Chapter 17
At the front of the tent, a single colosseum-pillar podium topped with a golden loaf of bread sits beneath a spotlight. Magnolia and Garrett are positioned on either side, pretending to bow solemnly to the baked centerpiece.
“Behold… the power of gluten!” Theo declares, striding into frame with a flour-dusted apron. He brandishes a giant wooden rolling pin like it’s Excalibur.
Judy follows, equally dramatic, carrying a wicker basket overflowing with baguettes, sourdough boules, and petite rolls. She gives a deep, exaggerated sniff, eyes rolling heavenward.
“Ahhh, ze aroma of victory, and yeast,” Theo intones, speaking in another painfully overdone French accent. He spins on his heel, narrowly missing the podium, and flour explodes from one of his hands into the air like a tiny snowstorm.
A drumroll booms from the sound system as Judy taps a baguette like a baton, conducting an imaginary orchestra. Theo throws a sourdough boule into the air, catching it with dramatic flair, and somehow, miraculously, not smacking anyone in the face.
The camera pans to the judges, who carefully tiptoe away from the hosts’ antics, trying to keep a straight face. Garrett leans toward the camera with that signature half-smile. “And with that, welcome to Bread Week.”
?????????
“Buongiorno, bakers!” Theo bellows as we clap politely. “Today, we honor the noble art of one of my favorite substances on Earth… bread!”
Judy pipes in, lifting a giant proofing basket up for all of us to see. “This is about as serious as it gets when it comes to bread, guys. We mean business here. This bread has a cult-like following for good reason.”
She sets the basket down with a flourish, letting the wobbly dough slump exaggeratedly over the edge. “Your challenge,” she says, voice low and mock-ominous. “Is simple. And intimidating. And very sticky.”
Theo claps his hands. “Bakers, you have in front of you sourdough that’s been bulk fermenting for ten hours. It is alive! It is breathing! And it is very, very temperamental.”
“You have the rest of the afternoon to bake the perfect sourdough boule. You’ll decide when it’s ready to shape, proof, and bake into the loaf of your dreams,” Judy finishes.
A drumroll from an off-screen camera operator adds unnecessary gravitas as Theo leans in. “This is Bread Week, people. The flour will fly, and the loaves will rise, or deflate, but only one will come away as the victor.”
“May your proofing be precise, and your patience intact. But if not, there’s always toast and croutons to be made!” Magnolia announces cheerfully.
Garrett lifts a hand to his chin, shaking his head. “Not for this challenge there’s not.”
Theo twirls, tossing flour like confetti, and Judy lets out a triumphant whoop. “Let the baking begin!”
I take a deep, steadying breath before uncovering the container on my workbench. With sourdough, it’s important to know how much the dough has risen during bulk fermentation, but there’s no mark showing where this dough started.
It’s the only method I’ve ever used, the only way to know if the dough has risen enough.
Is there another way to know? How can you tell?
Panic erupts in my chest as I realize I don’t know what to do. Wide-eyed, I turn to Alex, who’s calmly seated on a stool at his station. The moment our eyes meet, he rises to his feet.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, worry lacing his tone.
“I don’t know how to tell when it’s done. I’ve always just measured rise percentage for sourdough. There’s no way to know how much it’s risen, though. They didn’t mark it.”
A small smile ghosts his lips. He runs a gentle hand up my arm. “First, breathe.”
I suck in a sharp breath through my nose. The tang of sourdough and spearmint from Alex’s gum fills my lungs. His warm, strong hands linger on my biceps.
A few stations down, Lila pauses her work, watching us. Technicals are usually silent. They’re meant to be independent and competitive.
A camera moves in closer to focus on our interaction. The baby hairs at the nape of my neck prickle with awareness. No one says anything, but they’re all watching.
“Good,” he soothes without a care in the world.
“You have to read the dough, Taylor. You’re looking for a domed surface, bubbles along the top and sides, and for it to pull slightly away from the container. It should also wobble a bit if you jiggle it. Then it’s business as usual: final shaping, proofing, and baking. You’ve got this.”
