Bake It ‘Til You Make It

Chapter 1

Subject: Congratulations! You’ve been selected for America’s Next Great Baker!

The words glare back at me from my laptop screen, bold and impossible. For a full three seconds, I forget how to breathe.

Then my coffee mug slips from my hand, splashing lukewarm hazelnut roast across the stack of unpaid bills spread over my tiny kitchen table.

Brown swirls bleed into the red PAST DUE stamp on my power bill, turning it into a watercolor of my questionable life choices.

My heart is racing too fast, my hands too shaky.

My mind too blown.

I should reach for the roll of paper towels on the counter and try to save the electric bill from its soggy fate. I should, at the very least, stop staring at the email like it might sprout wings and fly out the window if I look away from it for too long.

But I don’t.

Because—no way, this can’t be real!

I blink once. Then twice. Then lean closer until my nose almost touches the screen, but the words don’t vanish; they stay exactly where they are. Crisp, proud, glorious black text on a stark white background breathing hope into my life.

Congratulations, TAYLOR ROSE MADDEN. You’ve been selected to compete on the PREMIER season of America’s Next Great Baker! Filming begins in Los Angeles on May 3rd. Please confirm your availability at your earliest convenience.

Holy. Freaking. Cupcakes!

I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle the sound that bursts out of me.

Something between a gasp, a laugh, and a full-on scream.

It doesn’t work. A shrieking giggle escapes around my fingers anyway, echoing off the chipped tile backsplash and bouncing around my tiny, first-floor apartment like a runaway balloon.

“I did it,” I whisper. Then louder, “Oh my god, I did it!”

The smile stretching across my face is unstoppable, wide enough to hurt.

I press both palms to my cheeks, feeling them warm under my fingers.

I can already smell the cinnamon rolls, the sugar and butter, the vanilla that never seems to leave my hair when I go on a baking binge, no matter how many showers I take.

In my mind, I see the bakery I’ve always dreamed of come to life.

The tiny bell that sings a sweet, silvery melody when customers walk in.

Bright pink awnings propped on the outside of the building that make the whole street look happier just by existing.

Glass cases lined with pastel macarons, glittering cupcakes, and flaky croissants stacked like towering pieces of art.

Taylor’s Treats.

A place where people smile and remember that life can still be sweet, no matter how ugly the world around us gets. A bright oasis in a life full of gray.

I close my eyes, just for a second, and I can almost hear my grandma humming along to Dolly Parton as she kneads dough beside me, telling me that “baking is just another way to say I love you.” She used to say flour was magic and that if you used it exactly right, it could turn the hardest of hearts into marshmallow.

A lump forms in my throat. I miss Gran so much, but I smile thinking of her, knowing she pulled some strings as my guardian angel to get me this chance. Proof that magic and love don’t abide by time and space.

They’re endless.

Then, faster than I ever thought possible, reality crashes through the sugar haze like a wrecking ball.

Rent. Bills. Work coverage.

Coffee destroying everything on my kitchen table.

“Oh, crap!”

The words burst out of me as I grab a dish towel to dab at the mess, but I’m too late. The coffee’s curling the edges of my overdue notices like burnt pie crust. Figures. The first thing I’ve managed to soak thoroughly in this kitchen isn’t a tres leches cake.

I flop back onto the wobbly chair, rubbing my temples as the excitement begins to war with the dread gathering in my gut.

How am I supposed to disappear for weeks to film a TV show when I can barely afford to take one unpaid day off? When my checking account balance is already sailing somewhere south of pathetic?

I glance around my apartment—the cramped galley kitchen that doubles as a dining room, the couch that’s seen better centuries, the stack of empty shipping boxes I keep telling myself I’ll turn into artsy storage bins someday.

It’s small, messy, and perpetually smells like sugar and coffee, but it’s mine.

A dreamer’s headquarters, even if the rent check bounces more often than I’d ever admit aloud.

