Rebel Hearts

4. Nolan

4

NOLAN

A iden’s eyes went wide when my lips hit his.

Fair enough. I had no idea why I’d kissed him. I just knew that between his angry stare and taunting smile and that fucking superior tone, I was going to snap if I didn’t do something , and punching him seemed like a bad idea.

I brought one hand to his cheek, the other to his hip, and we moved in tandem until he was up against the wall. His lips parted, his tongue swiped into my mouth, and I felt his breath on my chin.

I pulled back.

Fuck. What was I doing? Aiden wasn’t staring at me with that smug smile anymore. Confusion filled his eyes instead. They were as wide and clear as the morning sun.

I licked my lower lip, then shook my head. I hadn’t asked if I could kiss him. I didn’t even know if I wanted to kiss him, but at the very least, I shouldn’t have assumed he’d be interested.

I did not want to apologize to this kid, not when he was the reason I’d gotten so angry in the first place. But what I’d done was fucked up.

“Listen,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have—”

Aiden leaned forward and pressed his mouth to mine again, and any thought of apology, any better judgement at all, evaporated. His lips were hot and demanding, the kiss hungry, and I melted into it. I shoved the door closed with my hip, then leaned my body against his, still pressed to the wall.

This was dangerous. I needed to stop and think things through, because not thinking things through was what had gotten me hurt in the past. But my body didn’t give a shit, and appeared to have a mind of its own. My hand slid under Aiden’s shirt.

“Fuck,” he whispered as I tilted his chin up and kissed his neck. My lips trailed back to his ear, sucking the lobe into my mouth for a moment before nipping at the sensitive skin just underneath. “Oh, fuck.”

That was a very satisfying sound.

I didn’t know what it was about Aiden that got under my skin so badly. Maybe it was just how carefree he was, how little he worried about how he came off to other people. How casual he was when he took shots at me. It was so clear he’d never been hurt. So obvious he’d never regretted his choices.

I didn’t want to make him regret me. But I did want to make him shut up. And hearing that little whimper of pleasure—that was incredibly hot.

I felt gross about it, but I wanted Aiden on his knees. Figuratively, at least. Possibly literally. I wanted him to want me so badly that he begged for it.

His hand moved to my waist, palming my cock through my towel, and I shifted my hips out of his reach. He reached forward again, but I grabbed his wrists and brought them above his head, pinning them to the wall. I’d never actually used that move before, but Aiden’s nostrils flared, and he groaned in frustration, and I decided I liked it.

Holding his wrists in position with my left hand, I used my right to stroke him through his jeans, then unzipped him and shoved his pants and briefs down just far enough to let his cock spring free.

I’d already seen him once, but at the time, I’d been more than a little distracted. Now, I could properly enjoy it. He wasn’t massive, but his cock had a sweet little upward curve and felt just right in my hand. He was leaking precum, and I gathered it in my fingers, swirling it around his head.

Aiden whimpered again, wordlessly, and pushed up into my hand. I pressed forward with my hip, pinning even more of him against the wall. He stilled immediately, moaning.

I wasn’t really using any pressure, and my left hand was only barely touching his wrists at this point. I didn’t want him here unless he wanted to be—unless he was making the choice on his own. I knew all too well what it felt like to have that choice taken away from you.

But he just whispered a string of expletives as I stroked his cock, and then tilted his head up, his lips seeking mine. His tongue explored my mouth hungrily, and he nipped at my lower lip. Something about that sent electricity straight to my dick. I was so hard—I needed to finish this before it got out of hand.

Aiden’s breath was coming out in short gasps now. I stroked a finger across his slit, gathering up more precum that was spilling free, then brought my finger to his lips. He sucked it inside greedily. His mouth was hot and wet and tight, and Christ, this was actually a bad idea, because now all I could think about was how good it would feel if he sucked me off, and I really wasn’t prepared to handle that.

I pulled my finger out, dripping wet now, and brought my hand back down. But I slid it past his cock this time and down between his legs until I was stroking his taint. Aiden’s breath caught as I touched him there, but he slid his legs farther apart—as wide as he could with his jeans bunched around his knees—to give me better access.

“Fuck, Nolan,” he whined as I stroked across his hole.