“And what if it’s over?” I swallow hard, glancing at my dough again.
“Then you shape it gently and pray,” he says lightly with a shrug. “But it’s not. Just do what you do best.”
“And what do I do best?”
“Flash one of those gorgeous smiles and wing it,” Alex says with a wink before crossing the aisle back to his station. A blush heats my cheeks, and I duck my head to hide my smile. Then I turn back to my dough and give the bin a careful jiggle.
It takes forty-five minutes before all the telltale signs of properly fermented dough appear. Shaping and the final proof go off without a hitch. I’ve chosen to bake my boule in a Dutch oven, which has been preheating in my oven the entire time.
Now it’s just a game of timing—baking it covered, then uncovering it to achieve that perfectly golden crust.
Just as I slide the oven door closed, Joe approaches. “Hey Taylor, since you’re just waiting on the bake for now, can we grab you for a quick interview?”
Production has never pulled us mid-bake to film soundbites, and that alone makes me nervous. Can’t they do this afterwards, like they usually do? I glance from Joe to my oven, then back to Joe. He smiles, gently nodding his assurance.
“Oh—uh, yeah, sure. I’ve got about twenty minutes before I need to be back to finish up. I guess I could step away…” My voice trails off. I really don’t want to leave my bread baking, but I also can’t tell production no. This is all part of it.
Alex catches my eye as I walk past. “Go. I’ve got it.”
I reach out, squeezing his hand in thanks. Joe eyes it before placing a hand on my back and guiding me out the front of the tent.
We walk across the lawn to a makeshift patio under a pergola, staged with a basket of bread and a crisp, icy pitcher of lemonade. I perch on one of the chairs, shaking out my curls. My best attempt at being camera-ready in this heat and under this pressure.
Anxiously, I pick at the dry sourdough that’s clinging under my fingernails.
Joe settles into the chair across from me while a camera operator named Cameron adjusts a reflector to bounce light onto my face. The pergola offers shade, but the heat still clings to my skin. The pitcher of lemonade sweats onto the glass table between us.
“You good?” Joe asks lightly.
“Yeah.” I smooth my apron over my knees. “As good as you can be during a sourdough technical.”
He chuckles. “Bread Week. No pressure.”
“Right, no pressure,” I echo, smiling tight.
“Okay,” he says, glancing toward the camera. “So, we saw a little hesitation earlier when you uncovered your dough. What was going through your head in the moment?”
I exhale softly, tracing a finger through the pool of condensation on the table. “I usually measure rise percentage during bulk fermentation. Without a marker on the container, I couldn’t tell how much it had grown. For a second, I just… blanked.”
“You don’t usually blank, you’re the queen of improv here in the tent.”
“No, you’re right,” I admit, shifting uncomfortably in my chair. “Technicals are supposed to be about precision, but they’re also about instinct. I just had to trust mine.”
“And did you?”
I hesitate, not trusting his line of questioning. Is the plan to corner me into admitting Alex is the only reason I was able to move forward?
“Eventually.”
Joe nods like he’s waiting for me to go on.
When I don’t, he presses harder.
“You went to Alex.”
My fingers curl together in my lap.
As always, this is a sidestep into talking about Alex. Every time the production team pulls me, the conversation circles back to him. Which isn’t surprising since he’s one of the best bakers in the tent, but it’s odd they only seem to want to talk about him. I need to choose my words strategically.
Be smart, Taylor.
“He noticed I was panicking.”
“And you trust him?”
I glance toward the tent without thinking, already knowing I can’t see inside from here. “I trust his read on dough.”
Joe tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Just on the dough?”
Heat rises up my neck. The look in Joe’s eyes and his underlying tone put me on edge. It’s almost as though he’s trying to lead me into a conversation I have no intention of participating in.
“He’s always very poised and calm. I’m not always calm, so his perspective helps.”
