Bake. Love. Repeat.

A Maragret River Short Story

I often find my head filled with stories, little sparks that start from something simple. Like the smell of fresh bread or a quiet moment after a busy day. Bake, Love, Repeat came from one of those sparks: a what-if about rivalry, timing, and how sometimes the sweetest things in life aren’t on the recipe card.

Best enjoyed with a cup of tea and a pastry you definitely don’t plan on sharing!

Best, Sarah x

…

“Did you hear? Tom’s place is packed again.” Carol’s voice carried across the counter, bright with gossip and excitement. She was one of my regulars, first in the door every morning, always ready with the latest scoop before her book-club friends even found their seats.

I sighed, dusted flour from my hands, and braced myself. Nothing good ever started with that tone.

I’d been up since four, same as always. Some people meditated or surfed; I found my rhythm in the kitchen. My blonde hair was already escaping its bun, dusted with flour like I’d been caught in a snowstorm, and I was elbow-deep in dough, shaping loaves that would’ve made my great-grandmother proud when the chatter started.

The smell of yeast and coffee hung thick in the air, sunlight catching the flour dust that floated like snowflakes.

“His pastries are so unique,” Anna said, drawing the word out like it was scandalous.

“Matcha croissants. Avocado doughnuts,” Fiona added, shaking her head. “What’s next, kale lamingtons?”

I froze, knife mid-slice, and tried not to roll my eyes.

Tom’s café had only been open six months, but you’d think he’d invented baking itself. Every time I walked past Baked by Tom, all white tiles, polished concrete and smug little succulents in jars, it was full of tourists snapping photos like they’d stumbled across a shrine.

And I’ll admit it. I wasn’t thrilled.

A quick eyebrow raise, a tight smile. I kept my back to the trio, my hands working the dough. Their voices got louder as they kept talking.

“He’s entering the Margaret River Bake-Off next week,” Carol said, lowering her voice though everyone could still hear. “It’s all about tarts this year. Apparently, his entry is going to be something wild.”

My jaw tightened. “Yeah, well,” I muttered under my breath, “I’m sure a quinoa tart is just what everyone’s been craving.”

Tom didn’t get it. Baking isn’t about throwing chia seeds and buzzwords together.

It's about craft. Patience. Knowing your ingredients like they are old friends.

I went back to my loaves, kneading the dough with a little more force than necessary, letting my tension work itself out.

My family’s business, Rose’s Bakery has been around forever in Margaret River. My great-grandmother Rose started it, and it’s been the same ever since. Reliable, classic, the kind of bakery that smells like comfort itself.

Fresh bread and warm croissants fill the air before sunrise, the glass cabinets gleam with pastries you swore you wouldn’t touch, and the old bell above the door still rings every time someone steps in for their morning fix. It’s always just what you need.

She had a knack for everything: lamingtons that could start fights at the school fête, scones that never needed jam to taste good, and a vanilla slice so perfect it could make you forget your own name.

But when I hit eighteen, I started wondering if I was meant for more than vanilla slices and early mornings. So, naturally, I moved to France. Because what else does a small-town daughter of a baker do when she starts feeling restless?

I trained in Paris, worked in tiny patisseries in Lyon, learned how to fold butter into dough so precisely that chefs would weep. It was incredible, the smell of fresh brioche, the clatter of copper pans, the sweet sting of burnt sugar on your fingertips.

But somewhere between the éclairs and mille-feuilles, I started missing home.

When I finally came back, I was thirty-five, a little older, a little wiser, and a whole lot more sure of what mattered.

Now I run Rose’s Bakery the way my great-grandmother did, simple, honest, and made with love. Sure, I’ve added a few French touches here and there, but the soul of it hasn’t changed. I’m not interested in gimmicks or “experiments.” I’m interested in the kind of baking that feels like a hug.

I’ll leave the turmeric-infused, gluten-free croissants to others.

When I looked up, the gossiping trio was still at it, and the talk was still all about the Bake-Off.

“Are you entering this year, Lily?” Carol called out suddenly, pulling me back into the moment. Her tone was bright and innocent, but the gleam in her eyes said otherwise. “The Bake-Off’s going to be fierce, they say.”

