Chapter Five
M agda wasn’t looking at him, but Mac had the distinct feeling that she was silently considering how many pies she would get if she chopped him up and served him to the judges.
Music from Sweeney Todd began running a macabre theme track through his head.
Mac knew he was supposed to be paying attention to the host as he introduced the concept—each baker in a red apron had a nemesis of some kind on the blue team, most dramatic season of Cake-Off ever, blah blah blah, this time it’s personal, blah blah blah—but he couldn’t stop sneaking glances across the Cake-Off kitchen to where Magda stood.
Her black curls were piled on top of her head, adding an extra couple of inches, but she was still in the front row, partially blocked by the petite Asian girl, who didn’t look much older than a teenager and was clinging to Magda’s arm. Magda stared fixedly at the host, but her face was flushed, and he knew her. He knew she wasn’t seeing the host and judges at all—and that he’d never seen her so angry.
And he’d seen her very angry over the years.
All the other members of the red team looked varying degrees of shaken and pissed. The showrunner was whispering excitedly into his headset, directing the handheld camera operators to make sure they got every reaction—and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Around Mac, some of the blue team seemed shocked or angry—and he had to wonder if they’d been coached to pretend, because they’d all known exactly what was coming. The producers had explained to Mac that all of the rivals had been recruited and sworn to secrecy—since they’d learned over the years that contestants were terrible at keeping their participation a secret and if they hadn’t expressly told the Blue Team not to tell their rivals, everyone would have known about the gimmick before they arrived and there would have been no big reactions on camera.
Beside him, Tim, an arrogant five-star hotel pastry chef from California, was making a show of being horrified, but Mac had no interest in playing the actor.
His gaze kept returning to Magda—and the one time he caught her looking back at him… well. It was definitely a Sweeney Todd moment.
And yes. Okay. He could see where this looked deceptive, but he would explain. The producers had wanted to get her genuine reaction on camera, but as soon as there was a pause in filming, he would go over there. He’d apologize for not giving her a heads-up and explain that as far as he was concerned there was no vendetta. Not here. He would compete with her the same way he would with any other baker on the show—so she could stop looking at him like she was planning his imminent disembowelment with a cake knife.
She wouldn’t even be here if he hadn’t come, too. Once she understood that, she’d be grateful.
Someone shouted “Cut!” and Mac started to take a step toward Magda—but a crew member was suddenly in front of him, blocking his path, and another voice was shouting, “Hold places! Going again!”
Mac was ushered back into place, makeup people patted noses that had gotten too shiny, and crew members moved with brisk efficiency to reset the cameras and get the entire thing from another angle. It was kinda cool—seeing behind the curtain as the host repeated his lines as if saying them for the first time. Mac would have been fascinated by the entire process, if he wasn’t also itching to clear things up with Magda.
When she wasn’t shooting him death glares, she was gnawing nervously at her full lower lip, looking like she was about to chew through it from nerves—and forcing the makeup people to rush over to touch her up every time the director paused to adjust lighting or have the host repeat a certain line.
Jeffrey Flanders continued with his spiel, introducing the familiar judges. Mac had made a point of watching several episodes of the show over the last few weeks, so he had the strange, disconnected sense that he knew these people.
Flanders. Joanie. And the terrifying Alexander Clay.
It was surreal, but somehow familiar—but Mac didn’t have time to dwell on the thought because Jeffrey Flanders’s next words wiped every other thought from his mind.
“Now some of you may have noticed we have fourteen bakers in the Cake-Off kitchen, and as you all know, Cake-Off always starts with our famous Baker’s Dozen—so I hope you’re ready, because before we can truly begin the season, we have to determine which thirteen of you will be continuing with us—and which one will be going home. That’s right, bakers, our first Elimination Challenge starts right now.”
A ripple of shock worked through the group around him, and Mac stood up a little straighter. In all the episodes of Cake-Off he’d seen, they’d always started off with a low-stakes Skills Challenge that provided some advantage for the winner in the later Elimination Challenge.
Apparently the archrivals theme wasn’t the only thing different this season. Mac’s heart began to pound harder on a rush of adrenaline. When Flanders said right now , did he really mean now ? Or after three more setups and repetitions?
“Each of you has a rival on the opposing team, and for your first Elimination you’ll go head-to-head against your nemesis in a Mystery Ingredient Challenge. The winners will be safe. The losers will have one last chance to impress the judges in a Speed Bake, after which one of you will be eliminated.”
Shit. Head-to-head. He had to beat Magda .
Mac’s pulse thundered in his ears as he looked toward Magda, who was pointedly not looking at him.
One of them would be in the bottom.
Shit.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.
“Take your positions!” Jeffrey called out—and Mac realized he’d missed something.