I couldn’t hold his wrists anymore—I needed to feel him in both of my hands. Aiden’s knees shook as I stroked his cock again, using my other hand to circle his hole, then tease the edges, then press the tip of my finger in just the tiniest bit.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh, fuck, I’m gonna come. Nolan, I’m gonna—”

His hips stuttered and his whole body shook as he came. I stroked him through it, not stopping until he’d gone completely still. Only then did I pull my hands away and take a step back. Aiden gazed up at me, eyes wide, lips parted, looking utterly gorgeous and very thoroughly fucked.

Something in my chest lurched, tugging me towards him. I wanted to pull him close and kiss him again. Cover his body with mine and ask him not to leave.

I made myself exhale slowly and walked to the sink instead, washing my hands until I was sure I’d gotten myself under control.

I was still achingly hard, but now that my heartbeat was returning to normal, it was dawning on me just how reckless this had been. What was I thinking, hooking up with someone who hated me, who would probably throw me under the bus at the first opportunity?

Not to mention the fact that there was no way he’d understand my hang-ups around sex. No way he’d respect them, if I even explained. He was only twenty-one. For a million and one reasons, I needed to stay away from him.

Aiden still looked dazed when I turned around. “What,” he asked softly, “was that?”

My jaw clenched. I didn’t have a good explanation for him. I didn’t even have a good explanation for myself.

I’d lived like a monk for the past year. What was it about Aiden, of all people, that made me lose control?

“That was me finding out if you were capable of shutting up for more than five seconds,” I said, forcing a shrug. “Apparently, the answer is yes. Let’s see if you can carry some of that energy forward through the rest of the week.”

I brushed past him towards the door, but before I could walk out, Aiden grabbed my wrist.

I froze, my heart leaping back into my throat. A ridiculous reaction, considering how I’d held his wrists just minutes ago. But I really didn’t like it when people touched me when I wasn’t expecting it.

“Wait,” he said.

Against my better judgement, I turned around. He must have seen something in my eyes, because he let go of my wrist. But he didn’t look away. His stare was almost defiant.

“You’re not—” He broke off and tried again. “That is, you didn’t let me—” He shook his head and growled. “What I’m trying to say is, I could—”

Aiden cut himself off a third time but gestured at the towel around my waist. It was clear what he was offering. It had been clear since he’d grabbed my wrist. But I shook my head.

“No.” I slipped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

I was dripping with sweat by the time I made it back to my room. I couldn’t even make it to my bed—I just slumped against the door as soon as I stepped inside, goosebumps breaking out all over my body. I hadn’t even gotten a chance to shower, but there was no way I could go back in that bathroom for a while.

I needed to calm down. Nothing had happened. Or, well, nothing had happened to me. I’d been in control the whole time. I’d been the one guiding us. None of that would have happened if I hadn’t kissed him in the first place.

So why did I feel so unmoored? So panicky. Like I was seconds away from coming undone.

Was it just because I was sober? The only other hookup I’d had this year, I’d purposefully gotten drunk for. I’d had all night to prepare, I’d walked into it with my eyes open, and I didn’t regret it, but I’d still needed to have a buzz before I could think about doing anything at all.

Being around Aiden provided its own kind of buzz, but not a very relaxing one. It felt like falling from the top of a roller coaster, over and over again. This was the closest I’d gotten to sex, sober, since…

Fuck. What the hell had I been thinking? Why did I care what Aiden thought about me? He was a brat. An immature, loudmouth, attention-seeking brat. I didn’t give a shit what he thought.

And I certainly wasn’t going to let him see how much he’d rattled me.

I took a deep breath. My cock was still crying out for attention, but I decided to ignore it. I didn’t deserve that relief, frankly. Besides, I wasn’t sure jerking off wouldn’t also release whatever panic attack I was currently skirting the edges of, and we were supposed to be filming more this afternoon. I needed to keep it together.

A good mantra for the whole show, really. I’d come on A Piece of Cake to win money that my mom and I desperately needed. That was my only goal. And I wasn’t going to let some kid who was barely of legal drinking age derail that.

“ Fans of A Piece of Cake have been salivating for the premiere of Season 13, and Wednesday’s episode proves worth the wait, with a gorgeous new setting, delicious baked goods, and, of course, the real eye candy—some absolutely scrumptious new contestants, ” Em said, reading aloud from his phone.

