protested as I slipped on my shirt.

My sister glared at me over her shoulder. “I think you'll just have to survive in the two-story condo with the custom marble accents for the next four weeks.”

“We agreed that Romance Creative could have one of the unused lower level floors for the studio space and the smaller condo for the contestants' housing. My penthouse wasn't anywhere in the negotiations,” I grumbled.

“Well, they can't live here,” Belle said as I followed her into the condo she had been staying in the past few months.

Dana Holbrook and Gunnar Svensson, the owners of Romance Creative, the reality-TV production company behind the bake-off, were at the dining room table.

“There's our judge!” Dana exclaimed. I glowered at her. She smirked.

“No,” I said flatly. “I have squatters in my penthouse. They're probably up there making cupcakes and gingerbread houses. I refuse to be a judge.”

“But I already promised the advertisers there was going to be a Frost brother,” Penny McCarthy said, smiling up at me. She was Garrett Svensson’s girlfriend and had organized the Thanksgiving feast we’d had yesterday. Garrett could be vindictive at the best of times. I was sure he wasn't happy his girlfriend had immediately gone back to Manhattan to work. Best to tread carefully. I didn't need Garrett Svensson on my case.

“Seriously, you're going to try and convince me to be a judge after I had to listen to your obnoxious cousins at that horrible TechBiz holiday party?” I said to Dana.

“Vanity Rag needs a Frost brother,” Penny interjected.

“Surely you would rather have someone with baking experience,” I said.

“I've been running analyses,” Penny said, “and our magazine will have an estimated forty-percent-higher engagement if you're in the bake-off.”

“Just do it,” Belle coaxed.

“Will I get a cut of that profit?” I grumbled.

Dana raised an eyebrow. “I'm on a group chat with my cousins and brother, and they were all crowing about how a Holbrook was going to be on top of the TechBiz list. Again. I believe,” she said, scrolling through her tablet and pulling up the previous year's list, “that your company was not given high marks for coolness, approachability of their CEO, and bonding experiences.”

“How about,” Penny said, looking up at me, “if we throw you guys a holiday party! That would really put you on the map.”

“I don't know if the bake-off is really the demographic we go after,” I said. “We recruit women, yes, but our employees mainly consist of stereotypical tech bros.”

“Yes,” Penny said, “but their girlfriends and their moms love The Great Christmas Bake-Off. When the programmers are thinking about where to apply for a cushy tech job, if their mom or girlfriend is like, 'We really love Owen!' that's good for you.”

“Do you want to be on top of the list, or do you want to be at the same party next year while my cousins act like obnoxious toddlers bragging about who got the bigger ice cream cone?” Dana asked.

“Take it from me,” Gunnar said. He had longish blond hair and always reminded me of a stoner. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Is it really that desperate?”

But I did need to win. Greg and Hunter Svensson, who were big investors in my company, had been on my case at the last board meeting about recruitment, talent retention, and staying competitive. At the very least, this might show them I was doing something. And Belle clearly wanted me to. I owed her big-time for what had happened.

“Fine, I'll do it.”

“Of course you'll do it!” Belle retorted.

“Contest starts bright and early tomorrow morning. Wear something sexy!” Dana called out as I went to my smaller condo.

As I showered, I thought about the girl I had surprised. If she was one of those obnoxious Christmas lovers, she and I were not going to get along.

I scowled at my reflection in the mirror.

I forgot my Thanksgiving leftovers.

I really did hate Christmas.

Chapter 5

Holly

Morticia's voice blared through a megaphone, waking me out of a very pleasant dream. There was an ice prince, shirtless, of course, who looked very similar to the handsome stranger who had been in my bedroom last night.

His name is Owen.

“First day of the bake-off, people. You will be on camera. Make sure your makeup looks nice and you're wearing something decent,” my friend announced.

I yawned, crawling out of the giant bed. The handsome guy had said it was his bedroom. Did he sleep in this bed? Did he do other things in this very bed?

The door swung open; the megaphone shrieked. “You have half an hour,” Morticia told me.

“I can't do my hair in thirty minutes!” I yelled, running into the bathroom. My hair was a rat's nest. That was what I got for going to sleep with it not completely dry.

Morticia brought me a coffee while I pinned up the frizz as best I could and threw on my comfy shoes. She looked down her nose.

“I'm sorry, did you not hear me when I said you're going to be on TV?” She went into my closet and pulled out a red sweater dress, a push-up bra, and heels.

“I can't wear that! I need my Crocs and my sweatpants!” I complained.

Morticia looked nonplussed. “I thought you were trying to use the bake-off competition to increase your Instagram presence and get people to buy—” she sighed “—baking boxes. You can't look like a homeless person.”

She stuck the dress out to me. “Put this on. Friends don't let friends go on camera with sweatpants and saggy boobs.”

***

I compromised with Morticia on the high-heeled shoes, instead opting to wear black tennis shoes. If I tried wearing those heels in the kitchen, I was going to trip, fall, and break my neck trying to take a cake out of the oven.

As soon as I put the dress on, I realized that it wasn't large enough to hold both me and all the cake I'd been stress eating the past few months.

