Chapter 18
“Go. I’ve got it.” The words slip past my lips before I’ve even decided to say them. When she reaches out and squeezes my hand, my heart lurches in my chest at the contact.
Fuck, I’m so far gone for this girl already.
Joe notices. His eyes flick between Taylor and me, and a flash of jealousy crosses his face. I smirk in response, but it fades just as quickly when he presses his palm firmly against her back, guiding her away from me.
My back molars grind together. It takes everything in me to stay seated at my station when what I want is to pry each of his fingers off what’s mine. The thought of him touching her like that makes something dark and territorial flare in my chest. I don’t want anyone’s hands on her.
Except for mine.
I crank my head side to side, cracking my neck and rolling my shoulders to release some tension.
Taylor took my advice and ran with it. From what I could see across the aisle, her boule looked promising.
I hope so, anyway, because I don’t want to imagine what this competition would be like without her.
Pacing the length of my station, I clench my hands into fists, glancing over at Taylor’s station again and again.
It’s only been a handful of minutes, but the urge to check is already needling under my skin.
When I can’t resist any longer, I cross the aisle, keeping my distance so it can’t be misconstrued as tampering.
400°F?
I automatically convert to Celsius in my head. It’s lower than I’d like, but not concerning. But as I stand there, the display drops—395°F.
Seconds later, it’s down to 385°F.
I dash back to my station and check my oven’s temperature reading, finding it right where I left it.
Quickly, I make a lap around the tent, stealing glances at the other contestants’ ovens. They’re all steady, too.
Just hers, then.
My eyes dart to the entrance of the tent as pieces begin slotting into place. These ovens can be controlled remotely. Production has to be behind this.
Motherfuckers.
Without a second thought, I stalk to the corner of the tent where the producers are huddled, walkie-talkies in hand. One of the senior producers notices my approach and meets my gaze without hesitation.
“Taylor’s oven is off.”
They don’t even have the decency to feign concern. “Must be a display glitch. We tested the ovens this morning.”
“Turn it back on,” I demand, widening my stance. I cross my arms and narrow my eyes, leveling them all with the full weight of my accusation. “Now.”
Silence.
“Alex, there’s nothing wrong with Taylor’s oven. Everything is working exactly the way it’s supposed to. Go back to your station.”
Un-fucking-believable.
A slow burn rises from deep in my chest as I take in their blank expressions. Fury begging to be unleashed, I lower my voice. “Exactly the way it’s supposed to? I don’t think so. First, you pulled her. Then her oven fails while she’s gone. That’s not a coincidence. Fix it.”
My final words are punctuated by two steps forward.
I can feel the stares of the other bakers burning into my back.
The cameras circle in, capturing the moment.
Fuck the optics, and fuck this production crew.
I’ve kept my mouth shut through all their manipulations, but I won’t be quiet when it comes to Taylor.
They can do whatever the fuck they want with anyone else—just not her.
Never her.
I don’t blink, and the producer folds under my glare. She nods once, then gestures behind her. Two fingers flick upward.
I breathe a sigh of relief, but I’m still seething.
“Call your boss and tell him I’m on my way in. Trust me, you don’t want me making the phone call we both know I can make. Because if I do, we won’t be discussing oven calibration—we’ll be discussing contract violations.” I grind the words out before storming out of the tent.
Loose rocks crunch beneath my shoes as I pound up the steps to the main house on the property.
I keep my eyes fixed on the terracotta building, afraid that if I glance back toward the tent, I’ll catch a glimpse of Taylor returning from her interview.
If I see her, I might soften. And I need all my hard edges right now.
The back door crashes open with enough force to make a PA near the entrance flinch, her phone clattering to the floor.
“Where is he?”
I don’t raise my voice—I don’t need to. I also don’t need to clarify who I’m looking for, which means the degenerate producer down in the tent did exactly what I told her to do.
The girl in front of me doesn’t break eye contact as she reaches for the phone lying at her feet. “He’s in his office. It’s—”
“I’ll find it.”