I didn’t need reminding. Every year, the Bake-Off was the talk of the town. It was tradition, and tradition was my thing.

“Of course I’m entering,” I said, dusting my hands on my apron. “I always do.”

The trio exchanged quick looks, the kind you make when you’re trying not to look too eager for drama.

“Really?” Fiona said, one eyebrow raised.

“Absolutely,” I said, forcing a grin that probably looked more like a grimace. Inside, my stomach was tying itself into knots.

“Well,” Anna said, her lips twitching into a smile, “if anyone can give Tom a run for his money, it’s you.”

I nodded, aiming for nonchalance and probably missing by a mile. “Competition’s good. Keeps things interesting.”

They went back to their coffees, and I turned my attention to the loaves proofing near the window. Steam fogged the glass where the morning sun hit.

Honestly, I’d been baking tarts since I could barely reach the counter.

My lemon curd tart? It’s basically a local legend. People come from miles around just for a slice. It’s my go-to crowd-pleaser. And if I have to go up against Tom and his... unusual creations, well, fine. Guess I’ll just have to remind him what real baking looks like.

Okay, I know I sounded bitter.

But it was hard not to when Tom’s glossy storefront was pulling in tourists left and right, while half my regulars had been lured away by his promises of “modern” Australian pastries.

It wasn’t just that, though. It was the way everyone talked about him, like he’d somehow reinvented the wheel or cracked some secret code to baking.

If he thought he could stroll into the Bake-Off and walk away with the trophy, he was in for a rude awakening.

It wasn’t even about the title or the ribbon this year. No, this time, it was personal. It was about showing that good old-fashioned baking, real baking, still had a place in Margaret River, no matter how many Instagram-friendly pastries Tom was throwing around.

I grabbed my sourdough loaves, cradling them in my hands like they were the most precious things I had. I’d be entering the Bake-Off, and this time?

I was going to win.

…

I hadn’t meant to go, but I couldn’t help it.

Curiosity, or maybe a mild obsession with making sure no one could beat me at my own game, had me pulling into the back parking lot of Tom’s Bakery.

I wasn’t stalking him. Not at all. This was purely research.

Margaret River was one of those places where everyone knew everyone. The main street, lined with towering peppermint trees and a scattering of rustic buildings, felt like a place frozen in time, until Tom’s shiny new shop popped up.

 All minimalism and sleek design, with its glass windows and polished counters, a stark contrast to my warm, welcoming bakery with its worn wooden counters, mismatched furniture and the smell of freshly baked bread wafting out the door every morning.

I slid out of my car, adjusting my hoodie and popping on my oversized sunglasses, trying to act casual. The Baked by Tom sign gleamed brightly above the door, a far cry from the faded sign that had hung over Rose’s Bakery for decades.

The thought of my corner shop, fighting for customers against this fancy place made my stomach churn.

Alright, I told myself. Act naturally.

I slipped inside, careful to avoid eye contact with the barista at the counter. She had definitely seen me around town, and I didn’t want anyone to know I’d been here.

I crept down the side of the shop into narrow corridor that led to the kitchen, breathing in the faint, sweet smell of butter and sugar that hung in the air. There was something... too pristine about the place. Like no one had ever spilled flour or burned a batch in their life.

Just as I reached the doorway to the kitchen, I spotted him.

Tom, standing at the counter with an intense focus.

His dark hair was pulled back into a casual man bun at the top of his head, a few stray curls escaping to frame his face. He had an unruffled vibe, but somehow always looked stylish. He was the kind of guy who could even make an apron look cool.

His shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, showing off muscular arms covered in tattoos that looked more like art than ink.

I didn’t want to admit it, but... yeah. The guy was hot.

It only added to my irritation.

His back was to me, and for a moment, I thought about backing out.

I wasn’t actually a stalker, after all.

But I was a baker. And this was my competition.

I peeked in around the doorframe, trying to look like I belonged there.

Of course, that’s when I knocked something off the counter. It fell onto the floor with a small ‘clink’, but in a quiet kitchen, it felt like a siren going off.

