Abuelita has been gone for two years, but I sense her with me every time I cook. Gathering the ingredients for alfajores, I remember the holidays with all of us in the kitchen, making them together. I let my mind wander as I gather flour, cornstarch, baking soda, and baking powder to sift. It’s time to add a new segment to my channel. I need to recapture my current audience’s attention and reach out to new viewers. My numbers have leveled, and my views are starting to fall off.
That’s not a good place to be when this is my full-time job. The stress makes creating difficult, but I have to push past that. Because returning to Papa with my tail between my legs isn’t an option. I have a good chunk of money, but dipping into my savings account is a last resort.
“What do people want?” I ask, working through the things in my mind. “To be entertained, to learn, and to feel included. Inclusion.” A light bulb goes off on my head. That’s what I’m missing. I’ve said no to collaborations because I never had the time. I need to bring them into my world. Nailed It pops into my head, along with the “worst cooks ever” shows that have become popular. I’ve received dozens of emails asking me if I make house calls or give personal lessons. What if I did? I’d have to vet the person and keep them local while I work out all the kinks, but it could work.
I finish making the dough, wrap it in plastic, and set it in the fridge to chill.
Riding high off adrenaline, I return to the computer and pull up my email. I sort through the messages, letting my intuition guide me.
Subject: Did you know cookies can catch on fire? Unfortunately, I do.
The email jumps out at me. If this is clickbait, job well done. As I read, my eyes widen. This is straight out of a Christmas movie. My lips quiver, and a laugh bursts free. My eyes water as I howl with laughter. This poor woman has been through the wringer. She deserves a break. There’s no way I’d turn her away, even if I wasn’t looking to break into helping bakers out.
I just hope she’s willing to agree to my terms. It can be invasive having cameras in your home and sticking to a script. I’m going to make it my personal mission to turn her into a lean, mean, baking machine. When I’m done, the only tough cookie around will be her.
Chapter Two
Matilda
“Cookie lady!” The greeting dogs me as I move from the parking lot into the Wine and Cheese bar. I mentally curse Brittany out. She’s the one who penned the name on air. It stuck. She’s another gift that keeps giving. I step through the glass door and relax as the bright lighting bouncing off the light wood of the walls lifts my mood. The wood and lemon scent of what I think is their wood polish greets me. I spot Jordan at the bar and join her at the end, farthest from the door.
“If it isn’t our latest local celebrity.” She grins.
I scowl as I sink onto the stool beside her. “You’re supposed to have my back, Jordy.”
“I’m helping you make lemonade from lemons.”
“Yeah, and enjoying it a little too much.”
“I can’t help it. I’ve never known anyone famous before.” She clutches her non-existent pearls and flutters her strawberry-blonde lashes.
“Jackass.” I roll my eyes. After shrugging off my jacket, I spread it over the back of my chair.
“It made you smile, didn’t it?” She wiggles her eyebrows, cornflower-blue eyes twinkling merrily. She’s like an Irish faerie come to life.
I smooth my twitching lips into a straight line and glare. There’s no use encouraging her.
“Ha. You can’t hide anything from me, woman. I know you, and you love me.”
“I don’t know why.”
She pushes a glass of rosé toward me. “The charcuterie plate will be here shortly as well.”
“Okay, you’re working your way back up my good list.” I take a sip of the wine, sighing as it hits my tongue.
“So, tell me how we’re going to make the blonde fembot pay.”
I snicker. “Savage.”
“Don’t play nice. I know you haven’t forgotten Brittany’s parting dig about helping Clem.”
“She activated godmama bear, huh?” I’m amused.
“Damn straight. Now share your plan ’cause you’re too calm.”
“I’m going to make her eat her words at the bake sale. She’ll be there covering it, and I’m sure she’ll just have to taste mine.”
Jordan’s face falls. Her brow wrinkles, and her lips turn down at the corner. “That’s your plan? You do realize you almost burned down your house trying to bake a week ago, right?”