Chapter 23
Emma
“Idon’t know if I can get through this. I’m not in the mood.” I run my brush through my hair for what seems like the umpteenth time. My hair’s tangle free, unlike my nerves. I didn’t sleep much last night after Alex’s sudden visit. Thinking about him standing me up at the park brings on more hurt and embarrassment. I can’t believe I started to have feelings for him. And the problem is that I still do have feelings for him. I just can’t shake it, no matter what I do or what anyone says.
“You can, and you will,” Rhonda insists. “Just breathe and remember why you’re here,” she says, offering a comforting smile. “I know you’re upset, but don’t let Alex cloud your focus on this competition.”
“Have you seen him?” I reluctantly inquire.
With a hesitant nod, she answers, “He’s with the other judges.”
I exhale sharply, my attention momentarily drifting away from our conversation to the bustling environment around us. Contestants are chatting and laughing amongst themselves, the talking almost echoing in the room. There must be twenty of us, at least. A lot of competition—a lot.
Despite the scene, my mind keeps wandering back to Alex. Rhonda’s touch on my shoulder snaps me back to reality.
“This is your moment, Emma,” she whispers, her encouragement grounding me.
I push out another sharp breath, trying to steady myself. Although I’m in a small room waiting for my time in the competition, I can’t help but feel a sense of isolation, despite the horde of competitors around me.
A blonde-haired contestant walks up and smiles at me.
“Nervous about today?” she asks, her voice a little too hyped up, her eyes scanning the room.
I nod, attempting a smile. “A bit. More than I expected to be, honestly.”
She leans in, lowering her voice as if sharing a confidential secret. “You know, this is my third year here. I’m Ariana.”
“Oh, right,” I say, recognizing her face all of a sudden. “I watch the bake-off all the time. I knew I’d seen you before. You won second place last year, didn’t you?”
She nods. “Is this your first time?”
“Yes,” I admit. “Hence the obvious nervousness that’s blasting from me.”
Ariana tilts her head back in a laugh. “You’re not that obvious.”
“Yeah right.” But I can’t help smiling as I extend my hand. “I’m Emma.”
She takes my hand, narrowing her eyes. “Emma, huh? My cousin visited a bakery here in town. Heritage Bakery. She says an Emma works there.”
Again, I smile. “That’s me. Or it was me. I don’t work there anymore.”
“That’s a shame. She says you make the best red velvet tarts she’s ever had. And, trust me, she’s had them all.”
“Wow, that’s such a great compliment,” I say, feeling flustered.
“Our town loves her pastries,” Rhonda interjects.
“I’m sure for good reason. What are you doing for the bake-off?” Ariana asks.
“Uh, croissants,” I tell her.
“Nice,” she says. “I love a good croissant, though I’m not good at making them.”
“What are you doing?” Rhonda asks.
Ariana beams. “Matcha Green Tea Mochi Cake with a Raspberry Coulis. I thought about doing something like a Victoria Sponge Cake, but I have an insider who told me about a few of the judges for this year. They’re like, super hard to please. I knew I needed something more complex. And the Matcha Green Tea Mochi Cake is my sister’s favorite, so I’ve become a pro at making it.”
“Wow,” I say, forcing a smile. But, inside, my heart is beating hard against my chest. I already know of a judge whose preference is something more advanced in his cooking. And while his isn’t the only opinion I need in my favor, if I fail to get the other few judges, I may not stand a chance. “Good luck,” I say, pulling Rhonda away.
“Good luck to you, Emma!” Ariana calls out.
“Something wrong?” Rhonda asks.
I suck in a breath, forcing it out. “I think I’m in trouble.”
Rhonda narrows her eyes. “What? What’s wrong?”
“I need you to do me a favor. And I need you to hurry. You have thirty minutes to get back.” My voice is low, harsh, and trembling. I don’t know if Rhonda will make it back. I have an idea, but I don’t have what I need on hand.
“Yes, anything,” Rhonda says.
“Go to my house. I need about eight ounces of Brie cheese. Like, three months ago.”
“Okay,” Rhonda says.
“Hurry.”
“I’ll be back soon. I promise.”
She leaves me, standing alone with my nerves exploding through me. I go to sit down because I feel like my legs are going to crumple beneath me. I glance at my watch. Twenty-nine minutes until showtime. I sigh. I want this so bad, I can almost taste it. But it’s because I want it so bad, it makes me wonder if I’m going to lose it.
