Chapter 7
The towering peaks of the tent glint white in the bright early morning light, looking more like part of a circus than a TV baking competition.
RaeAnn, my partner for the entrance scene, looks at me with wide, sparkling eyes and we squeal together as we practically skip our way across the lush, green lawn.
Inside, dual rows of workstations line a wide central aisle that slices the tent clean in two. Each station gleams—utensils, ingredients, and appliances perfectly aligned, everything dazzling and new.
For such a plain exterior, the inside bursts with cool blues, rosy pinks, vibrant oranges, and minty greens. A soft breeze drifts through the rolled-up windows, carrying the scent of sugar and vanilla tangled with the unmistakable promise of hope.
The station with my nameplate is one of the stations stocked full of light pink appliances and utensils. It’s in the middle of the pack, but I don’t mind.
Alex and Brandon occupy the front stations, Lila and Ace just behind them. Chloe and Diane are in the row ahead of me, and across the aisle at the other pink station, RaeAnn gives me a small wave. Khalil and Jasper settle into the final row behind me at the back of the room.
Our charismatic hosts saunter in and stand at the front of the room with their backs to us, chatting quietly to themselves.
“Contestants! Remember, quiet on set while our hosts are doing the cold open. In three… two… one…” The lead producer, Sharon, calls before diving out of the way.
“Welcome to America’s Next Great Baker, where dreams rise, tempers bake, and someone inevitably burns caramel in the first hour.” Judy announces with a flourish of her hands.
“I give it eight minutes.” Theo quips, pointing backwards at us over his shoulder.
“Eight? How optimistic of you.” Judy teases him, slinging an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a side hug. “Have a little faith, Theo!”
He gives a dramatic sigh before shrugging into the camera with a guilty expression.
“CUT! That was perfect, guys, let’s reset. Keep it pushing to the introduction of our judges and our first bake!”
I can’t stop smiling.
My cheeks already ache from the excitement.
Bouncing on my toes, I pull my apron over my head and fasten it tight around my waist. While the production team makes final adjustments, I glance down to find my station fully stocked with everything I need for my lemon-blueberry crème puffs.
Just you wait, judges—you’re about to get a blast of sunshine straight in the kisser.
Adrenaline whips through my body, and I wrap my arms around myself, trying to contain the urge to fist pump the air.
“And we’re ready in… three… two... one!”
“Contestants, welcome to the ANGB kitchen! We are so happy to have you here for this first season!” Judy exclaims, throwing her arms in the air and wooing as we clap wildly in response.
“But we aren’t the only ones who’ll be along for the ride here in the kitchen. We have two incredible judges joining us this season. They’ll be the judge, jury, and executioner during your time in the tent,” Theo says, then turns to Judy. “Should we bring them out?”
“No better time than the present! Our first judge is a Southern powerhouse known for her perfect pies and delectable desserts. Please welcome, Magnolia Beauregard!”
Magnolia freaking Beauregard?
No way.
There’s no way I’m about to bake for the legend herself.
But sure enough, in walks a very curvy woman with stark white hair, decked out in a lime green cardigan, neon pink shoes, and bright red lipstick. Her smile is wide and perfectly white as she waves with both hands, coming to stand beside our hosts.
“Good morning, y’all. Thank you so much for being here. I can’t wait to see what you cook up for us today!”
Her Southern drawl is thick, her tone smooth as molasses—the kind of voice I could listen to all day. I bite my lip and subtly jog in place when our eyes connect, and she winks my way.
“And not to be outdone by our sassy debutante, we have an icon in his own right, at least in his own mind. Please welcome, Garrett Sloan!”
I’m not familiar with the silver fox who walks in, but his presence alone sucks all the air out of the room.
His sharp, discerning gaze sweeps over each of our faces.
I shiver, barely breathing, when his eyes meet mine.
It’s like being caught in a mousetrap of judgment. When he looks away, I finally exhale.
“Hello everyone. I hope you brought your best, because if you can’t stand the heat, you’ll have no choice but to get out of our kitchen.”
Magnolia lets out a full, booming laugh before turning to Garrett and playfully scolding him. “Oh, honey, let them settle in before you try to scare the daylights outta them!”
Garrett gives a nonchalant shrug, but there’s a quirk to his lips I don’t miss. He might mean business, but he’s having fun.
Good. That’s very, very good to know.
“Now, bakers,” Judy starts, clapping her hands together and pulling our attention away from the judges. “Your first signature bake is going to be different from the ones to come. Isn’t that right, Theo?”
“That’s correct, Judes. This challenge is open to interpretation.
Our judges have asked that you create a dessert that showcases who you are.
Not only as a baker, but as a person. You will have one hour to create your personality masterpiece.
” Theo sets aside his dry banter to explain the challenge.
Wait. Did he say one hour? As in sixty minutes?
My fingers flex around the edge of the counter.
No. That’s not right.
I’ve read their email over a hundred times.
They said we’d have ninety minutes for this challenge.
Frantically, I glance at the other contestants, butterflies erupting in my stomach. If they’re panicking, they don’t show it.
Did I misread the email?
“Bakers, for the first time in America’s Next Great Baker history, ready…” Judy leans forward, bracing her hands on her thighs.
“Set…” Theo mimics Judy’s stance.
Do I say something? No—too late for that…
“BAKE!” Both of our hosts shout at the top of their lungs, jumping in the air while all ten of us contestants spring into action at our stations.
I’m going to be fine. Everything is going to be okay. I just have to work a little faster than I did at home. No biggie.
I steal ten seconds I don’t have to breathe, roll my shoulders, and burst into motion. There’s no time to prioritize anything. I have to get everything going at once. With a flick of my wrist, the oven starts preheating.