I rest my chin in my hand, staring at the screen again. If I lose my job, I lose my health insurance, my car, maybe my apartment. Dreams don’t keep the lights on. Trust me, I’ve tried. What kind of lunatic risks everything on a long shot?

Apparently, this kind.

The kind who grew up baking birthday cakes out of boxed mix and decorating them with her mom and grandma because store-bought was too expensive.

The kind who wrapped up tins of cookies as Christmas presents because that’s what love looked like when money was tight.

The kind who dreamed hard when it made no sense, believing that a bakery could be more than just a business.

That it could be a cornerstone of the community.

I scroll down the email again, rereading every word as if one of them might suddenly say, “Just kidding”. But none of them do; this is real.

It’s signed.

It even has an attachment at the bottom titled, “Contestant Welcome Packet.”

My stomach flips on the word contestant.

That’s me... I’m a contestant.

I shove my phone closer and snap a photo of the email, heart still hammering. The image is a little blurry and has those weird horizontal lines through it. For a second, I hover over my contacts—my mom, my brother, my best friend Kara—but my thumb stops before hitting send.

They’re going to freak out. They’ll start crying, which in turn will make me cry, and I can’t afford to cry right now.

I need to think.

I stand, pacing the length of my kitchen, which takes approximately four and a half steps before I hit the opposite counter. My brain feels like it’s spinning in the bowl of an overworked mixer.

Joy, fear, disbelief, and excitement, all blending together.

I catch my reflection in the microwave door: curly blond hair in a messy bun, an oversized T-shirt, and bright hazel eyes that look a little too hopeful for someone who can’t afford to fix their car starter that sporadically started failing last week.

“Okay,” I say aloud, pointing at my reflection. “You can do this. You’ll figure it out. People on TV always figure it out.”

The microwave version of me doesn’t look convinced.

Not at all.

I grab a bright orange dry-erase marker and start jotting down a stream of consciousness to-do list for myself on the fridge in my loopy handwriting, because that’s what I do when things feel too big. Break them down into bite-sized pieces.

Contact the show to confirm I’m not hallucinating. Tell my boss; maybe beg her to hold my job. Budget for flights. Figure out what to pack. Buy a better whisk since mine literally snapped in half last week.

Don’t panic.

DON’T PANIC!

My phone buzzes on the counter as I’m putting the cap on the marker. I drop it into the wire basket attached to the refrigerator and scoop up my phone with its sunshine-themed case.

KARE-BEAR:

u survive audit hell or did

the trunch make u cry?

I stare at it, thumb hovering over the keyboard, then grin wider. Kara and I started calling our supervisor The Trunch last year after she yelled at someone for taking an extra three minutes on their bathroom break.

All that was missing was the chokey.

The nickname stuck, and now, every time she stomps past our desks, Kara hums Send Me on My Way under her breath, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to lose it.

And to answer her question, The Trunch sure did try to make me cry today, but I held it together, because my call logs this term have been flawless.

ME:

guess who’s about to

be famous?? ?? ??

Three dots appear immediately. Then vanish. Then appear again.

KARE-BEAR:

***

WAIT

WHAT

DID YOU GET IN?!?!

My grin transforms into full-blown laughter, ricocheting through the little kitchen as I spin once in the middle of the floor, arms out like some kind of flour-dusted Disney princess.

I clutch my phone to my chest and bounce in place, unable to control the excitement buzzing through my body.

Before I can reply, the little bubble pops up again.

KARE-BEAR:

girl u better not quit bc i refuse

to suffer at this place place alone ??

I glance at the clock on the microwave. Ten fifty-seven p.m., which means in about nine hours, I’ll be back in my cubicle at Elite Connections Customer Solutions, headset glued to my ear, pretending not to hear Kara snort-laugh whenever someone asks to speak to a manager because our manager is objectively terrible.

“Thank you for calling Elite Connections. This is Taylor. How can I make your day brighter?” I mutter under my breath in my cheerful, customer service voice, mocking the greeting I say on the phone at least sixty times a day. My brain is already tired just thinking about the rest of the week.