There’s a beat of silence before Joe clears his throat.
“Do you worry that leaning on him could hurt you in a technical? It’s supposed to be every baker for themselves.”
“We’re all competitors. But we’re also human. If I can give someone a tip, and it doesn’t cost me anything, I will. I’d hope they’d do the same.” I swallow hard, knowing Alex has saved me more than once by now.
“Even if it’s your biggest competition?”
“Especially then.” I smile faintly, raising an eyebrow at the camera. “If you want to be the best, you have to beat the best.”
“If it came down to you and Alex in the finale… who deserves it more?”
The question lands heavier than the others. He was saving this one for the end on purpose.
“I don’t think baking works like that,” I say carefully. “On any given day, one of us could have the better bake. That doesn’t mean the other doesn’t deserve it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
My gaze snaps to Joe’s, and all I see is cool indifference where warmth used to live. He isn’t usually this pushy. What’s his problem?
“I deserve to be here.” I inhale slow through my nose. “But, so does he.”
Behind the camera, Cameron checks his watch. Joe follows the movement with his eyes, then looks back at me. “We’ll only keep you a few more minutes.”
My gaze flicks toward the tent again.
“My loaf’s in the oven, I’ll need to get back and uncover it soon.”
“You’ve got time,” he reassures me smoothly. “How are you feeling about your bake overall?”
“It looked good going in,” I say, though unease pricks at the base of my spine. “Strong structure. Good surface tension. If it springs the way I think it will, it should be really beautiful.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
I let out a small breath, half laugh and half sigh. “Then it’ll be perfect for Magnolia’s croutons.”
“You’re calmer than you were earlier.” Joe smiles at me. His friendly demeanor has returned, and the back-and-forth threatens to give me whiplash. I thought Joe was my friend, but right now, I don’t trust him.
A brief silence stretches as Cameron checks his watch again and gives a small nod. Joe straightens in response. “Okay. Last one. You said Alex calms you down and helps your focus. What do you think you do for him?”
What do I do for him… how should I know?
“I don’t know,” I admit, suddenly self-conscious. “Maybe I remind him that he doesn’t have to be so serious all the time.”
“Interesting.” Joe’s smile sharpens just a fraction, and he stands. “Alright. That’s perfect. Thank you, Taylor.”
I push to my feet, adjusting my apron and pulling my hair back into a ponytail. “Can I head back now?”
“Of course,” he says, stepping aside with an easy gesture. “You’ve still got plenty of time.”
Plenty of time.
Dread pools low in my stomach. Call it intuition, but something inside me knows something bad just happened, even if I can’t quite explain why.
I step inside the tent and the air immediately feels wrong. It’s heavy and thick with tension. What did I miss?
Nobody meets my gaze as I walk down the main aisle to my station. Instinctively, I check my oven. There’s still a few minutes before I have to open it up. Hopefully, I’ll see a perfectly formed ear along my score line—the judges will love that.
I smile to myself as I drop onto my stool.
Looking over at Alex’s station, I realize he’s nowhere to be found.
He probably stepped out to eat something or run to the bathroom.
When I uncover my boule and he still hasn’t returned, I step over to his station to do the same for his loaf.
His ear has that perfect curl I can never achieve, but instead of silently hating him, I feel a surge of pride on his behalf. It’s a perfect loaf.
He’s still missing from the tent when my final buzzer goes off. I pull both loaves out and set them on their cooling racks.
I slide the extra scrunchy off my wrist and wrangle my unruly ponytail into a messy bun. It’s too hot and sticky to have my hair down anymore. The cameras are off now, so it doesn’t matter what I look like.
Fanning myself with the bottom of my apron, I step into the comparatively cool air outside the tent. RaeAnn rushes to me, wide-eyed and frantic.
When she reaches me, she clutches my wrists in her trembling hands. I search her face, hoping she can clue me in on what’s going on. She’s vibrating with nerves.
“Oh my God, Taylor, you’re not going to believe what happened—”