Tom spun around so quickly, I thought he might’ve cracked his neck in the process. His gaze locked onto me, and for a moment, I was convinced he was going to toss me out the back like some trespassing thief.

But instead, he just stared. Then, with a slow, slightly mischievous smile, he raised an eyebrow. "Well, well. If it isn’t Margaret River’s most famous baker. Lost?"

I froze, trying to come up with something witty. "Uh, I was just... admiring your kitchen," I said, pointing at the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He raised both eyebrows. "Admiring? Or... snooping?"

I blinked. “Snooping? No. Just, you know, looking.”

He chuckled, clearly seeing right through my act. "Sure you are. Looking... at my tart recipe."

I could feel the heat creeping up my neck.

Brilliant. Exactly the composed professional look I was going for.

But I didn’t want to backpedal.

Not now.

He gestured to the tart he was working on. “You want to try a bite?”

I hesitated.

Honestly, I really didn't want to give him the satisfaction. But I was also very curious.

"Try it?" I echoed, feigning disinterest. " I mean, I guess I could... if you need some feedback."

Tom gave me a knowing look. “I promise, you’re going to like it.”

I sighed. “Fine.”

He handed me a plate with a piece of the tart, and I took a tentative bite.

And damn.

I wasn’t expecting to taste something that made me pause. The base wasn’t like anything I’d ever had before, there was a deep, nutty flavour to the crust, almost smoky. It didn’t taste like normal pastry at all.

And the filling? It was some kind of citrus-y, tangy mix that I couldn’t quite place. It was sharp, but in a good way. Definitely not lemon.

I took another bite, trying to figure it out.What the hell was that? It was... good.

"That's bush lime," Tom said, his eyes twinkling with that too-sure-of-himself look I was starting to really dislike. “Gives it a bit of a kick, doesn’t it?”

Bush lime? I’d never even heard of that. "Bush lime," I repeated, like I’d just bitten into something from another planet.

He nodded, clearly pleased with himself. "Yep. It grows wild around here. The local Indigenous peoples have been using it in cooking for thousands of years. Adds a little punch. And the crust? Wattleseed. Adds texture and richness."

I paused, taking it in.

There was definitely something enticing about it, the idea that these ingredients had been used for centuries, grown from the land itself.

I didn’t know if I should be impressed or annoyed. I wasn’t used to my perfect tart recipe being upstaged by bush limes and wattleseed.

"Not bad," I said, but it was a struggle to sound neutral. "Definitely... unusual."

Tom’s grin grew. "Unusual’s good, right?"

I forced a smile, trying not to let my face betray me.

It was good.

More than good.

I was actually a little pissed off about how good it was.

“Well,” I said, my voice almost too sweet, "if you think that’s going to win the Bake-Off, you’ve got another thing coming.” I let the words hang in the air, like sugar frosting on a cake, not entirely sure if I was being clever or just… catty.

Tom leaned in then, his eyes narrowing just enough to make me wonder if I’d said something wrong, or if maybe he was just pretending to care about my opinion. He gave me that look, the one that says, Oh, you have no idea. 

“We’ll see,” he murmured, that annoying little half-smile curling up at the corner of his mouth.

I wanted to retort, to throw something back in his face, but instead I felt my throat close up, the words just sort of dying on the tip of my tongue.

I stood there for a moment, feeling the awkwardness thicken like a sticky batter, before I turned on my heel and marched out.

But the further I walked, the more unsettled I felt.

Something about his cocky confidence, it wasn’t just irritating, it was disarming.

I’d always prided myself on knowing exactly what would win over a crowd, how to get ahead in a competition like this, but Tom?

Tom wasn’t just messing around with his unique recipes; he was onto something.

…

The sun had barely risen over the rolling hills of Margaret River, casting a soft pink glow across the festival grounds. The air was crisp and fresh, filled with the scent of eucalyptus, earthy soil, and the faint salt of the ocean only a few minutes’ drive away.

The sweet aroma of cinnamon rolls and freshly roasted coffee beans blended with the savory scent of grilled meats. Lemonade stands added a tart tang to the atmosphere, while the earthy scent of wildflowers lingered just beyond the grounds.