I don’t wait for permission. I ascend the stairs, taking them two at a time. The hallway feels narrower than it is. It’s too quiet compared to the whirring chaos of the tent. My pulse hammers a furious rhythm in my ears, but my hands are steady.
I shove open the office door without knocking.
The executive producer, Hal Gordon, looks up from behind his desk, irritation already forming in his expression.
“You’re supposed to be baking.”
I pull the door closed behind me. The click of the latch sounds like a lock sliding into place.
“You pulled her in the middle of a bake.”
Hal leans back, propping his hands behind his head.
“We conduct interviews throughout the day all the time.”
“And while she was gone, her oven dropped fifteen degrees.” I continue, stepping forward.
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He folds his hands on the desk before responding. “We tested the ovens this morning, but you know how temperamental technology can be. Glitches happen.”
“You expect me to believe that, Hal? Come on now, don’t insult me.”
I move closer to the desk with measured steps. My palms settle flat on the wood as I lean in just enough to invade his space, but I don’t raise my voice.
“You don’t get to manipulate the conditions of a timed technical challenge because you want better footage.”
His jaw tightens, and he leans forward in an attempt to reclaim some of the ground he’s lost. “Careful with your accusations, Alex.”
I cock my head to the side. A slow smirk quirks into place.
“No. You be careful.”
That’s when the room shifts. I’m not posturing or bluffing, and we both know it. He knows my family and the influence we carry. The connections we maintain.
“You’re very invested,” he says lightly. Too lightly given the circumstance he’s found himself in.
I bark a dry laugh. “You have no idea.”
Images of Taylor flash through my head. Soft, golden curls glinting in the light. Her hand squeezing mine. The determined set of her shoulders. The way she chews on her bottom lip when she’s thinking. The musical laugh she uses to cover any hint of her nerves.
They don’t get to mess with that.
“You interfere to see if you can get someone to crack. I’m sure it’s great for editing and ratings.”
I straighten to my full height and step around the desk. I’m close enough now that Hal has to lean back in his chair to maintain eye contact.
His eyes narrow. “No one sabotaged anyone.”
“I checked every oven in that tent, Hal. They were all fine—except for hers. Try again. Maybe the truth this time.”
Tension crackles between us. A beat of silence passes, and then he caves and speaks first.
“Let’s say something was adjusted,” he says carefully, “that’s within production’s discretion. It’s our show.”
That’s the moment something in me goes completely still. Rage doesn’t explode out of me, it simmers into something white hot. Liquid fire coursing through my veins.
“You intentionally altered the conditions of a technical after the challenge was already in progress.”
He doesn’t answer. There isn’t anything he can say to absolve himself of this monumental fuck up.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, placing it on his desk between us with the show’s contract open.
“I know exactly what’s in that contract.”
He scoffs. “You’re just a baker.”
“And because of that, you were counting on me not reading the fine print.” I hold his gaze. “But you must have forgotten who my father is.”
My eyes don’t leave his as I rattle off part of the contract.
“Section four, bullet three: you are required to provide equal, functioning equipment to all contestants. Section four, bullet seven: you are required to avoid any and all interference that materially affects the outcome of a bake.”
Hal exhales slowly through his nose.
“Are you threatening us? Legally, I mean.”
I ignore the question, cracking my neck as I continue to stare him down. The air between us is razor-sharp.
“We’re going to bury you in the edit,” he says through gritted teeth, and a slow smile curves my mouth.
“You think I care?”
It isn’t a real question. I don’t care what they do to me. I don’t care if they cut every decent moment I’ve had on this show and turn me into public enemy number one. I don’t care what The Harrington Group has to say about it, either.
If Taylor loses because she wasn’t good enough, that’s an honest competition. But if she loses because America’s Next Great Baker stirred up drama for tension and footage…
A shudder skates down my spine.
“Let me be perfectly clear, Hal.” I lean down, bringing my face inches from his. “I will burn this entire production to the ground. I don’t care. Taylor’s off limits from here on out. You understand me?”
Hal’s throat works as he swallows. Even as the executive producer of the show, he shrinks back from my words. Men like him make me want to puke.