Again, I look at my watch, Twenty-eight minutes to go. I’ve really got to stop doing that.
I get up to stretch my legs and go make conversations with other contestants, silently urging Rhonda to hurry up.
At exactly twenty-eight minutes later, the loudspeaker echoes throughout the room, announcing the start of the Great American Broadcasting’s bake-off competition. The announcer’s voice fills the room with excitement, recounting the history of the competition and the substantial prizes awarded over the years. I catch sight of Ariana making her way toward me, her face beaming with confidence.
“Time is here,” she chirps. “You ready, Emma?”
I muster a smile, though my heart races with nervous anticipation. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I respond, my gaze drifting toward the door in hopes of seeing Rhonda return with the crucial ingredient for my croissants. As contestants, we’re ushered to our stations, the grand hall of the town transformed into a baker’s arena, each station equipped for the culinary challenge ahead. I’m both nervous and excited to be here on a lot of levels. I’ve been preparing for this since I submitted my entry, and now that the time is here, I don’t feel ready.
The competition is structured into three rounds: the signature bake, the technical challenge, and the showstopper. Each round is designed to test our baking skills and creativity, with elimination at the end of each. The judges this year, as promised, are to be blindfolded during the taste test. I watch as they are guided to their tasting table. Despite my frustration on a personal level with Alex, I’m thankful he was thoughtful enough to suggest the blindfold. This anonymity will ensure their impartiality, focusing solely on the taste, texture, and aroma of our creations, although I know they’ll be watching us all like hawks as we prepare our food. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing as I realize I’ll be under Alex’s watchful gaze. I’m not sure I can do this. I pull in several slow breaths, trying to steady my nerves, telling myself I can do this.
But as we begin, I feel the absence of the Brie cheese weighing heavily on my mind. I can do the croissants without it, but a nagging part of me truly believes that I will fail without it.
The clock ticks down as the head judge tells us the rules and what will happen throughout the day. And then, I have no choice but to start. My heart’s racing as I prepare the dough, briefly distracted by the door that won’t open, revealing Rhonda. Just as I resign myself to proceed without it, she slips through the door, her expression a mix of triumph and exhaustion. She hands me the gourmet cheese, and relief floods through me. Grateful, I quickly incorporate the Brie into my croissant dough, hoping this twist will set my pastries apart. My heart’s still racing.
I have to laugh at myself. Of all the time I’ve been fighting with Alex about innovation, here I am doing just that. Won’t he be surprised?
The first round passes in a blur of flour, butter, and the steady hum of ovens at work. The judges are jotting down notes, their faces lacking emotion. Once our time is up, we step back from our stations, and watch as the assistances blindfold the judges.
My eyes are on Alex, who is carefully evaluating each baked food. Each judge is paired with an assistant who stands discreetly at their side, quietly taking notes on their behalf. But when he tastes my croissants, I can’t tell what he thinks of it.
For the technical challenge, we’re tasked with making Lemon Basil Madeleines. I focus intently, zesting lemons with precision and folding in the finely chopped basil into the batter. Rhonda remains by my side, assisting me. I’m thankful she’s here. It helps calm my nerves to a point.
Finally, after the madeleines finish baking, the judges taste each, then after a tense deliberation, the judges announce the results. Several bakers are thanked for their participation but will not continue to the next round. There’s relief among those remaining, which includes me. We take a break to collect ourselves before the final round.
Rhonda and I return to the little room we were in before.
“You’re doing great,” Rhonda says, putting a hand on my shoulder.
Pulling in a breath, I force it out sharply. “I don’t know what he is thinking. I don’t know what any of them are thinking.”
“Well, I’d say they’re thinking the croissants and your Madeline are the best they’ve ever tasted.” She shrugs. “Then again, I’m biased. Stop worrying.”
I know she’s right. I keep second guessing myself. I never used to. I don’t know why I am now. Is it because of Alex? Is it because I want to win so much? Or maybe I just feel so out of my element? After all, a good number of these pastry chefs are pros.
After our break ends, we’re ushered back to our stations. We’re briefed on the final round: the showstopper. Here lies our fate. Or in actuality, my fate.