“Time to bake,” Morticia said from the doorway.

Too late to change. I ran to the elevator.

“I look like a mess,” I complained to my friend, adjusting the dress in the reflective paneling in the elevator and slathering makeup on the bags under my eyes.

“You need another coffee,” Morticia said, stabbing more bobby pins into my frizzy hair. “And considering that your last Instagram post was you in way less clothing, eating a cupcake, I feel like you're overreacting. Sex sells baked goods.”

When I walked into the studio space, it felt like Christmas. I was immediately hyped. For all her acerbic anti-Christmas comments, Morticia was a good artist, and the decorated space was warm and festive without feeling cheesy. There were garlands and lights strung around the perimeter of the large studio. The palette was whites and golds, with pops of dark reds. It felt like everything had been dusted lightly with powdered sugar. Brighter lights shone over each baking station. I rummaged through the boxes under my table. We each had a set of the high-end Platinum Provisions cooking tools. I whistled. This was thousands of dollars' worth of stuff.

Dana Holbrook and Gunnar Svensson, the producers, were talking to a tall, willowy woman at the front of the room. I recognized her as Anastasia, the host of the show and owner of the Whimsical Dining blog. Dana nodded as she and Gunnar walked off the set. They looked up to the front of the room. The camera guy signaled, and the willowy woman smiled brightly.

“Welcome to the second season of The Great Christmas Bake-Off. Just like last year, this contest is all about the bakers, the desserts, and of course, Christmas! We don't believe in gimmicks. The contestants have hours, sometimes a full day, to complete their desserts. Also, like last year, we have a fantastic panel of judges. Anu and Nick are back! Anu Pillai, a chocolatier and baker from Li'l Masa bakery in NoLiTa. Then we have Nick Mazur, a pastry chef and restaurant owner with businesses all over the New York area. Finally, we have Owen Frost, founder and CEO of Quantum Cyber. He does not do any baking, but he's very good-looking, so here he is!”

OMG. That was the guy who had been in my-slash-his room the night before. He sat at the reclaimed-wood judges’ table, back straight, wearing a dark-navy suit that made his hair and icy-blue eyes pop. Something else down in the South Pole was popping too. I must really be going through a dry spell if I was freaking out over some guy who said he hated Christmas.

I internally flipped out. Did he recognize me? I really wished I had changed my outfit now. I must look like a drugged-out stripper.

You are not Amber. You are not going to freak out over some egotistical billionaire, I chanted to myself as Anastasia continued to talk about the rules of the competition. Owen scowled as he surveyed the contestants.

I forced myself to concentrate. Think of the prize money! Think of the debt you're going to pay off! Don't get distracted.

“The first challenge,” Anastasia said, “is the Shimmy Down the Chimney Challenge. You have until this afternoon to create a fun, festive dessert that's tasty enough to make reindeer dance and Santa shimmy on down the chimney!”

I'd like Owen to shimmy down my chimney.

But he was watching Anastasia. I sighed. She was willowy and pretty, with a curtain of chestnut hair. I bet Christmas-hating billionaire Owen goes for women like her.

I pulled at my skirt some more and adjusted my top. I seriously needed to cut back on the sweets. I looked up from adjusting my boobs. Right. I was on camera. Better stop touching myself inappropriately. Owen's gaze flicked in my direction. His eyes narrowed slightly.

I slept in your bed last night, I mouthed to him.

His eyes widened slightly, and he scowled.

“You're trying to steal him! I knew it!” Amber whined nasally. She had managed to worm her way to a station next to mine. “Owen is mine,” she continued. “I already have a bombshell Christmas dessert planned. Owen is going to come crawling for my sweets.”

“Whatever. You want some sort of Christmas-hating ice prince, fine with me,” I said, taking out the pans I would need for my dessert. “In fact, if you're chasing after Owen Frost, then I know something's wrong with him.”

I went to collect my ingredients. Amber and Owen could spiral into a descent of Christmas-ruining madness, but I was going to bake. I had the perfect dessert planned: chocolate pomegranate tarts. Chocolaty, rich, with a smack of pomegranate, they were a more adult Christmas dessert. It would be very sexy to eat a piece with a glass of wine by the fire, a Christmas tree softly blinking while you fed a bite to your paramour curled up beside you under a fur throw.

My pastry dough was perfect, if I did say so myself, and I could fill it with literally anything. In the pantry, I grabbed pomegranates, bricks of deep-brown chocolate, heavy cream, sugar, flour, and butter. I was planning on making several smaller tarts—not too small, because then it was all crust—but if they were too big, one might as well be eating chocolate pudding.

Using a food processor so as to not overwork the crust, I began cutting the butter into the flour. I was regretting wearing the sweater dress, which rode up whenever I raised my arms above boob height. I was also regretting not getting up earlier so I could shower. That clean, masculine scent from Owen's room clung to me; anytime I moved my hair, I could smell it. It was distracting.

“I can't believe I was in his bed. Did they even change the sheets before we arrived?” I muttered as I made the dough. “What if he sleeps nude? It would be like I was sleeping with him. Naked.”

I jumped when a man said behind me, “I assure you, I do not sleep naked.”