Everywhere you turned, there were vibrant colours, ripe berries, golden pastries, and the deep reds and greens of local produce. The sound of laughter and music from a nearby stage floated in the background, giving the event a warm, lively energy.

At my station, I tried to focus on laying out my ingredients and making sure all my implements were with me.

Tom’s station was next to me, just a few meters away, and I could feel his presence, his energy, even from across the way.

Despite the excitement around me, the festival’s buzz seemed to fade as I took a deep breath. This was my town, my moment, and I was determined to make it count.

The smells, the sounds, and the vibrant atmosphere of the festival were enough to ground me, but all I could think was: Don’t mess this up, Lily.

The whole town had turned up for the annual Bake-Off, and you could practically taste the competition in the air. The crowds were thickening by the minute, eager to see which baker would be crowned the champion.

I turned to him, trying to ignore the fact that he was setting up a more slick, modern station next to mine, his table covered in bush limes, Wattleseed, macadamia oil, and other local ingredients he’d no doubt find a way to throw into his tart.

His station looked like something out of a high-end food magazine. Meanwhile, I had my humble bake tins that had been passed down to me through the years, ready to go.

Next to us were the other contestants: Janice, who was eighty and had lived in Margaret River her entire life, was already laughing about something.

She had a sweet little table, covered in colourful tea towels, and you could tell she was a having a great time.

Then there was Kiera, local politician and all business. Her area was as tidy as a hospital operating table, with everything perfectly in place.

And lastly, Marcus, who had the kind of kitchen confidence of a father of three, and who was definitely going to try something ambitious just to prove he still had it.

The announcer's voice rang out, breaking through the chatter, sharp and eager:

“Alright, bakers! You have one and a half hours to create a tart using the best of Margaret River’s local ingredients. Ready... set... bake!”

And with that, the battle began.

I grabbed my lemons, the familiar zesting and juicing routine calming my nerves for about five seconds. This was what I knew, what I’d been making since I was a teenager.

You’d think after all these years, I’d have more confidence, but no.

The pressure was still as intense as the first time I baked a tart for my great-grandmother.

I turned to check on Tom. Sure enough, he was already squeezing bush limes like he was performing a high-stakes operation. His fingers moved fast, like he thought if he worked quicker, the lime’s secrets would spill out faster.

I had to admit, he did know what he was doing. If you could get past his whole arty vibe, his food was good. Annoying, but good.

I tried to focus on my own work, zesting, mixing, the rhythmic motion of it comforting me. But then I glanced over. His tart crust was cracking.

He’s screwing it up, I thought.

For a moment, I felt a little better about my own situation. Maybe the universe was on my side today.

But then... disaster struck. My lemon curd was not, as I’d hoped, turning into the smooth, creamy goodness it was supposed to be. It was lumpy. Lumpy.

What kind of monster curd was this?

I stared at it, horrified. This cannot be happening.

“Need a hand?” came a voice from beside me.

I looked up. It was Tom, standing there with that smirk of his.

“Yeah,” I said, without thinking. “A hand would be great. If you could turn back time and stop me from making a complete mess of this.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “No promises. But, hey, your curd looks like it needs some rescue work, and I’m an expert at fillings.”

I didn’t have time for a sarcastic comeback, mostly because he was right.

The pressure had gotten to me, and I’d rushed it. My lemon curd had split under the heat, turning from glossy perfection to something that looked like regret in a bowl.

I sighed, grabbed the whisk, and prayed for a miracle. My curd needed saving.

“Okay, fine,” I said, grabbing my wooden spoon and stirring frantically. “What do you suggest?”

Tom moved closer, studying the saucepan with a frown of concentration. “You’ve got separation starting,” he said, nodding toward the curd. “Keep it moving off the heat for a second, don’t let it catch.”

“I know,” I said, grabbing the whisk back. “I misjudged the temp while I was checking the tarts.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he steadied the bowl as I whisked, the rhythm quick and practiced. “You can bring it back if you ease it,” he said quietly. “Slow and steady. Don’t fight it.”

I adjusted, coaxing it rather than correcting it, and after a few tense seconds, the curd started to come good, smooth, glossy, like nothing had ever gone wrong.

