Chapter 13 #2
“I know I haven’t had a perfect run,” I continue, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the confidence I’m pouring into every word. “But I’m not reckless. I don’t come in here trying to blow things up for fun. If I say something will work, it’s because I genuinely believe in it.”
I shake my head, lifting a small smile that doesn’t quite land. More than a little sad that I’m having to defend myself to my partner.
“I promise you I’m trying just as hard to stay here as you are.”
Something shifts in his posture, his shoulders squaring like he’s taken my words as a sign that things are going his way. “Okay great, so you’ll just listen to me for this challenge, and we’ll both make it through to next week...”
A laugh explodes out of me. He’s so full of himself.
His brow furrows.
“We plan enough to make you comfortable,” I counter, stepping closer and laying a hand on his forearm. “And we leave enough room for improv so it still feels like me, too. Deal?”
He gives a small nod and pulls out his notebook.
By some miracle, we’re able to come to an agreement on our spread without too much fuss. And much to my surprise, Alex takes my advice on how to jazz up our peach cobbler to make it stand out, and a giddy tingle dances across my chest.
Peaches are such a classic Southern flavor, but I talked him into trying a cornbread-based topping and brown sugar bourbon glaze. The last thing we need is to be one of four identical cobblers—and our Southern belle judge is not going to forgive boring.
We both assumed that the other bakers would do a traditional pie, maybe apple or strawberry, so Alex planned to do pecan pie instead. Which is perfect, because I decided to do a hummingbird cake.
The compromise for our collaboration on the cake is simple: we keep all my flavors, and I let him elevate the presentation.
Easiest deal I’ve ever made.
Our movements are awkward at first, as we try to work around one another. No matter where I stand, I always seem to be in his way. It becomes immediately clear that this man is used to commanding his own space.
“If you’re going to hover,” he says, not looking up, “can you at least make yourself useful and add some more flour to the bench? This crust is too sticky.”
“Bossy,” I tease, nudging him as I step closer.
Reaching across him for the flour, I bite my lip to hide a smile while he struggles with the sticky dough, webbing his fingers together.
My arm brushes his chest on the way back. Startled, he sucks in a quick breath and takes a small step back—somehow straight into me.
“Sorry,” I murmur, already sprinkling flour where he asked. “Just… trying to make myself useful like you said. Occupational hazard of teamwork, you know?”
His eyes flick to mine, amused. We’re still standing too close, and I’m suddenly very aware of my own breathing. With my face tilted up toward his, I’m close enough to see the lighter blue flecks sprinkled across his irises. The shadow of stubble along his jaw.
Alex’s gaze slides down my face, registering the distance between us. He turns back to the crust, but the corner of his mouth stays tilted up, and neither of us rushes to adjust the space between us.
Our bake is going really well, we’re so close to the finish line, I can almost taste the win.
The glaze for our cobbler is my responsibility, which means I’m working without a recipe and trusting my gut.
Brown sugar goes into the saucepan first, followed by cornstarch, a splash of lemon juice, and a sprinkle of cinnamon.
I stir the mixture, watching it all melt down into something glossy and thick as I add in the bourbon and some diced peaches.
Alex moves in behind me, close enough that I feel his energy pressing between my shoulder blades, sharp and restless.
“How confident are you about that ratio?” he asks, trying—and failing—to sound casual. This man might be a phenomenal baker but he does not do well with giving up control.
“Medium-high.” I laugh, giving the spoon a swirl before lifting it to my lips, blowing lightly, and tasting it.
It’s good. Rich and decadent. Almost perfect.
I discard my licked spoon into the sink, reaching for the bourbon to pour another measure.
“Let’s maybe not get too reckless with that,” Alex coaches. “We want finesse here.”
I glance over my shoulder at him, eyebrows lifting. “This is finesse. We agreed I could have fun with this part, remember? It’s all about the vibes.”
He exhales through his nose, obviously unimpressed. “I trust precision, Taylor. Not vibes.”
I roll my eyes, grab a clean spoon, and dip it into the sauce before pivoting toward him, holding it out between us. “Then verify.”
He freezes. He’s so still it’s like staring at a painting. I’m not even sure he’s breathing at this point because how does someone breathe without moving at all?
His eyes flick from the spoon to my face, back again. For a second, I think he’s going to refuse on principle alone. But then he steps closer, jaw ticking as he leans in and opens his mouth.
He doesn’t rush the moment.
His tongue slides in a slow drag along the curve of the metal before his lips close around the edge.
Something low and unfamiliar twists in my stomach, my body reacting before my brain can make sense of it.
Alex swallows, expression carefully neutral, but his eyes have gone darker. “Okay,” he says quietly. “That’s… really fucking good.”
Everything is in slow motion, and I blink slowly, momentarily forgetting how to breathe. “Yeah?”
He takes the spoon from me, his fingers brushing mine. “Yeah. Just, uh…” He clears his throat. “Don’t add any more.”
I nod, turning back to the stove before he can see the blush creeping up my neck, across my cheeks.
Because watching him lick the spoon was not something I was prepared for. And my response is definitely not something I’m ready to unpack on a reality baking show.
When time is called, Alex and I step back from our presentation to assess our work. It genuinely looks beautiful, like it jumped off the pages of Southern Living magazine.
“We make a good team,” Alex says, bumping his elbow into mine like he’s daring me to look at him.
I glance down at the spot where his arm touched mine—still tingling from the contact—then back up to his face. He’s already watching me, that familiar, arrogant smirk in place.
“Careful there, Alex.” I waggle my eyebrows, smiling. “I’m starting to think you might actually like working with me.”
Our gazes hold for longer than they need to as something shifts further between us. His smirk softens, giving way to a real smile. It’s wide and bright enough that it steals the air from my lungs.
Garrett claps loudly at the front of the room, snapping us back to attention. We immediately face forward, focusing on the judges. Alex’s arm brushes against mine again but this time it stays pressed there, keeping the contact between us, his warmth seeping into me.
I catch him looking at me out of the corner of his eye. I smile, and he mirrors it briefly, just for me, before smoothing his expression back into his usual stoic default and leveling his stare on the judges.