Chapter 8
Production calls it a two-hour lunch break, but it feels more like a punishment handed down after our first bake.
Two hours to sit under a pop-up tent with a bruised ego and feedback that still tastes wrong in my mouth.
“Too basic... Lacked risk...”
As if restraint itself isn’t a skill. As if execution isn’t the whole point. As if anyone else in that damn kitchen—barring maybe Brandon—could’ve pulled off that same feat at the same level.
What a fucking joke.
Julian sits across from me, legs stretched out, picking at a sandwich he didn’t pay for, blissfully unaware that I’m one poorly timed comment away from flipping this folding table.
My cousin, not a contestant, was invited solely as a reminder that my father expects my best behavior to win over the American audience.
Diane sits beside him, her Boston accent draping over every sentence as she dissects her bake like she’s hosting her own recap show. She didn’t get high praise, but somehow, she’s happy about it. Either she’s unbreakable or she’s acting. I respect her for it either way.
Brandon lounges to my right, silent as he listens to our conversation.
He clocked my name the second I walked through the door of our shared room.
Before he confirmed it out loud, I saw the recognition in his eyes.
He hasn’t said a word about my bake, which might be worse than the judges tearing into it.
I stab my fork into something unidentifiable and tell myself this is fine. That it’s better to get the bad feedback out of the way early. That there’s still another bake coming. Another chance.
Still, the critique from my signature echoes.
“Anybody can do something basic with vanilla and almond,” Magnolia says with a disappointed smile.
“But it’s a gorgeous creation. Absolute perfection from a technical standpoint.” Garrett, to everyone’s surprise, defends me.
“And if this were a technical, that would matter more. This was supposed to introduce us to who these bakers are. I didn’t learn anything about Alex in this bake. This was too safe.”
I chew, swallow, and decide the second bake is going to hurt someone’s feelings. Nothing about this next one is going to be “basic.”
Julian leans back in his chair, stretching his arms high above his head, and grins like he’s about to be annoying on purpose. Which, to be fair, he usually is.
“So,” he says, too casual to be sincere, “guess playing it safe doesn’t really work on reality TV, huh?”
I don’t look up as I spear another bite and pop it into my mouth. “Careful,” I say, pointing at him with my fork. “I’m not in the mood for your shit, Julian.”
Julian laughs, undeterred. “I’m just saying, man. You always do this. You come in hot, pretend you don’t care about getting a gold star, then get pissy when someone doesn’t give it to you.”
He has my attention now.
I glance up, glare sharpened. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He shrugs. “I grew up with you. I kinda do. You hate being seen trying. Wouldn’t want to accidentally let everyone know you want something.”
The table goes quieter. Even Diane pauses.
Julian meets my stare, softer now, but not backing down. “You want to win now that you’re here, Alex. That’s not a crime.”
I look back down at my plate before he can see the part of me that knows he’s right. While I don’t care about this little PR campaign my father is pushing, now that I’m here, I do care about being the best.
Brandon clears his throat. It’s subtle, but it slices through my internal monologue. “For what it’s worth,” he says, calm, measured, “the critique made sense.”
“Oh?”
He nods once. “Your bake was flawless. Textbook, even. Anyone with training could see the technique.”
Anyone with training.
My jaw tightens, and I steal a glance at Diane to see if she caught his comment. This asshole couldn’t be subtle if his life depended on it.
“But this isn’t a kitchen,” Brandon continues. “It’s a show. They don’t want to know you can execute. They want to know what you’d bake if you didn’t have someone in the back of your head telling you what to do and how to do it.”
Diane hums thoughtfully, tilting her head as she rolls that over in her mind. Julian takes a slow bite of his sandwich, watching me carefully. I scoff.
Brandon meets my eyes, unblinking. “You didn’t bake like someone who loves it. You baked like someone backed you into a corner and forced you to do it.”
The words hit their mark a little too close to home.
I swallow. “You think I don’t love this? That food—incredible food—isn’t my entire life?”