He reached across his boyfriend, Tate, where they sat on a swing on the Wisteria Inn’s front porch, to grab his glass of wine. Mal and Deacon sat on a bench next to them, and I was leaning back against the porch railing, tilting my head up to look at the wisteria dripping down from the eaves.

Despite the fact that all the contestants were staying at Mal and Deacon’s inn, I felt like I’d barely seen my friends since I got here, let alone had a chance to catch up. Mal had insisted on us eating dinner together tonight. We’d brought it out to the porch so we wouldn’t get in the way of the film crew and production assistants and general chaos that reigned inside.

In addition to manning one of the roaming cameras that filmed inside the baking tent, Em was Deacon’s youngest brother. He was also dating my old college roommate, Tate. The two of them lived on the outskirts of town, and Mal had invited them to join us as well. He’d made pizza and opened a couple of bottles of wine for everyone to share.

Well, everyone except me. I was still rattled from what had happened on Monday with Aiden, and I wanted all my wits about me. But even so, sitting out here with my friends as dusk fell, I’d begun to relax for the first time since arriving on Summersea.

Right up until Em started reading an online review of the first episode, that was. It had aired last night and, apparently, the internet was all aflutter.

“All I do is shoot raw footage,” he’d explained as he pulled the article up. “I don’t get to see how it’s edited together, much less how people will react. I’m curious.”

Which was fair, I supposed, except it sent my anxiety levels through the roof. All I needed now was for Aiden to walk out onto the porch and say something equal parts infuriating and arousing to complete the maelstrom of panic swirling around in my chest.

I worked so hard to maintain control at all times. To keep myself calm and composed—or at least to appear that way on the outside. Aiden shot that all to hell.

“Hear that?” Mal said, turning to Deacon. “Gorgeous setting. I told you it was a good idea to let them film here.”

“They might just be talking about Summersea in general,” Deacon said with a shrug.

“He’s being modest,” Em snorted.

Mal laughed. “That, or he’s sad that they didn’t refer to him as scrumptious-looking, too.”

“Believe it or not, I’m actually quite happy with the internet not knowing I exist, much less having an opinion about my appearance,” Deacon said.

Tate poked Em in the side. “Keep reading.”

“ Season 13 takes place on the island of Summersea, Georgia, which couldn’t get any quainter if it tried. I counted four antique shoppes— that’s shops with an extra ‘P’ and an ‘E’ at the end,” Em clarified. “ Four antique shoppes, three ice cream places, and more gingerbread architecture than you can shake a baguette at in the opening credits, and that’s before the camera slowly pans over the Wisteria Inn, the host of this season’s competition. If that name triggers visions of flower-draped wrap-around porches, scalloped pink shingles, gabled roofs, and a cluster of kittens gambolling in a laundry basket lying in a patch of sun, congratulations, you’re either psychic or you watched last night’s episode as well. It’s almost too cute, and I predict that the Wisteria Inn will be fully booked from here to eternity by the time this season wraps. ”

“There, see.” Mal smiled triumphantly. “I told you so.”

“Let’s hope everyone looking for a vacation this year reads this review,” Deacon laughed.

“What’s it say about the contestants?” Tate asked, leaning over to look at Em’s screen.

“Hold on.” Em pulled his phone away. “I’m reading.”

“Well, read faster.” Tate flashed me a grin. “I want to hear all about how America fell in love with our favorite ass-tattooed restaurant manager.”

“Ass tattoo?” Mal said, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Before I met you,” I told him. I glared at Tate. “I got that removed, you know.”

“I don’t know,” Tate said with a shrug. “After all, I haven’t seen your ass lately, have I?”

“Wait, why have you seen Nolan’s ass at all?” Deacon asked.

I ran a hand over my face. “It’s not important. It was the result of an extremely drunken night in college that I prefer not to think about.”

“Oh, come on. It was a very nice tattoo, from what I remember,” Tate said, his voice far too sincere. “High quality. Great shading and line work. There’s no reason to be embarrassed.”

A loose pillow lay by my feet, and I considered throwing it at his head.

“Yeah, sure,” I told him. “That’s why you kept your tongue ring in, too.”

Mal turned to Deacon and whispered, “Tongue ring?”