“If you want it extra smooth, run it through a sieve once it’s off the heat,” he added. “No one has to know it threw a tantrum.”

I huffed a laugh. “Like I’d admit it.”

He shot me a sideways smile. “Bakers don’t. We just pretend it was meant to be like that.”

“Thanks, I guess,” I said, half-grateful, half-annoyed he’d seen the wobble.

He wasn’t some hero riding in, just another pro who couldn’t walk past a curd on the brink.

As the minutes ticked away, Tom was back at his own bench. His bush-lime tart, however, was staging a slow-motion collapse. The crust broke apart as he tried to lift it from the tin, scattering flaky bits like pastry confetti.

I glanced over. Couldn’t help it. A small, smug grin crept onto my face.

He might be the so-called expert on fillings, but I was the pastry queen, and my shell sat there, golden, even, picture perfect.

“Your crust looks a little… wobbly,” I said, leaning just enough for him to catch both my grin and the sight of my flawless tart.

He gave me a side-eye. “It’s a rustic look,” he said flatly, trying to press the edges back together.

I bit back a laugh, but as he wrestled with the crumbly mess, a flicker of conscience hit. He had helped me earlier, and I wasn’t completely heartless.

Still… helping him would ruin a perfectly satisfying moment.

He shot me a look, but his face softened as he grabbed the butter I’d left next to him. “I see you’re in a helpful mood today,” he said.

Oh, for God’s sake.

I went over to his station and started showing him how to salvage his tart shell, trying not to sound like I was teaching a class.“Alright, it’s not a lost cause,” I said, glancing at the cracked edges.

“You’ve overbaked it a little, see how it’s pulling away from the tin?”

He leaned in, nodding. “Yeah, I misjudged the heat. Too much airflow on this side.”

“Exactly.” I reached for a brush, dipping it into the bowl of melted butter he’d left nearby. “If you brush a thin layer of this across the cracks and press the dough back into shape while it’s still warm, it’ll hold once it cools.”

Tom tilted his head, watching. “You’ve done that before.”

“More times than I’d like to admit,” I said, smoothing the edges carefully. “Paris kitchens aren’t kind to mistakes.”

He smiled, his voice softer now. “And yet here you are, fixing mine.”

By the time the clock hit the final minute, we were both frantically assembling, trying to salvage the wreckage of our respective tarts.

The buzzer rang.

Time's up.

Tom and I stepped back from our stations, both of us looking down at what we had created. His tart was... uneven, to say the least. And my lemon curd tart? The curd was still a little lumpy, but hey, at least the crust was golden.

We exchanged a glance. There was no animosity now, just exhaustion.

A brief, silent truce.

Then, something strange happened. He gave me a small, almost imperceptible smile, a real one. The kind that didn’t come from smugness or superiority, but something a little softer. And for a second, I almost felt like we weren’t competing at all. Like we were just two people trying to make the best of a slightly disastrous situation.

I wasn’t sure if it was the oven heat, the competition nerves, or just the way he smiled at me, but something fluttered, and I didn’t like it one bit. For a second, our rivalry felt a whole lot more complicated than it had been five minutes ago.

The judges were approaching, clipboards in hand, their faces unreadable. I tried to pretend I wasn’t nervous, but my hands were shaking just the same.

…

A crowd had gathered around the judges' table, a buzz of anticipation hanging in the air. There was an electric hum, like the whole town was holding its breath. Everyone was eager to know who would come out on top, the baker who would claim the coveted title of best baker in Margaret River.

The judges, three of them, their clipboards in hand, looking way too serious for a bake-off, started their rounds, tasting each creation with deliberate, thoughtful pauses. I could hear the soft clink of forks scraping against plates, followed by quiet hums of approval or contemplative silence.

It was like watching food critics at a Michelin-starred restaurant, but with more flour in the air.

First up was my lemon curd tart. I watched as one of the judges, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes, took a bite. She chewed slowly, her face an unreadable mask.

“Well, this definitely has that traditional feel,” she said, her tone neutral.

I forced a smile. Traditional? Was that good, or bad? She didn’t exactly sound blown away, but she didn’t say it was awful either. I’d take that as a positive, at least for now.