“I think,” Brandon starts, voice dripping with that same unearned confidence he carries every time he speaks. He lowers it, just enough so only I can hear. “You’re used to your name carrying weight. Here, it doesn’t.”
Fuck him.
I push my chair back just enough to breathe. He’s not smirking. He’s not gloating. He’s telling the truth.
And somehow, that’s worse.
?????????
“Bakers, welcome back to the kitchen!” Theo’s voice cuts through the tent. “This afternoon is your first technical bake of the season.”
He gestures as he speaks, calm and practiced. “You’ll be given a set of general instructions. No measurements, no temperatures, no times. You have to recreate the dessert as closely as possible.”
“This challenge was set by none other than Garrett Sloan himself,” Judy adds, smiling. “Garrett has asked that you bake twelve identical religieuses. Anything you’d like to add to inspire our bakers?”
Religieuses?
This one’s mine.
Classic choux with a smooth pastry cream, shiny chocolate ganache, and light, fluffy whipped cream—I’m home.
Garrett’s eyes narrow as he crosses his arms. “Religieuses have a very specific structure. If you don’t achieve the proper balance, they won’t hold.”
“Don’t give them too much there, Sloan,” Theo jokes dryly. “Since this is a blind challenge, we are going to ask our wonderful judges to evacuate the premises.”
Theo and Judy gesture toward the door of the tent in perfect unison. The judges give quick waves before exiting.
“Now that they’re gone,” Judy says with a wide smile, “bakers, you officially have ninety minutes to give your best at the first technical challenge. Theo, darling, would you care to do the honors?”
“Bakers, on your mark… get set… BAKE!”
Paper rustles as everyone scrambles to read the very sparse recipe we were given.
I glance at the card but don’t need to read the whole thing to know where to start. Every line is exactly what I’ve trained for. I’ve done this a hundred times in kitchens that actually matter.
The others are already whispering to one another and flipping the card like it’s a puzzle. It’s cute that they’re trying to help each other—right up until the dough splits or the cream curdles. That’s when they’ll panic.
I roll my shoulders, scoop up my ingredients, and start measuring like a man who knows exactly how this ends. This challenge is all about control and precision.
If anyone’s going to flinch under pressure, it won’t be me. I pipe the first puff with smooth confidence, technique second nature.
I pipe the next puff and glance up, just for a second.
Chloe’s pacing, muttering to herself as she figures out the choux. She’s overcomplicating everything with a spatula gripped in one hand, eyes darting like she’s lost the recipe in the clouds.
Diane is calm, hands steady, lips moving as she quietly recites measurements to herself. She’s a respectful mix of focus and determination.
Brandon? The guy is completely stone-faced. It’s almost unnerving, which is saying something, coming from me. He’s moving slower than everyone else, but with purpose. Everything he touches lands exactly where it should. With his history, I expected more from him, but I’m sure he’ll be fine.
I smirk to myself as I watch some of the others already losing it. Then I catch sight of bobbing blonde curls and frantic hazel eyes.
Taylor is moving quickly, leaving a path of controlled chaos in her wake as she furiously mixes eggs into the dough. She should be piping by now if she wants her pastries to cool in time. If she wants to avoid the same fate her cream puffs faced this morning.
But I tell myself that isn’t my problem and force my attention back to my station. I take a breath, pipe the next puff, and let the others’ chaos blur into background noise.
The ninety minutes fly by, but I’m happy with my perfectly proportioned, balanced, and stacked dozen pastries. When I place my tray in its spot, I steal a glance down the line.
I want to laugh, but I bite my lip to stifle the sound.
Dull ganache. Pastries that have fallen over.
Melting whipped cream. The pitfalls in this challenge were numerous, and it looks like each of them took out one of the other bakers.
It’s almost too easy to tell who here is the trained professional.
Turning to take my seat on the stools lined up for judging, I find the only available place is directly next to Taylor. A blessing and a curse.
As I sit, she lets out a small sigh and turns to me. My elbow grazes her arm, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
“How’d it go?”
I don’t face her, just slide my eyes her way. “I feel like I should be the one asking you that question.”