Em just snickered, which confirmed my suspicion that Tate had told him the story of that night. It had been the first time I’d ever gotten truly wasted, and had ended with a very regrettable tattoo that I’d had to pay to get painstakingly removed later.

You’d think that night alone would have been enough to teach me to be more careful, but evidently, I was someone who needed to learn things the hard way.

“Come on,” Deacon said, reaching out with his foot to nudge the swing that Em and Tate sat on. “What’s it say about Nolan?”

“Give me a sec, I’m scrolling.” Em’s thumb swiped along his screen. “Okay, first they’re talking about Lucinda, then Omar, and then—oh, here it is. Nolan McAllister, a twenty-eight-year-old restaurant manager from Washington, DC, looks to be this season’s— ” He snapped his teeth shut.

Shit. I knew something was wrong. I’d felt it on Monday. I’d been too stiff, too awkward on camera. And that fight with Aiden hadn’t helped.

“This season’s what?” Tate asked, leaning over to look at Em’s phone again. Em pressed the screen to his chest. “What do they say about him? This season’s contestant to beat? This season’s most crush-worthy baker?”

“It’s not that interesting,” Em said. “The whole article is pretty boring, actually. Doesn’t say anything I didn’t already know.”

“You seemed to find the article pretty fascinating until thirty seconds ago,” Tate countered. “Come on, what does it say?”

“Nothing,” Em protested, sliding his phone farther over on his chest as Tate tried to grab it from him. “They just say his bakes went well and he—no, Tate, don’t!”

He’d stretched his arm out, trying to keep the phone from Tate, but Tate was taller and had a much longer reach. He snatched the phone from Em’s hands, then stood up so Em couldn’t take it back.

Tate paced a bit while he scanned the screen, then found the place where Em had broken off. I felt like I was going to hurl.

“Okay, here we go. Nolan McAllister, a twenty-eight-year-old restaurant manager from Washington, DC, looks to be this season’s first recipient of the villain edit. He’s equally as attractive as Omar, but the similarities between the two men end there. Where Omar is jovial and open, Nolan seems set on making himself appear as unfriendly as possible. ”

Tate looked over at me. “Jesus, what did you do, murder someone on camera?”

I closed my eyes and shook my head. I fucking knew it.

Tate went back to reading. “ It’s too early in the show to know what will happen, but Nolan seems to be daring voters to like him. Perhaps he’s just uncomfortable on camera, but he comes across as cold and curt. While Vivian and Tanner praised his shortbread as technically skilled, there’s not a lot about Nolan that screams, ‘Vote for me.’ Based on what I’ve seen, I’ll be surprised if America wants him to stick around in the tent for very long. ”

“Wait, what?” Mal jumped up off the bench and walked over to Tate, frowning down at the phone like he thought Tate had misread something.

My stomach sank through the floorboards. I knew doing this show was a bad idea. I was too uncomfortable, too weird. Viewers could probably smell it on me, even through the TV.

Mal’s eyes widened as he took the phone and scanned the article. He looked at me in consternation.

“Why would they say that about you? They’re making you sound like an asshole. That’s so unfair.”

“It’s not unfair,” I said heavily. “It’s true.”

“It’s true that you’re an asshole?”

I sighed. “That’s probably how I came off. I’m awkward on camera.”

“Yeah, but they’re making it sound like you were deliberately picking fights. Listen to this.” Mal held the phone up again. “ About the only thing Nolan can hope for, aside from people who are into the whole cold-fish thing, is maybe getting the LGBTQ vote, but the show has changed things up this year by casting not one but two queer contestants. That’s right—in addition to Nolan, who’s bisexual, although he’d apparently rather it not come up, A Piece of Cake has also cast Aiden Hastings, a twenty-one-year-old actor-slash-barista from Los Angeles, California, who doesn’t know his eclairs from his elbows, but at least knows how to smile. ”

“Aiden,” Deacon said, his brows drawing down. “He’s up on the third floor, right?”

“Yeah, right next to Nolan,” Mal said. “They share a bathroom.”

They both looked at me, a silent question in their eyes. It wasn’t accusatory. It’s not like they knew what had happened in there. But I squirmed anyway.

“He’s annoying,” I said, hating how defensive I sounded. “But I’m not going to put poison in his toothpaste or anything.”