Next was Tom’s bush lime and wattle seed tart. He stood off to the side, arms folded, watching intently as the judges took their first bites. One of them made a thoughtful noise, raising an eyebrow, while the other furiously scribbled notes.

“Mm. Interesting,” said the head judge, setting down his fork. “You can really taste the local ingredients. It’s... bold.”

A flicker of doubt crossed Tom’s face, though it was gone in an instant. He kept his posture straight, but I could tell he was already bracing for the verdict. He always seemed so confident about his experimental creations, but even he had to know that, sometimes, bold didn’t always win over traditional.

The judges moved down the line, tasting, nodding, murmuring to one another as they worked their way through the remaining contestants.

The crowd had gone quiet now, the kind of silence that prickled against your skin. Every breath, every shuffle, felt too loud.

The air was thick with nerves and sugar. I could feel my heartbeat in my fingertips, still dusted with flour, as the judges leaned in together, whispering behind clipboards. A few seconds stretched far too long. Then the head judge straightened, cleared his throat, and the world itself seemed to hold its breath.

“And the winner is…” He dragged it out for way too long, and I could feel my heart rate picking up.

This was it. The moment we’d all been waiting for.

“Janice!”

A stunned silence fell over the crowd.

Janice? The eighty-year-old local grandma who’d baked her pies and cakes for more school fetes than anyone could count? The same woman who’d spent the whole competition laughing and having fun?

Janice?

The crowd erupted into applause, and I could see Janice’s face light up with pure delight. She was holding her trophy like it was the most precious thing in the world, beaming in that way only someone who had lived in Margaret River for decades could.

She waved to the crowd like she’d just won Eurovision. It was an absolute landslide of local affection.

Tom and I stood there, mouths slightly agape, both of us stunned into silence.

Well, this wasn’t how I expected it to go.

I turned to Tom, my eyebrows raised. “Janice?” I whispered, half-laughing, half-shocked. “She just... won?”

Tom looked over at Janice, who was still grinning like she’d just baked a masterpiece. “Yeah. She won. I guess the secret ingredient is to just enjoy yourself.”

I laughed in disbelief. “I swear she just baked a regular fruit tart,” I muttered, looking over at her again.

Tom followed my gaze, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s a solid tart,” he said, pretending to sound serious. “Can’t go wrong with classic.”

I snorted. “Classic? It’s supermarket bakery classic.”

He chuckled, then the two of us caught each other’s eye and, for a second, the whole absurdity of the situation hit, the tension, the nerves, all of it.

We both started laughing, quietly at first, then properly, shoulders shaking like a pair of kids who’d just been told off.

“Honestly,” he said once he caught his breath, “I think we both know who really deserved the prize.”

I blinked, surprised. “Wait, you think I deserved it?”

He nodded, the twinkle in his eye making my stomach do a weird little flip. “Well, yeah. The lemon curd might’ve been a little… rustic,” he teased, “but it tasted like home. And I wasn’t exactly on form today.”

A laugh slipped out, the tension between us softening. “Thanks for the generous assessment,” I said, trying to keep it light.

Across the room, Janice, blissfully unaware of the disbelief radiating her way, was holding up her trophy for a photo.

Without thinking, Tom and I both started clapping, then cheering, joining the others.

“To Janice!” he said, raising an imaginary glass.

“To Janice,” I echoed, laughing again. “Queen of the tart.”

We caught each other’s eyes once more, the laughter still hanging between us, warm, easy, and humming with something I couldn’t quite name.

There was a charge in the air, subtle but impossible to ignore. And for a moment, I didn’t care that I had lost.

I was just standing there with Tom, a little too close, sharing a joke and a look that felt like it might lead somewhere if I let it.

“Well, maybe next year,” I said softly, my smile more genuine than I’d meant it to be.

His grin gentled, eyes still on mine. For the first time all day, the weight of competition slipped away, leaving only that quiet, unexpected connection.

“Deal,” he said, his voice low, carrying something that felt suspiciously like a promise.

And just like that, it didn’t matter who’d taken the trophy.

Whatever this was, this spark, this unspoken something, felt sweeter than any tart ever could.