Her cheeks flush a soft pink, and I have to look away because I like that color on her more than I should. Why is this hurricane of optimism getting under my skin? I’m surrounded by beautiful women all the time, but something about her feels different. That’s the problem. And I hate it.
“It went—”
But before she can finish, the hosts announce the judges are returning, and a hush falls over the lineup.
Magnolia looks across the anonymous presentation table, her expression shifting from impressed to pity as she moves down the line.
Garrett, on the other hand, remains carefully stoic as he scans our pastries.
But his eyes give him away, widening and narrowing as he takes in the best and worst of the bunch.
Garrett clears his throat. “We have a pretty wide range of religieuses here. Some are on point, and others are, well… a disaster. Religieuses roughly translates to nuns in English, because the pastries should be assembled in a way that resembles tiny nuns on the plate.”
“It looks like we have a few promising ones, but let’s not forget; they also have to taste amazing,” Magnolia adds, doing her best to give hope to those who missed the mark on presentation.
Too bad it won’t matter; mine look perfect, and they’ll undoubtedly have the right flavor to match.
One by one, the judges try the pastries, speaking in voices too quiet for us to hear. After a few minutes of private discussion, they return to announce the lineup.
The worst of the bunch is Ace—puffs undercooked, pastry cream lumpy, whipped cream dripping down the sides. There was no saving him.
When they reach seventh place, Garrett calls Taylor’s name, and she lets out an audible sigh of relief. My lips quirk into a small, rebellious smile before I can stop them. I wouldn’t be happy with middle of the pack, but after the disaster of her signature this morning, I don’t blame her.
“Taylor, this morning was rough. But you really redeemed yourself with this one. You can make a filled crème puff, and you should be proud of that.” Magnolia offers her a warm smile.
When it comes down to the top two, it’s Brandon and me. He smirks in my direction. I roll my eyes in response. This challenge was made for me. There’s zero chance he’s taking it.
“Our runner-up for this challenge is this one,” Garrett says, gesturing to Brandon’s tray.
His expression tightens as he raises a hand to claim his place.
I mirror the smirk he sent my way moments ago.
“This was a very close decision. Brandon, your pastries are nearly perfect. We just felt your proportions were slightly off compared to our top selection, which is Alex.”
At the sound of my name, Taylor slips her arm through mine and squeezes tight. My head snaps toward her, caught off guard.
“Congratulations. You deserve it.” Her smile is bright, warm in a way that seeps in whether I want it to or not.
After thanking the judges, the producers call cut, and we begin packing up to head back to the house. Joe—who unfortunately still works on the show—approaches me, steps quick and purposeful.
“Alex, we’re doing contestant feedback shots. We need you on the lawn.”
Stepping outside, I see they’ve pulled me, Brandon, Ace, and RaeAnn. The top and bottom two for interviews. I’m led to the side of the tent and positioned with the house behind me before they ask for my thoughts on the other contestants.
“They’re fine, but they’re not what I’m concerning myself with while I’m here.” I tuck my hands into my pockets as I respond.
“That’s it?” Joe asks. “You aren’t going to give us more than that?”
I scoff, raising my palms in irritation. “If there’s something specific you’re looking for, I’d really prefer you ask directly. I’m not good at filling in the gaps. Be direct. Or pick someone else and leave me alone.”
“Okay, that’s fair. Let’s try this then. What are your thoughts on Taylor?”
Of course, he asks about Taylor. She didn’t just get under my skin, she has everyone in the room melting into her goodness.
“Taylor is…” I pause, searching for the right word. “Ambitious, to say the least. She’s reckless and disorganized, and she needs to make sure she doesn’t bite off more than she can chew if she wants to survive this competition.”
Joe leans back slightly at my honesty, but a slow smile plays at his lips, like he can see through my words to everything I didn’t say.
That Taylor’s brand of chaos is intriguing. Magnetic.
That everyone loves her, and her laugh is an infectious melody that lingers in my head against my will.
That what she lacks in technical skill, she more than makes up for with charm and charisma.
That she is dangerous to me—far beyond this competition.