“You sure about that?” Mal quirked an eyebrow, then went back to reading. “ A Piece of Cake fans live for the drama as much as for the fabulous bakes, and though this episode is the first of the season, it doesn’t hold back. Aiden simpers and snarks his way through the challenge, and at one point, Nolan loses his temper with him entirely. When asked if he thinks other contestants on the show rely on style over substance, Nolan snipes that he’s there to bake, not perform regressive stereotypes. The comment is clearly directed at Aiden, who retorts that he would expect any member of the LGBTQ community to know how harmful surface-level judgements can be. He brings up a good point, and one does have to wonder just what kind of representation Nolan thinks he’s providing. ”

“That’s not exactly how it happened,” I said.

Though I should have known better. Tanner had as good as promised that they would edit our words to sound however they wanted. Why wouldn’t they make me look as shitty as possible? It made for better TV.

Mal looked over at Em. “Was it really as bad as it sounds?”

Em shrugged. “I mean, no. Aiden is kind of—well, he’s…a lot. Can’t bake at all, as far as I can tell, but he’s good at playing to the camera. His personality is just…an acquired taste. And it sounds like they edited that interaction for maximum drama.”

Mal frowned. “I still think this is biased against Nolan.” His finger flicked along the screen as he scrolled more. “Okay, here’s a commenter who agrees with me, though— It’s not anyone’s job to provide representation, good or bad. If you’re a contestant on this show, your job is to bake. At least Nolan knows how to do that .”

It was nice to hear, but unless everyone agreed with that commenter, I was probably screwed. Viewers could vote until midnight tonight, and we’d find out the results tomorrow. On camera, of course. I was already dreading it.

“Here’s another,” Mal said. “ Aiden said in his confessional that his luggage got sent to Kansas City by mistake, and I think his baking skills must have gotten lost too. The guy’s a walking stereotype in the worst way, and I will not be voting for him .”

“That’s good,” Tate said, flashing me an encouraging smile. “People are smart enough to see through those editing choices.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But how many comments has Mal had to scroll past where people call me an asshole and hope I go home?”

Everyone looked at Mal, who winced. “I plead the fifth.”

“See?” I said.

“So what gives?” Deacon asked, leaning forward. “What’s the deal with Aiden?”

I shrugged. I didn’t want my friends to know how much time I’d spent asking myself the same question. And I definitely didn’t want them to find out what had happened between us. The more we talked about Aiden, the more danger I was in of slipping up.

I opened my mouth to tell Deacon I barely knew Aiden, and instead said, “He’s an ass.”

Whoops.

“I was an ass once too.” Tate grinned. “And we ended up friends. Maybe you and Aiden are destined to be best friends by the time this is over.”

I picked the pillow up and threw it at him. “You still are an ass. Just a different kind of one.”

“How so?” Deacon asked. “What’s so bad about him? Aiden, I mean.”

I did not want to talk about this. I needed to change the subject, to shift focus to literally anything else. Once again, I opened my mouth to do so, and once again, I failed completely.

“He’s not even taking it seriously,” I grumbled. “It’s clear he has no idea how to bake, and that he’s just here for—honestly, I don’t even know what he’s here for. And I know it’s not anyone’s responsibility to represent the whole LGBT community or anything, but I swear, it’s like he’s trying to set gay rights back by twenty years. He’s shallow and artificial and unapologetically incompetent, and he’s playing it for laughs. Like, Hey, world, please make queer men the butt of all your jokes, it’s totally cool and funny to make fun of us. You know he actually said that he didn’t care about winning, if he found a boyfriend instead? How fucked up is that? It doesn’t matter how cute you are, if you’re going to—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Mal said, interrupting my rant. “You think he’s cute?”

I growled, mad at myself, not Mal. I hadn’t meant to say that. I hadn’t meant to say any of that.

“I didn’t mean that I personally thought he was cute.”

“ I personally think he’s cute,” Em volunteered.

“Me too,” Tate said with a grin. “At least, based on the pictures in this article. No one’s judging you, Nolan.”

I’m judging me.

“He looks fine, okay? I honestly haven’t given it that much thought.” That wasn’t true, but maybe if I said it enough times, I could convince myself. “The point is that it doesn’t matter what you look like if all you’re going to do is make a fool of yourself.”

