Chapter Sixteen
T he judges adored the maple cake.
Magda stood at the front of the kitchen beside Mac as they presented it, and Joanie raved about the flavor and texture. The bourbon had been a “stroke of genius” and the bake was “just perfection.” Alexander Clay narrowed his eyes and declared that the decoration might perhaps be a bit too simple, but even he seemed to be stretching to find fault, and he acknowledged it was elegant.
Magda and Mac nodded and thanked the judges before carrying their cake back to their station, their shoulders brushing as they stood and waited through the rest of the judging. That was one thing that felt the most different about being in the show versus watching it at home—how long the judging took.
The timed bakes took exactly as long as the judges laid out on camera. It was all the rest of it that meant long days and late nights.
She’d learned in the last week about “turnaround”—a rule mandating rest for the cast and crew. If she was dropped at the house at eight p.m., they weren’t allowed to pick her up the next day until eight a.m.—and since there were sometimes sixteen-hour days, that meant the call times slid later as they moved later in the week—and this was why some episodes could be filmed all in one day while others needed to be broken up over two.
It was strange how quickly she’d acclimated to the routine. This was normal now. Waking up. Being shuttled from hair and makeup to the Proving Room—only to be plucked out of there for interviews and dropped back in when it was time for challenges.
After a challenge the bakers would be herded back into the Proving Room, where the waiting would begin. Crew members would be frantically cleaning the disastrous workstations—Mac’s always seemed to be the most disastrous—and taking glamour shots of the bakes, while the bakers were pulled aside to postmortem the bake in confessionals. That process could easily take over an hour. Then it was back into the kitchen for judging.
On the show, it always looked like judging was just a matter of seconds—quick bites, quick quips, and a quick retreat to their workstations—but each tasting lasted at least ten minutes, often longer—which meant hours of sampling and critiquing. Then back to the Proving Room again as the judges deliberated—and the bakers were pulled aside to talk about how they felt judging had gone. That could take another hour. Then back into the kitchen for the results. Another hour as the best bakes were praised and the worst bakes reminded of their flaws—all while the bakers stood lined up in a row.
No wonder former contestants had all recommended good shoes and a cardio regimen as the best way to prep for the show. It was exhausting. And Julia had been right. Magda did feel like she spent more time in that director’s chair talking about the challenges than she did actually baking in them. Though that may have had something to do with the strange way time seemed to move in the kitchen. She would blink and an hour would have passed, so focused was she on what she was doing.
It had been that way in the challenge with Mac. They’d clicked into a kind of zone that she’d never shared with another person before. That flow, when everything just worked .
It was especially surreal that she’d shared it with Mac .
As they waited for the results, Julia tried to get them to talk about what it was like, working together, and this time Magda wasn’t being evasive. She just didn’t have the words to describe it.
Mac sat beside her, in a director’s chair of his own, and seemed equally at a loss. “It just… worked,” he said.
“Yeah, we, um…”
“Made a good team?” Julia prompted when Magda trailed off.
But neither Mac nor Magda obediently repeated the phrase for the cameras. It was still too strange.
“It came out well,” Magda said finally.
Julia nodded, changing tacks. “So this maple cake—where did that recipe come from?”
Magda felt Mac stiffen where their shoulders touched. “It’s a modified version of my grandmother’s secret recipe, which I made for Mac once, years ago, and he liked it so well he put his own version of it on his menu.” That was the sanitized version of the story. The one she was willing to tell America.
Mac cleared his throat. “So we both have practice baking something similar.”
Julia nodded, glancing briefly down at her tablet. “Shall we talk about the altercation during your photo shoot?”
“That’s not going to be in the show, is it?” Magda asked in a rush.
“Like we said, it was totally staged,” Mac added.
“Of course,” Julia agreed. “But we did get footage of it on the behind-the-scenes camera, and it seems like the kind of thing Stephen might want to include in the edit, so I’ll need footage of you two talking about it. Telling us the motivation behind it as if it’s totally real. We can do it now or later one-on-one.”
“Now’s fine,” Mac said, as Magda simultaneously said, “Later.”
Magda flushed, stammering, “Or now.”
“Okay.” But before Julia could ask anything, she put a hand to her ear and frowned. “But unfortunately we need you back in the kitchen for results.”
