Free The Bake-Off by Beth Kendrick Page A

down.” Linnie tossed her head and tried to sound blasé. “I cannot believe you’re still so mad about something that happened years ago.”
    â€œThis is not about some thing that happened. This is about everything .” Amy’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t care how brilliant you are. The days of me giving you special treatment and letting you get away with murder are over.”
    Linnie glanced over at the slice of tart Amy was plating and did a double take. “You didn’t.”
    â€œOh, but I did.” Amy had decorated the top layer of her crust with a scrap of dough sculpted into a Greek symbol: π. “Get it? It’s a pi crust.”
    â€œWow, that art school tuition was worth every penny.”
    Amy carried both plates into the living room and set them down upon the lace doilies on the coffee table. Linnie followed with two clean forks, a napkin, and a palate-cleansing glass of water.
    â€œ Bon appétit .” Amy gestured grandly to the piping hot szarlotka.
    â€œ Smacznego ,” Linnie added. “That’s Polish for bon appétit .”
    â€œThat’s right,” Grammy said. “Nicely done, Vasylina!” She took a bite of each piece, chewing slowly and deliberately in great concentration.
    â€œSo?” Linnie prompted. “Which is better?”
    Grammy Syl’s gaze shifted from one sister to the other. She cleared her throat. “I couldn’t possibly choose.”
    â€œCome on!” Amy cried. “Don’t be diplomatic.”
    â€œYeah, there’s a ton of money riding on this,” Linnie said. “We demand brutal honesty.”
    â€œLet me taste again.” Grammy took another tiny bite from each. “Very well. You want brutal honesty, here it is. There are two kinds of szarlotka, girls, and you were trying to make the other kind.”
    Linnie furrowed her brow. “What are you saying?”
    â€œShe’s saying we suck,” Amy clarified.
    â€œDon’t put words in my mouth, dear heart. All I’m saying is that both of these”—Grammy swallowed again and dabbed her lips with a napkin—“concoctions are lacking a certain something.”
    â€œCinnamon?” Linnie pressed.
    â€œLemon?” Amy asked.
    Grammy sipped her water. “Edibility.”
    â€œFine, so we both suck,” Amy said. “But which one sucks less ?”
    â€œWell.” Grammy pointed her fork toward the silver-rimmed plate. “This one has better dough.”
    â€œHa!” Linnie crowed.
    â€œBut this one is just beautiful to look at.” Grammy indicated the blue-flowered plate. “You girls want to bicker and compete, you should split the work down the middle. One of you should spend the next two weeks perfecting the dough, and the other should work on perfecting the presentation.”
    â€œBut you have to declare one of us the winner,” Linnie said.
    Grammy put down her fork and sat back on the sofa. “No.”
    â€œSomeone has a gun to your head,” Amy said.
    â€œShoot me.” Grammy folded her hands primly.
    â€œSomeone has a gun to my head,” Linnie said.
    Grammy lifted her gaze heavenward and murmured something in Polish. “Fine.” She touched the rim of the silver-lined plate. “This one.”
    Amy sighed. “Of course.”
    â€œBut only by one percent.” Grammy Syl touched Amy’s wrist and tugged her down for a kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry, darling. Yours looks delicious. And that little pi on top—so clever, like something out of a magazine.”
    Linnie’s surge of victory fizzled when she realized that no kiss or warm words of grandmotherly praise were coming her way. She nodded at the bowls, measuring cups, and food processor attachments piled high in the kitchen sink and told Amy, “Enjoy. Oh, and I thought of a name for the recipe.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” Grammy