The timer starts. Deciding on a Brie, Apple, and Walnut Tart, I carefully blend the creamy Brie into my pastry dough, layer the tart with thinly sliced apples, and sprinkle over the chopped walnuts for that perfect crunch. My heart beats in my chest as I slide the tart into the oven, my eyes frequently darting to the ticking clock and then back to the oven door, willing it to bake to perfection.
When the timer ends, the town hall is silent, too silent. I’m well aware of the cameras and my blood pulsing. The judges take their time tasting each creation, their thoughtful silence punctuated only by the occasional nod and whispered notes to their assistants. My eyes study Alex, and I wonder if he can detect the originality I’ve put into my work. I’m also wondering why I still care about what he thinks of me.
After a few moments that feel like an eternity, the head judge takes the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, his voice echoing through the silent hall, “this year’s competition showcased exceptional talent and creativity, but one contestant stood out with a remarkable combination of skill, innovation, and taste.”
The pause before the announcement stretches on, every second amplifying the tension in the room. “The winner of this year’s Great American Broadcast Baking Show is Emma Thompson!”
Cheers erupt from the crowd. A mixture of relief, happiness, and disbelief floods me. My knees weaken, and for a moment, I fear I might collapse under the weight of my emotions. Rhonda squeals, throwing her arms around me, jumping up and down with pride.
I feel dizzy, both with the jumping and with hearing the news.
I won. Me. I won the money. I don’t have a building to buy, but I did it. Tears of joy well up in my eyes as I hug Rhonda. This is a dream come true.
As the judges disperse, mingling among the energetic crowd to offer their congratulations to the contestants who tried their best, Alex’s gaze finds mine across the sea of people. There’s a hesitant moment before he makes his way toward me. When he stands before me, extending his hand, the contact sends a surge of warmth through me, a physical connection that reignites the myriad of emotions I’ve been wrestling with.
“Congratulations, Emma,” he says, his voice soft.
I manage a smile, my hand still in his. His touch is tender, reassuring. I don’t want to let it go.
“Thought you didn’t believe in innovation? Thought you believed traditional is the way,” he teases, his lips twitching in a wry smile.
“I still do, but sometimes, I need to step out of my comfort zone,” I reply, echoing his words back at him.
Alex’s expression softens, a vulnerability in his eyes I hadn’t seen before. “I told you before, Emma, you have talent. I knew you could push your talent further. I was right. But you’ve always been exceptional. I hope you know that.”
“Thanks, Alex,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. A part of me wants to linger in this moment, to drown in the sincerity of his words, but another part pulls me away, urging me to retreat before I’m swept away by emotions I’m not ready to confront. That ship has sailed. I grasp Rhonda’s hand and begin pulling her away. “See you around, Alex.”
“Emma, wait.” His voice, laced with urgency, halts my retreat. I turn back to face him, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that leaves me breathless.
“I’m sorry about this past week. It was never my intention to hurt you,” he says, each word carefully chosen.
I shake my head, a gesture meant to dismiss his apology, to shield myself from the pain of recollection. “Forget it, Alex. I get it.”
“No, Emma. You don’t.” He steps closer, his presence enveloping me. “I’d gotten a call from my editor about an assignment that needed completion. She was desperate, and maybe it’s true that I wanted to run away. But I wasn’t running because I didn’t want to be with you. I ran because…I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”
The room around us fades, his words carving out a space where only we exist. He takes my hand again, his touch gentle.
“Give me another chance, Emma. I know I don’t deserve it. Just please. Give me a chance for me to tell you exactly how I feel about you.”
“How you feel,” I echo, the world narrowing down to the space between us, to the earnest plea in his eyes.
“I’m falling in love with you, Emma,” Alex confesses, his voice raw with emotion. “You’ve changed me in ways I never thought possible. And you make me want to be better. Will you give me that chance?”
Tears breach the dams of my eyes. Without a word, I close the distance between us, my arms encircling his neck in an embrace that speaks volumes more than words ever could.
“I’m falling for you too, Alex Carter,” I whisper, the confession mingling with tears and laughter.
His arms tighten around me as we stand there in the middle of town hall. I don’t care if anyone sees. I don’t care that I don’t have a building to buy. Right now, I think I have the one thing I really want. The things I don’t care about—I’ll deal with them later.
I pull back and Alex lightly brushes his lips against mine.