I pivot, dropping butter and water into a saucepan, listening as it hisses and pops like tiny fireworks. Heat on. Flour in. I whisk furiously as the dough pulls together into a sticky, glossy mass.
My fingers itch to grab the eggs, but I force myself to wait. This is a labor of love. Patience is key; I can’t rush this part.
The mixture goes into a bowl. Eggs follow, one by one, coaxed in carefully to avoid scrambling. I stir, fold, and scrape like my life depends on it.
Somehow, it comes together, thick and shiny, and I can’t stop grinning at the ridiculous little mountain of potential in front of me.
I reach for the piping bag, but my mind has already sprinted ahead to the lemon curd and blueberries. In my haste, I knock over the canister of flour.
My hands begin to tremble.
Come on, Taylor!
Get the puffs piped and into the oven. They need about forty minutes on their own, and they have to be cool before I can fill them.
Once the oven door is shut, I take a quick breath, adjust my ponytail, and look around the room. The hosts and judges are making their way from station to station, chatting with each contestant as they work.
My apron is already a patchwork of flour and sugar, but I can’t bring myself to care.
I get blueberries simmering for my compote, half-and-half heating for my pastry cream, and the ingredients for lemon curd in their respective saucepans.
The kitchen smells like a citrus-sugar explosion. It’s gorgeous.
“Taylor,” Magnolia drawls as the group of four approaches my station. “What do you have going on over here? Looks like a little bit of everything!”
“Hi! Oh my gosh, it’s so nice to meet all of you.” I keep my hands moving, barely containing my excitement as I work. “I’m making a lemon-blueberry crème puff with classic choux, pastry cream, and a lemon curd swirl, topped with blueberry compote.”
“Crème puffs in one hour? Aren’t you worried about time? Those puffs have to be completely cool before you fill them.” Garrett’s eyes dance over my station, amused.
“It’s ambitious, yes. Truthfully, I thought we had more time. I could’ve sworn the email said ninety minutes.” I laugh nervously, brushing the loose strands of hair from my face.
“You must be mistaken; it’s always been one hour,” Theo says a little too quickly. Judy glances toward the producers, just as quickly.
I know what that email said.
“Sure,” I say, my smile faltering. “I just meant I might have chosen something different if I’d realized the time. But it’s fine. I’m going to get it done and it’s going to be wonderful. Just you wait.”
“Good luck,” Garrett says in a low voice.
Magnolia smiles wide. “Just keep your pretty little head down and do your best. I’m sure it’ll all come together, sugar.”
Judy and Theo give me two thumbs up as they move on to the contestants behind me.
I flip between checking the oven and stirring the curd, whispering encouragement to myself like I’m directing a tiny, flour-covered orchestra. Time flies faster than I expect, but the adrenaline makes me laugh.
Half at myself, half at the ridiculousness of trying to do five things at once and still hoping it all turns out perfect.
When I pull my pastries from the oven, they’re perfectly golden brown and puffy. I dance in place as I set them on the cooling rack. No… these babies need to cool as fast as possible, so into the freezer they go.
“Bakers, you have ten minutes left!” Theo calls from the front of the tent.
It’s going to be tight, but I might just make it.
I spend the next five minutes filling my piping bags with pastry cream and lemon curd, readying myself for the final sprint. I pull my puffs from the freezer; the outsides don’t feel too warm, and hope blossoms in my chest.
Holy crap! I’m actually going to pull this off.
After filling my pastries, I spoon the blueberry compote over the top, doing my best to keep it aesthetic rather than messy.
Just as I finish the final crème puff, Judy calls out, “Bakers, your time is up! Please step away from your bakes!”
A bead of sweat trails down my cheek as I take the first full breath since starting. I glance down—and my heart sinks.
A swirling yellow-and-milky liquid is pooling at the bottom of the presentation tray. Those puffs needed another ten minutes in the freezer to fully cool.
Crap!
One by one, we’re called to the front to present our personality signatures. I can’t hear the feedback over the heavy thud of my heartbeat, knowing I’ve failed. When my name is called, I pick up my disaster and carry it forward.
The response is exactly what I expect: mortification from Judy and Theo, sympathy from Magnolia, and a self-satisfied smirk from Garrett. Nerves surge through me, but I smile anyway.
“Would you believe me if I told you I was aiming for a crème anglaise?” A few laughs ripple behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Alex lower his gaze, shaking his head.
“Nice try,” Garrett says, though he cracks a smile.
“Well, it’s obvious there was an issue with timing,” Magnolia says gently, “but let’s see how it tastes. I’ve been smelling all that sweet, citrusy goodness all day, and my mouth is watering.”
The judges each take a now-empty, soggy crème puff, dip it into the creamy lemon filling, and bring it to their mouths. They chew with intention, studying the flavors and textures.
Magnolia’s eyes flutter closed, and she smiles. “Your flavors are divine, my dear. They’re perfectly balanced. Not too sweet, not too tart.”
“And the parts that weren’t bogged down by liquid are really well done,” Garrett adds, tossing the puff back onto the tray. “It’s unfortunate that timing got away from you.”
The walk of shame back to my station feels like the longest walk of my life. My heart races with every step. I keep my eyes on my feet, too embarrassed to look at anyone else.
Plopping onto the stool at my disaster of a station, I drop my head into my hands and just breathe. The disappointment sits heavy in my chest, and I let it settle there for a moment. I’ve always believed feelings need their time before you send them on their way.
Okay, so with that truly atrocious bake out of the way, it can only get better from here.
Maybe this is the universe ripping off the Band-Aid early—getting the mess and the mistakes out so the good stuff can come next. Maybe this is just the part where things wobble before they take off in the right direction.
I lift my head, wipe my palms down my apron, and straighten my spine.
Sunshine doesn’t disappear just because a cloud passes through. And I’ve got plenty of light left to give.