Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
Willow glances over her shoulder and turns back with a thoughtful expression. “Yes, that is his station. He borrowed a screwdriver from one of the organizers so he could slow down the churn speed on his machine. He’s doing a custard.”
Gigi pats my arm. “See there. It’s all good.”
“Well…” Willow tugs a lock of her hair.
“Well?” I prompt. “Has he been bothering you? If so, that face-smashing offer is still on the table.”
She shakes her head. “No, I was just…thinking about the fire at the last event. That hot plate that caught my apron wasn’t plugged in when I got to my station. I know because I checked to make sure I’d have enough room for my mixer and my submersion blender, and nothing else was plugged in. So maybe someone else plugged it in? And I’m not sure, but I think Hawley was the only other person who was ever behind the counter at my station. He was walking around—”
“Sticking his nose into everyone’s business,” I finish with a nod. “I saw that too. And I wouldn’t put sabotage past him. His moral fiber is about as firm as a cookie dunked in milk one too many times.”
Gigi hums beneath her breath. “Or graham crackers. They really do fall to pieces in a cup of milk.”
I glance down at her, a smile breaking across my face at the sight of my earrings glittering against her red curls. Even when I’m in the mood to smash faces, she just gets to me. She’s so damn adorable and beautiful and correct about graham crackers.
I tell her so, then add to Willow, “So be sure to check your station closely and don’t leave it unattended after you do. And Gigi and I have your back, of course.”
“Absolutely,” Gigi agrees.
“But if he did do that…why me?” Willow wonders, her brow furrowing as she fans her flushed face. “I’m not much of a threat.”
Gigi wags a finger her way. “Stop it. You came in second last time, woman! You’re a talent and a force to be reckoned with. If I were into winning via foul play, I’d totally sneak salt into your sugar canister.”
Willow smiles, but it’s almost immediately replaced by a grimace. “I’m going to go check my sugar and salt right now. Just in case.”
“Good thinking,” I say. “And good luck.” As she scurries off, I turn to Gigi and whisper, “Last chance to tell me to stand down. Speak now, or don’t be sad when my melted ice cream disaster is slightly less awful than your melted ice cream disaster.”
She grins and tips her head back. “Never. Hit me with your best shot, buddy, and I’ll see you after the judging.”
“See you soon,” I murmur, watching her move to meet the staff member approaching through the shaded tent.
For a moment, I dare to hope it might be cool enough in the shade to make a difference, but as my own helpful staff member shows me to my station, it becomes clear it’s actually more stifling under here. The flap on one side of the tent blocks the sea breeze—good for keeping sand out of our sweets, but bad for air flow.
Very bad.
By the time Mr. Skips has welcomed the onlookers and explained we’ll each have forty minutes to create our ice-cream inspired offering, the back of my shirt is sticking to my skin and I know modifications must be made. Removing my cufflinks and tucking them into my pants pocket, I roll up my sleeves and remove my vest, draping it over the stool at the back of my station.
I turn back to the shelves below my counter.
That’s when I see the red ice cream machine tucked behind the silver one on the top shelf. If I weren’t a good three feet away, I wouldn’t have noticed the second one, I’m sure. I would have snatched up the silver and gotten down to business. It’s going to take at least twenty-five minutes for the ice cream to freeze in the machine, after all, so there’s no time to waste getting my recipe assembled. And who would imagine there was more than one maker on offer?
Glancing around the stations as the other contestants set to work, I see that almost everyone seems to have a red or blue machine. No silver. And on the shelves in my line of sight, it appears each chef has only one maker to choose from.
Huh…
I crouch to arrange the machines side by side and glace quickly at the specs for each. The silver one is an older model and requires a pre-frozen bowl—a bowl that is presently sitting in the machine in the sweltering heat, nowhere close to frozen. If I’d put my base in there, I would have had a lightly chilled soup forty-five minutes later, not anything close to ice cream.