Chapter Eighteen
T he weekend was strange. They’d all been corralled into the inn, and there were a handful of production assistants and lower-level producers watching them to make sure none of them broke the rules or made a run for it, but after the nonstop rush of the week, it felt odd to suddenly have nothing but time. Too much time to think. Too much time to dwell on all the twisted-up emotional shit the last week had dislodged.
Mac was relieved when it was time for his designated practice time in the kitchen—finally something to do .
He heard pans clattering inside before he opened the door, the inn’s cat slinking in around his ankles.
“Almost done! Sorry!” a voice called out from around the corner near the ovens—and of course it would be her. Of course the producers would have scheduled them back-to-back.
“It’s fine. No rush,” he called back—and there was a sudden eerie silence from the back.
Magda appeared a moment later. “Hey.” After a long pause, she frowned. “I don’t know what to say to you when we aren’t fighting.”
He released a startled laugh. “Yeah. Me neither.” He nodded to the clean countertop—Magda was a clean-as-you-go baker and her workstation was always eerily spotless. “If I get set up over there, will I be in your way?”
“No. And I’m almost finished. Two more minutes.”
“You’re fine,” he assured her, turning to start his own pie prep as she retreated to the ovens.
It smelled downright amazing in here—all apples and cinnamon—but he wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to say that or pretend he didn’t know what she was baking. He finally settled for “Smells good.”
She glanced over her shoulder, frowning as if she wasn’t sure whether she should believe him, and mumbled, “Thanks.”
He turned to his prep.
They hadn’t been given many hints—all they knew was that pie week was next and they each got three hours in the kitchen to prepare. He’d decided to practice a few savory and a few sweet versions, just so he’d have options on the day.
Mac quickly inventoried the ingredients he’d requested, marveling, not for the first time, at the grocery bill this show must have. The cat continued to explore the kitchen as Magda opened the oven, checking on her pies.
Another waft of decadent smells hit him, and Mac closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply. So he never saw the first domino fall.
His first hint that anything was wrong was a startled canine yelp, followed by a feline hiss.
Mac hadn’t realized the inn’s dog was also in the kitchen, curled up on a small dog bed near Magda’s feet. He’d never seen the two inn pets in the same room at the same time, but he’d assumed they must get along if they both lived there.
How wrong he was.
The terrier let loose a stream of snarling barks and the cat hissed again before bolting—straight through Magda’s legs, pursued by the barking dog.
It probably would have been fine—if Magda hadn’t been standing in front of an open oven with both hands full of piping-hot pie.
“Magda!” He’d never moved so fast in his life.
Mac crossed the distance as she yelped and pitched toward the oven. He caught her around the waist and yanked her back against his chest. The pie went flying from her hands, but all he cared about was that neither of them got burned as it splatted dramatically onto the floor.
For a long moment, he just stood there, his heart banging like a drum and hands still braced on her stomach. She was breathing quickly, too, leaning slightly back against him—and suddenly he wasn’t sure if he wanted to push her away or pull her closer. Vanilla and cinnamon. It wasn’t just the pie. Her hair curled below his nose, and he inhaled.
Her breath caught.
“You okay?” he rumbled, his voice like gravel.
“Yeah.” Magda shifted away from him, avoiding looking at him as he released her and she shut the oven door. “Thanks,” she murmured.
She knelt next to the pie debris, and he crouched beside her to help. They both reached for the pie tin, their hands brushing and she glanced at him quickly.
“You don’t have to,” she said, still not meeting his eyes. “I don’t want to eat into your practice time.”
“I have plenty of time,” he assured her. Awkwardness crackled in the air between them, but he didn’t want to walk away. He didn’t know where the cat and dog had gotten to—they must have managed to swing the door open.
“Mac. I’ve got it.”
He pulled his hands back but didn’t stand, eyeing the pie goo on the floor. “You didn’t get to test it properly. If you want to stay and make another—”
“No, I’ll be out of your hair in a second. Please.”
He stood then, forcing himself to turn back to the counter because she wanted him to. He began to throw together a crust, trying to ignore the sound of her behind him. At some point, the dog came back into the kitchen and began licking the apples off the floor.
He wished he knew what to say to her, but all he had was this insane awareness of her. When he finally glanced over at her, she was gathering up her things. “Good luck,” she said softly before disappearing through the door.
Look at them.
That had almost been civil.