Mal frowned.

“What?” I said. “You’re not going to pipe up and say that you think he’s cute too?”

Mal rolled his eyes. “I think we’ve covered Aiden’s potential cuteness pretty thoroughly. No, I was just thinking that it sucks that people don’t see what we see. You’re not an asshole. We know that, but if nobody else does…” He gave me a tentative look. “You don’t think you could try to be a little nicer. Or like, goofier, on camera? Just so people know you have a sense of humor?”

“I wasn’t trying to come across badly in the first place,” I griped.

“I know, I know. But just, think about it, okay? We’ve only had you here for a few days. It would suck if you went back to DC tomorrow.”

He had a point. And not just because it would be nice to spend more time with my friends. If I got sent home tomorrow, I’d have lost my chance to win that money.

That was my priority—and I’d do whatever it took to make that happen.

“Welcome back, bakers,” Tanner said on Friday morning, his teeth blindingly white.

It was seven o’clock, and they’d already filmed the group of us walking into the tent four times. Hard to capture the right mix of excitement and nerves on camera, I guess. For my part, it wasn’t so much nerves as it was pure terror. By the time we sat down, ready to learn the results of the voting, I was ready to pass out.

“We want to begin by saying congratulations to all of you,” Vivian said, clasping her wooden spoon in front of her like a microphone. “It’s only been a few days, but I know that we already feel like a family here. America has watched the first episode, and I have to say—”

She kept talking, but I was too keyed up to listen. My body was thrumming with energy—fear, really—and only the fact that the tent was lined with cameras, focusing on each of us in turn, kept me from bolting out of my seat and hurling myself into the ocean.

From the front-right corner of the tent, Em gave me a covert thumbs up, and his friend, Nora, smiled, but I couldn’t even smile back. I was paralyzed. Tanner began reading out the names of the contestants who were safe, and the more he read without mine appearing, the more I began to wonder if I might be the first contestant in A Piece of Cake history to throw up on camera.

“And Aiden,” Tanner said, finishing up his list and gracing the tent with another flashbulb smile. “You all gathered enough votes to make it into next week’s episode.”

Somewhere down the line of stools from me, I heard Aiden gasp. I could see him clapping his hands to his cheeks in shock out of the corner of my eye. I was sure it was feigned, but I refused to look any closer.

“Nolan, Tiffany, and Miriam,” Vivian said, beckoning the three of us whose names hadn’t been called, “please step forward.”

I slipped off my stool in a daze. I couldn’t look at anyone else, could barely see straight enough to walk up to where the judges stood. This was it. I was going home after the first episode. I was going to embarrass myself utterly and completely fail my mom.

I barely heard Vivian as she spoke about our strengths and weaknesses—until she got to me, that was.

“Nolan, your weakness—well, it’s not baking-related, I’ll say that. You’ve clearly been practicing and taking this show seriously. Some of your fellow contestants could learn from you in that regard, to be frank. But it appears the audience just isn’t connecting with you. To tell the truth, you’re the baker who received the lowest amount of votes this week.”

Here it came. They were going to send me packing.

“However, Tanner and I agree that it would be a shame to lose someone who shows so much promise, so early. While we encourage you to work on connecting with the viewers and your fellow bakers, we know that’s only possible if you’re here for another week. And so, we’ve decided to send you on to the next episode.”

I stared at her in shock. I was sure I’d misheard. Vivian cocked her head to the side, her smile going a touch confused, and Tanner’s brow furrowed.

“I’m sorry,” I said, hating how stupid I looked. “But did you say—am I going—”

“You’re safe, Nolan,” Tanner said. “You’re sticking around for another week.”

He gave me a broad grin. Smarmy though it was, in that moment, I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I thanked him and Vivian—at least, I thought I did, though I was in so much shock I couldn’t be sure—and stumbled back to my stool. I was safe. I wasn’t going home.

Yet, said a little voice in the back of my mind. You’re not going home, yet. Don’t get too comfortable.

But still, relief washed over me. I was getting a second chance, and I was going to make the most of it.

So I concentrated on smiling gratefully, and then giving Tiffany a hug when the judges announced she’d be going home. I made small talk with Lucinda, an older woman whose workstation was across the aisle from mine, as we wondered what next week’s challenge would be.