“You’d tank your own career over a girl you met a few weeks ago?”
There’s zero hesitation. “Yes.”
The answer lands harder than I expect. Surprise flickers in my chest at how absolute it feels—no mental math, no weighing options. Just yes.
Between late-night prep sessions and quiet glances across workbenches, Taylor stopped being a distraction. She became inspiration.
“You’re being irrational right now, Alex. Think this through.” He studies me differently now, his eyes tracking every movement.
“I’ll call Standards and Practices. I’ll call our contact at FluxTV. And if I have to, I’ll call the financial team that helped fund this entire show.”
I push off the edge of his desk and tap my phone once with my finger, drawing his attention to the screen.
“Touch her oven again,” I continue, my tone controlled but deadly. “And see what happens.”
Silence stretches for a beat before he leans back in his chair. “You’ve made your point.”
“Good.” I turn toward the door.
“Alex.”
I pause, hand on the knob.
“You escalate this, you’re declaring war.”
I glance over my shoulder.
“Then don’t give me a reason to.” I walk out without waiting for his response.
The hallway feels cooler. My pulse is still pounding, but underneath it there’s a clarity sitting heavy and solid in my chest.
FluxTV controls the narrative. They control the footage. They control this entire game. But they don’t own me. And if it ever comes down to it—if they try to interfere or push Taylor to see if she’ll break—I’ll make them wish they hadn’t.
I’ll choose her over the optics, the title, the exposure. Over the version of my life that’s always been about reputation and expectation. I meant it when I said I’d burn it all down for her without a second thought, and I wouldn’t regret it.
I push through the main door and head toward the vans parked out front. I’m done with today and everything it’s offered me.
All that matters is that Taylor is still in there baking. And I’m heading back to the baker’s house. I’ve given them enough footage of me for the day.
?????????
The bedroom door slams harder than I intend. Everything in this house is too fragile for the kind of energy vibrating under my skin right now.
I drag both hands through my hair and pace the length of the room—back and forth, back and forth. My jaw aches from clenching it. I flex my fingers, working out the tight fists that have left my knuckles bone-white.
I should feel victorious, but all I feel is wound tight and ready to snap. Something coils low in my chest, bracing for impact. I threatened a man who could bury me professionally, but he backed down from me.
My slacks and fitted button-up feel suffocating. I need to change into something that lets me breathe. Since I have no plans of leaving this room tonight, I grab a pair of loose pajama pants and head to the bathroom.
I brush my teeth a little too hard. The minty foam turns pink, and I swish with water until it runs clear.
Dropping onto the bed, I toss one arm over my face. I need to calm down and let everything from earlier go. It’s over. I handled it. Consequences be damned.
A sharp knock rattles the door, and my eyes fly open. I sit up, scrubbing my hands over my face.
How long have I been lying here?
Another series of knocks—faster this time.
“Alex,” Taylor calls through the door, breathless.
My pulse spikes so hard I feel the muscles in my neck twitch. I cross the room in three long strides and yank the door open.
She’s standing there flushed, curls wild around her shoulders, chest rising and falling like she sprinted the entire way up the stairs.
Her eyes are bright, and a little frantic, as she speaks.
“RaeAnn told me everything,” she says between breaths.
Her words hit me square in the chest. For half a second, I just look at her, unsure how she’s going to react. I hope she understands I was just looking out for her, but you never know.
I brace for anger. For distance. For her to tell me I was out of line and I shouldn’t have said anything. Nobody likes an asshole, but I did it for her. That has to mean something.
Without hesitation, she steps forward, fisting her hands in the front of my shirt as she closes the distance.
“Taylor—”
She cuts me off, rising onto her toes, hooking her arms around my neck and wrapping her legs around my waist with surprising confidence. I steady her automatically, hands gripping her hips to keep her from sliding.
Her mouth crashes into mine, and I stumble backward into the relative privacy of my bedroom, caught in a kiss that threatens every ounce of restraint I’ve been pretending to have.
Yeah. She’s definitely not mad.
Thank fuck.