It’s not a bad job, exactly… but it is a soul-crushing one. Eight hours of angry customers, hold music that is severely outdated, and the smell of burnt popcorn clinging to the break room microwave.

Why is that smell so hard to get rid of?

But Kara and I make the best of it by passing notes during team meetings, doing a baked goods swap on Fridays, and making eyes at each other over our shared cubicle wall when we have a particularly hostile client on the line.

But still.

It’s not what I’m meant for.

Every time I say that chipper greeting, a little part of me imagines what it would feel like to say a different greeting instead.

“Welcome to Taylor’s Treats. How can we make your day sweeter?”

A smile tugs at my lips. The same one that got me through dozens of shifts, and the customer who once yelled at me because his router’s blinking light was, and I quote, too aggressive.

Kara always says I was born to make people happy, not handle complaints from people who don’t know the difference between the internet and cable.

My best friend is the realist to my dreamer, but she also never rolls her eyes when I talk about pink awnings and always taste-tests everything I bake.

She’s actually the one who made me apply to America’s Next Great Baker in the first place.

“You’re wasting your frosting magic on cranky customers,” she’d told me over tacos one night. “Go be famous already.”

I’d laughed it off, explaining to her that people like me don’t get chosen for TV. But, after a few margaritas, she filled out the application for me, uploading a photo of me holding a whisk like a microphone as my headshot.

Now here I am, staring at the proof that she was right. Again.

My phone vibrates in my hand, shaking me from the memory.

KARE-BEAR:

r u gonna do it??

ME:

i think i have to ??

this might actually be my

chance

KARE-BEAR:

u bring cookies.

i’ll bring champagne.

and if the trunch tries to fire

u for it, i’ll fight her ??

I laugh, blinking against the happy sting in my eyes. Leave it to Kara to make my whole chest ache with gratitude and panic at the same time.

Because she’s right, if I take this chance, there’s no safety net. No extended paid time off, no backup plan. Just me, myself, and a dream I’ve been kneading into shape for years.

I set the phone down, my smile wobbling a little as I glance back at my laptop.

This isn’t just a hobby anymore. It’s a crossroads.

“I GOT IN!” I shout at nobody, then realize the window’s open and Mrs. Delgado from next door is outside watering her plants even though it’s the middle of the night.

My eyes go wide when our gazes meet.

She peers through the screen. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“Living the dream, Mrs. Delgado!” I call back, leaning against the counter to bring my face closer to the window.

“Good for you, honey. But it looks like you left your oven on again.” Her watery pale eyes soften, and she smiles, inclining her head my way.

I whip around. “Oh my gosh!”

Sure enough, the faint aroma of almost-burnt sugar hits my nose. I dash to the oven and pull out the tray of lemon cookies I’d been working on before falling down my email rabbit hole.

Half of them are golden perfection. The other half… not so much. Is charcoal chic a thing?

Sighing, I shake my head at myself, then laugh again. “Better now than in May.”

I grab one of the good ones, biting into it, and letting the crumbles melt in my mouth. Crunchy edges, soft center, a hint of lemon zest, and sweet hope dance across my tongue. It’s not perfect, but it’s getting there.

My eyes flick back to the laptop screen. The email that is offering everything I’ve ever dreamed of is still there. Still glowing. Still daring me to say yes.

I swallow the last bite, then whisper to myself, “This is it. My life’s about to change forever.”

And without giving it another thought, I type out a quick acceptance email and hit send. I can’t give myself the chance to rationalize my way out of this.

This is my one shot, and I’m going to take it.

I close my laptop, press my hands to my cheeks, and let myself imagine the smell of all kinds of sugary goodness rolling through a tiny little bakery that’s all mine.

Maybe this is crazy. Maybe it’ll never happen.

But hope blooms in my chest, and for the first time in a long time, I can almost taste it—and nothing has ever tasted so sweet.