…

The warm, comforting smell of freshly baked bread lingered in the air as Rose’s Bakery settled into the quiet of the evening. The festival was over, the competition behind me, and the town had finally slowed to a contented hush.

I was wiping down the counter when the familiar jingle of the front door made me glance up.

Tom stepped inside, looking far more relaxed than he had all day. His hair was a little mussed, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, and there was that easy grin again, the one that always seemed to walk the line between charm and trouble.

“Didn’t think I’d find you still here,” he said, leaning casually against the counter. The playful glint in his eyes was softer now, less cocky, more… familiar.

“Well, someone’s still got a business to run,” I said, brushing flour from my apron and stacking the leftover food from the Bake-Off. “Besides, I’m not about to let you off the hook just because you impressed half the town with that tart of yours.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Only half?”

I laughed. “The other half’s still recovering.”

He chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Well, I learned some things today.” His tone shifted, just slightly. “And you know what? I’m actually glad we didn’t win. That was way more fun than I expected.”

I leaned against the counter beside him, studying his face in the soft light.

The silence between us was comfortable for the first time in days, no tension, no competition, just… calm.

“Yeah, well,” I said, smiling despite myself, “I guess you aren’t as flashy as I thought.”

He raised his glass in a mock toast. “A small improvement, but I’ll take it.”

I poured a splash of the leftover competition wine into my glass, a light vintage we’d both been given as runner-up prizes earlier. It wasn’t the finest wine I’d ever had, but it tasted like relief… and something a little bit hopeful.

Tom raised an eyebrow as I poured him a glass too. “Oh? Sharing now?”

“Don’t get used to it,” I laughed.

He took the glass, their fingers brushing for the briefest second, and his grin softened into something quieter.

Without thinking, I grabbed the tray of practice tarts I’d set aside earlier, imperfect but beautiful in their own way, golden crusts and wobbly lemon curd catching the light.

“You want some leftovers?” I asked, holding out the tray. “They’re not exactly award-winning, but they taste better with good company.”

Tom’s grin deepened as he took one. “You sure you’re not trying to impress me?”

“Please,” I said, laughing. “If I wanted to impress you, I’d have dusted them with icing sugar.”

He took a bite, eyes closing briefly as he savoured it. “You really do know how to make something special,” he said quietly.

The words caught me off guard, simple, but sincere. My chest tightened in that pleasant, dangerous way. “Careful,” I said, smiling. “Keep saying things like that and I’ll start thinking you mean it.”

“I do,” he said, his voice low but certain.

My chest felt lighter at his words. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the lingering sweetness of the tarts. Or maybe it was the way he was looking at me now, something that told me it wasn’t only the tart he was admiring.

“So…” I began, my voice quieter now, “you think we could maybe do this more often? You know, you and me. Baking together, I mean.”

He looked up from the tart, eyebrows raised for just a second before his grin returned. “You mean less competing, more… cooperation?”

“Exactly.” I smiled, setting my glass down. “No more baking wars. Just baking… together.”

He gave me a look, that kind of quiet, honest look that makes you forget what you were saying. “I think we could probably teach each other a thing or two, don’t you?”

Something in me eased. Maybe it was the warmth of the room, the scent of sugar and yeast still clinging to the air, or maybe it was him, but suddenly, everything felt simple.

“Yeah,” I said, smiling for real this time. “Yeah, I do.”

We stood there a moment in the golden glow of the old pendants.

Outside, cicadas hummed.

I topped up his glass. “To next year?”

“To next year,” he said, tapping mine and stealing another bite of tart.

When it was finally time to leave, I locked up, and we stepped into the cool night, side by side, no longer in competition but in step. The air carried salt from the ocean and the faint, clean scent of eucalyptus.

The door clicked shut behind us, echoing softly down the quiet street.

“Guess you’re not so bad after all,” I said.

“Same to you.”

Under the flicker of the streetlight, with the bakery windows glowing behind us, the world felt small, in the best possible way.

The rivalry was gone, replaced by something else.

Something warmer.

Something just beginning.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this short story and want more behind-the-scenes snippets, book updates, and the occasional ramble about writing, life, and coastal escapes,

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