Mac and Magda stood, shuffling awkwardly in the tight space until they were back in the Proving Room—and then quickly ushered into the kitchen and lined up behind their station.
“Why did you say now?” Magda whispered as they waited for the other teams to take their marks.
“Easier to keep our stories straight if we’re together,” Mac mumbled back.
“Right.” Except Magda was a terrible liar. It was going to show on her face. She needed time to prepare, mentally. To psych herself up. “So what do we say? Do you think they heard what we were talking about?”
“We weren’t wired then,” Mac reminded her—but he touched the lavalier mic tucked beneath his apron as he said it—reminding her that they were definitely wired now.
“Right.” She snapped her mouth shut, her brain still circling the almost-slap and wondering what explanation she could possibly give for it, as the judges came in and lined up at the front.
That was one of the things that had surprised her about the show too—how little contact they had with the host and judges. They literally never appeared until they were ready to film. In order to avoid favoritism, the contestants were forbidden from speaking to them unless it was about the bakes—and caught on camera. They still seemed like intimidating strangers. Though perhaps that was on purpose. Everything about this show seemed designed to put her on edge. Frankly, it was exhausting.
Thankfully they were about to have two whole days to catch up on sleep, since crew regulations and the contract with King Arthur meant they couldn’t film on weekends.
Joanie was speaking.
Crap. They must be rolling already. Magda was so exhausted after the emotional roller coaster of the day, she just hoped her face looked some semblance of engaged and not as wiped out as she felt.
“… winners this week gave us elegance and refinement, with a luscious rich flavor. They bickered so much we weren’t sure they were going to have a cake to present, but then worked so seamlessly together as a team, that we actually wondered whether they were rivals at all. I’m delighted to announce that the winners this week…” Dramatic pause. “Are…” Yet another dramatic pause. “Mac and Magda!”
Magda’s jaw fell as Mac let out a whoop.
Okay, yes, their feedback had been good and she loved that cake, but she hadn’t actually considered that she might win an episode of Cake-Off . Winning the Skills Challenge was one thing, but to win an entire episode…
With Mac.
She’d won with Mac.
That might be the most surreal part of all.
He was jostling her in a side-hug, his arms around her shoulders. And she numbly raised her hand to pat his biceps—the movement so awkward the cameras must be catching it, but her brain was still stuttering over winning a freaking episode of Cake-Off .
Mac was laughing—and a camera was right there, catching every nuance of shock on her face.
What the hell had happened today? They’d started the morning with a truce. Then she’d nearly hit him. Then he’d covered for her. Then they’d been literally tied to each other and fought about the maple cake on camera—which she’d sort of forgotten until this moment—and then the bake, when she’d been maddeningly aware of his body beside hers, but the cake… it had been poetry. Everything had just clicked . And ever since she’d felt dazed and off and now they’d won ?
But would they have won without his bourbon suggestion? It had made the bake better, adding a depth of flavor while perfectly cutting the sweetness.
She’d only won because of him.
Mac kept one arm slung around her shoulders as they faced front again—and Magda just stood there woodenly.
This was what she’d been afraid of, before she came—that she would freeze up and be the boring contestant that no one rooted for—but she’d almost forgotten her don’t be yourself mantra. The second Mac had walked into the Cake-Off kitchen, all of that had fallen to the side.
People were going to love him. He was gregarious and effusive. And hot. Anyone looking for eye candy would go wild for his freaking dark eyes and auburn curls. Not to mention the wicked Lucifer dimples. And the arms —which she was sure the cameras were going to love during bread week. But he was also the kind of guy that dudes could see themselves grabbing a beer with.
The home audience was going to side with him, she realized numbly. Take his side in the feud. She didn’t know why she hadn’t seen it before.
But she couldn’t do what Julia wanted. She couldn’t confide all and get the home viewer on her side—because the whole truth was embarrassing and pathetic. That she’d fallen for him at eighteen and he’d treated her like she was nothing and she’d been fighting to prove she wasn’t nothing ever since.
She’d just won a freaking episode of Cake-Off . This wasn’t how that was supposed to feel. It was supposed to be validation. It was supposed to be victory.
And she felt like nothing again.
Just don’t be yourself.
Too late for that now.