The rest of the weekend was murderously dull. Mac spent far too much time in the inn’s tiny gym, just to tire himself out enough to be able to sleep—and to quiet his brain. He’d started thinking about his grandfather. About Magda. About regrets and responsibilities. Thoughts he was usually good at avoiding.
He was intensely relieved when Monday morning rolled around and the craziness resumed at the crack of dawn.
He hadn’t seen Magda again for the rest of the weekend, and he glanced around for her automatically as he was ushered into the Proving Room.
Tim and Leah were bickering. Eunice was sitting close to Cherise and murmuring something encouraging. Mac kept to himself as he took a seat, which wasn’t his habit outside of the competition—he was sociable by nature, but there was always a tension between the bakers, and he didn’t want to get in the middle of anyone else’s feuds. Discretion definitely seemed to be the better part of valor.
He was aware of Magda in the space with him, but kept his eyes and his thoughts to himself until they were all ushered en masse into the kitchen for the first challenge.
The producers must have decided there wasn’t enough animosity between the two teams, because they’d decided to pit them against one another. Red Team versus Blue Team, with Mac and Magda as captains since they’d won the previous challenge.
The front of the kitchen had been decorated like a baseball diamond—and Mac realized this episode must be airing in October. The Cake-Off loved a tie-in.
Apparently in the World Series of Pies, the bakers would compete head-to-head again. In each round, each team would put forward one baker who would present their pie. The judges would hold up either a red paddle or a blue paddle to indicate which baker won the match-up, and that team would take that “game” in a best-of-seven series.
The losing team would be pitted against one another in a speed bake, and one baker would be going home.
Mac and Magda, as team captains, decided who went in which round. And since there might be seven rounds, two bakers might have to compete twice.
It was all about strategy. Did you have your best bakers compete twice, or did you let them focus entirely on a single dish so there was more of a chance that they would win their round? Did you pit best against best? Or concede the point for their best player and try to take all the others?
Abby, Leah, and Magda were all strong, with Eunice and Walter being more erratic, while on the blue side, Mac was confident that he and Tim could score points, but less certain about the others. Did he and Tim each go twice? They only needed to win four rounds to win.
Always bet on yourself. That had always been his motto—and when he looked at Tim, he knew the pastry chef would have just as soon done every single round himself, so confident he could win them all.
Mac nodded to him. They had this.
Magda hated the pressure of being team leader, but Abby volunteered to bake two, and Magda actually had two recipes she’d been debating between, so she offered to do two as well—which Walter, Leah, and Eunice seemed relieved by.
Abby took the first round easily with her chocolate cream masterpiece, defeating her sister Cherise. Then it was Magda’s turn with her caramel apple crumble—and she thought for sure Mac would pit himself against her, but he sent up Tim instead with a black currant and pepper pie. The judges praised both—but then unanimously voted for Tim’s pie, telling Magda she was staying in her comfort zone too much. She retreated to her station with a queasy feeling in her stomach. And it just got worse.
Mac beat Leah in the next round. And Walter lost his to Eunice’s culinary school rival, Zain, who gloated smugly. Three to one.
The Red Team couldn’t afford another loss—and Magda found herself thinking ahead to the speed bake.
But then Eunice surprised everyone by beating Tim. Abby destroyed Taylor in round six, and it was tied.
Mac versus Magda. Because it always came down to that, didn’t it?
Her silky chess pie might be in her comfort zone, but she’d been making it for years. Her family loved it. Surely the judges would, too.
Except they didn’t.
“It just feels so derivative,” Alexander Clay drawled. “Where are you in your bakes?”
“It’s delicious, but a bit expected,” Joanie agreed, with a pitying look—and Magda was suddenly certain she was going to lose.
Until Mac’s judging.
His pastry was undercooked. The bottom was soggy. It had absorbed all the juice from his blueberry compote.
She didn’t win. He lost.
Magda’s team cheered, but she couldn’t find much joy in their victory. Her stomach kept twisting as they all stood watching while Taylor was eliminated. “Expected” and “derivative” didn’t win Cake-Off . It got voted off in week six, when the competition got serious.
Mac might have lost to her with the soggy pastry, but he’d redeemed himself in the Speed Bake and had the judges gushing about his flavors and creativity again. She could already see the arc they would give him. Most improved. Most creative.
While she was going to be the Skills Challenge winner who had no soul.
And she had the sudden, horrible feeling that she was going to lose their bet.