And when the judges announced that we’d be making cakes next week, topped with a sugar sculpture, I did my best to act thrilled. I was still more terrified than anything else, but terrified and thrilled were close enough cousins that it would work for the cameras, right?

We spent the rest of the day in the tent, trying out recipes and practicing, cameras filming as we messed around, deciding what the final components of our recipes would be. I couldn’t say I sparkled or anything, but I helped a contestant named Roy when he had trouble getting his sugar to the right consistency, and I managed to ignore Aiden, which was a feat in and of itself. All in all, I was feeling rather confident by the time Monday rolled around.

I should have known that was a sign of impending disaster.

Bakers weren’t supposed to get any outside help once the show began filming, but Mal had pounded one thing into my head over and over in the weeks beforehand—don’t make anything harder than you need to.

“Remember,” he’d advised, “you don’t have to be the best baker each week. You just have to be good enough to make it through to the next round.”

I’d tried to keep that in mind when I settled on this week’s recipe. Our cakes were supposed to be three-tiered, and I’d picked a nice, simple vanilla cake base that was relatively hard to mess up, as long as you didn’t overbake it. That would leave me plenty of time for decorating and sugar-work, at least in theory.

The trick would be not losing my concentration—especially once the theatrics began at Aiden’s workstation.

I’d only just measured out the flour I’d need for my largest cake tier when I heard him cry, “Shit!” in front of me, followed by, “Oh, fuck, I’m not supposed to curse, am I? Shit, sorry.”

I shook my head. I was not going to get distracted. I went back to my cake, adding in my baking powder and salt, trying to remember what Mal had said about not overmixing.

“Oh fuck, I forgot the egg whites, I need to start again,” Aiden cried a couple minutes later, and this time, I couldn’t help it—I looked up to see him frowning down at a mixing bowl on his countertop. His apron was covered in flour and he had a sprinkling of granulated sugar on his cheek, though we’d barely been baking for ten minutes.

He looked delicious, frankly. And like he needed help. But that was none of my business.

I wasn’t going to think about Aiden. I most certainly wasn’t going to worry about Aiden. My job today was to bake well and not look like an asshole. Any interaction I had with him would only make that second goal harder.

Besides, if Aiden’s cake turned out to be terrible, that just meant there was more chance of him going home, right? My stomach tightened weirdly at the thought, but I ignored it. He was not my responsibility.

But as the challenge progressed, and as Aiden continued to mess things up, I couldn’t help feeling a little bad for him.

There was the muttered, “Oh, crap!” when he exploded a stick of butter in his microwave.

A bitten off, “Goddammit,” when he burned his hand on the oven, putting one of his cakes in.

A desperate, “Oh, fuck me,” when he pulled that cake out and it was completely sunken in the center. “What the hell did I do wrong?”

Any number of things could have gone wrong, from what I could see. Maybe he’d forgotten to add any raising agent. Maybe he’d forgotten his egg whites again, or over-whipped them, or under-whipped them. Without seeing his recipe, I couldn’t be sure.

Aiden looked around the tent wildly, shaking his hands, and when he glanced back in my direction, he had tears in his eyes. But when he saw me looking, his gaze went flinty.

“What?” he snapped.

“I wasn’t—I didn’t—I just thought maybe I could—”

“Oh, you j-j-just thought maybe you could yell at me again about p-p-p-paying more attention to my baking? And then maybe shit like this wouldn’t h-h-h-happen?”

I recoiled. That was a shitty thing to say. I didn’t actually have a stutter, but what if I had? What about his big lecture about how being LGBT should make you less judgemental, not more?

“Asshole,” I muttered, looking back down at my workstation.

“If you have something to say to me, just say it.” Aiden’s voice cracked like a whip in the space between us.

I refused to look up. I wasn’t going to take the bait. I wasn’t going to give him anything else to react to, wasn’t going to give him another chance to twist my words and make me look like the bad guy. He wasn’t worth my time.

“Right, that’s what I thought,” he said. His voice dripped with satisfaction. “Not brave enough to actually take a stand about anything.”

My head snapped up.

“No, I just don’t need to say anything because you’ve already said it for me.” I glared at him. “If you didn’t practice, or take the time to read your recipe carefully, that’s no one’s problem but yours.”