Fortunately, there was a producer there, pointing him toward his station.
And then he was standing next to Magda. Their stations were side by side, even sharing a long stretch of countertop. Each with a box with a big white X on it.
“Hey,” he said, under his breath.
She stared straight ahead, all of her attention focused on the judges at the front of the room. He should be focused on them, too—one of them was saying something about time limits and judging criteria—something about a signature dessert, you on a plate—but he’d noticed Magda’s hands were shaking, and he couldn’t look away.
It was funny how that jogged his memory. Those shaking hands.
They’d been here before. In this very room. Did she remember that? She’d been nervous then too. And so effing young .
“Magda,” he tried again, to no response. “Mags.”
She gave the slightest shake of her head, like brushing away a fly, still not looking in his direction. A curl fell down, drawing his gaze to the line of her throat.
“Magda.”
A crew member caught his eye, making a slashing noise across his throat and pointing imperiously toward the front of the room where Flanders was speaking. Apparently this wasn’t a talking time. Not that Magda was interested in talking.
But he needed to say something—that he was sorry, that everything would be okay, that she could do this. He felt the most ridiculous urge to calm those shaking hands, to take them between his and look deeply into her eyes, convincing her that she belonged here—but she wouldn’t believe him even if the crew would have let him get the words out. He was her competitor.
He’d known they would be competing against each other, but he hadn’t really thought this through, if he was honest. It had been impulse to say yes to the audition in the first place when the producers had approached him after learning about their feud online, impulse to come on the show at all. He’d told himself he was doing it for Magda—altruistic, noble, a peace offering—but it had also been exciting.
Reality television! Once-in-a-lifetime experience! Sure, it was kind of terrifying, since Magda had forgotten more about baking than he’d ever learned, and he was probably going to make a fool of himself, but he didn’t want to say no to something just because it scared the crap out of him. When life threw an opportunity like this in your path, you took it. At least Mac did.
He liked the show. Liked the idea of being on it. He hadn’t planned on this, but it felt like he was meant to be here—and he meant to win.
But if he was going to win, he would first have to knock Magda down to the loser bracket.
He should have known they would be pitted against each other from the start. He should have expected this. But he’d been too busy getting the Cup ready for his absence and trying to remember all the things he’d learned back when he’d first taken lessons at King Arthur to anticipate the production team’s machinations.
“And… reveal !”
All around the room, bakers were lifting their mystery ingredient boxes, and Mac jerked to attention. He wasn’t going to win a damn thing if he didn’t get his head in the game. He didn’t usually bother to medicate for his ADHD, but now he was wishing he’d brought some Adderall—or at least a shot of caffeine to help him focus.
Mac belatedly lifted his own box, frowning at the bowl of brown powder in front of him. Some kind of spice? Powdered cocoa? Around the room, other bakers were sniffing and tasting the powder, so he dipped a finger into the bowl and brought it to his mouth.
Cardamom.
The spice immediately burst on his palate, and he smiled as everything clicked into focus. He could do this.
“You have ninety minutes to prepare your signature dessert featuring this mystery ingredient.”
A giant digital timer dominated the wall beside the judges, and now it lit up: 90:00 in bright blue digits.
“Your time starts… now !” Judge Joanie called out—and the entire kitchen seemed to lunge into action.
Holy shit. Now?
Mac had been woolgathering, but the challenge instructions were always taped into the top drawer with the measuring spoons—just in case a competitor suddenly blanked. It had happened before, and the audience never liked to see a favorite baker eliminated on a technicality because they hadn’t heard some detail of the instructions.
Mac jerked open the drawer, but the instructions weren’t much more than he already knew: 90 minutes. Signature dessert. Anything you want as long as it’s you on a plate. Feature the mystery ingredient.
Right. Okay.
Him on a plate. What the hell was him on a plate?
Magda was already in motion. Flour and sugar and butter already arrayed on her station. She’d make a cake. She was known for her cakes. She would go with familiar. And it would be amazing.
If he wanted to beat her, he would have to do something unexpected. Something so much more difficult than a delicious cake so he would win for the sheer balls of it. With cardamom.
Spiced panna cotta.
It was a risk. If it didn’t set in time—which it probably wouldn’t—he’d be royally screwed. But Mac hadn’t come here to play it safe. If this blew up in his face, he would save himself in the Speed Bake. Always bet on yourself. That was his motto.
Suddenly all the distractions faded into the background and everything was calm, that perfect focus of the kitchen settling around him. Mac reached for the ingredients he needed, humming “A Little Priest” from Sweeney Todd.
He had this.
As long as he didn’t get distracted by the woman at his side with the shaking hands and the black curls that had always smelled of vanilla and cinnamon.
As long as he didn’t think about the last time they’d been in this room.