“And if you end up in the bottom three again because you’re a stuck-up, preening snob and no one likes you, that’s no one’s problem but yours, either,” Aiden retorted.

“Well, let’s hope you don’t end up there with me, because your baking skills sure as hell won’t save you.”

“God, are you always this arrogant?”

“Are you always this rude?”

“No, I tend to save it for the self-hating dickheads who take their own internalized homophobia out on other people.”

“For the last time, it’s not homophobia if someone doesn’t like you,” I spat. “It’s just goddamn common sense.”

Aiden flushed and didn’t respond—which was when I noticed, for the first time, that the entire tent was silent. Someone standing near the front whistled, long and low, and I knew without needing to look that all four roaming cameras would be trained on us.

So much for looking like less of an asshole this week. I wanted to snap something in half—except that wouldn’t help my situation at all. The only thing I could hope for was that people would finally notice it was Aiden who was causing problems, not me.

I mean, he was, wasn’t he? I didn’t think I was being irrational. It had to be Aiden pushing things because if it wasn’t, that meant I was losing control for no reason, and I couldn’t have that.

Slowly, I looked down at the countertop. Made my hands get back to work. My movements felt stiff and mechanical, but there was so much left to do, and I needed to have a good bake to show the judges.

So I did my best. I kept my eyes down and didn’t interact with anyone else for the rest of the challenge. I forced myself to be a machine, to lose myself in the work. And I did not pay attention to Aiden, no matter what he did.

I didn’t react when I heard him curse that he’d dropped half a bottle of vanilla into his batter and needed to start again. Didn’t react when one of the attachments from his stand mixer came loose and sent flour flying everywhere. Didn’t even react when he began reading the ingredients for his third cake aloud, like a fucking grocery list.

Butter, sugar, salt, egg whites, vanilla, milk, baking powder, flour . Over and over again, like he was trying to memorize them. It was irritating as hell, but I wasn’t paying attention.

Except, I was. So, of course, I noticed when Aiden began adding his ingredients together and skipped the egg whites. I noticed—and I didn’t say anything.

Guilt formed an oil slick in my stomach, but it wasn’t any of my business. He’d made it clear he didn’t want any help from me, so he could sink or swim on his own. There was no rule saying you had to help other bakers. And it wasn’t like Aiden would help me if our roles had been reversed.

Nora swung by a few minutes later, along with Em and his camera, and asked me to describe what I was making for the viewers. I was at the sugar-work stage, creating a delicate dome of pink and green to enclose the cake like a birdcage. She gave me a sympathetic smile before moving up to Aiden’s workstation to ask him the same question.

“Well, it was supposed to be a three-tiered cake, obviously. But this bottom tier didn’t quite turn out the way I’d hoped. It’s curved the wrong way.” Aiden grinned. “Still, it’s got a nice jiggle. And it would be perfect for filling with cream. Bottoms love that.”

Nora snorted, and the camera shook on Em’s shoulders.

There were only five minutes to go, and I needed to transfer my birdcage over to my cake board before adding the finishing touches. It was finicky work, so even when Aiden opened his oven and began having a meltdown about his eggless final cake, I was determined to ignore him.

He rushed past me to the back of the tent, where the extra ingredients were kept. I didn’t bother to look at what he was doing. I didn’t care what he was doing. I had my own cake to worry about.

I should have paid more attention.

Maybe it was karma. Maybe it was just bad luck. Whatever you wanted to call it, it was a disaster.

I placed my sugar birdcage over my cake and exhaled. I picked the whole board up and walked it slowly to the edge of my workstation. I set it back on the counter delicately, then frowned, wondering if the cage was a little off-center

I’d just leaned in, my hands extending to tweak it, when something crashed into me from behind. I fell forward, then to the side, and then to the floor. And I brought my whole cake down with me.

It took me a second to realize what had happened. All I could see at first was an explosion of colors, an abstract kaleidoscope of shapes. And stars, because the wind had been knocked out of me.

Slowly, the colors and shapes resolved into smears of frosting and globs of cake, broken up in front of me like wreckage from a bomb. Little bits of sugar sculpture studded the scene like shrapnel.

And behind me, Aiden whispered, “Oh my God, I am so sorry.”