Chapter 22
For a second, I think I’m imagining him. That has to be it. By some combination of stress and lack of sleep, my brain conjured him because that’s easier than accepting he found me.
But he doesn’t fade when I close my eyes.
Alex stands there on my doorstep, holding a bouquet of sunflowers that look a tad wind-beaten, his shoulders tense like he’s bracing for impact.
“Taylor.”
He says my name quietly, like he isn’t sure he’s allowed to say it. He shifts on his feet, more unsure of himself than I’ve ever seen him.
My fingers tighten around the edge of the door. I instinctively move to block the view into my apartment.
“How are you here?”
His throat works before he answers. “I drove.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” I step fully into the doorway now. “How did you find me?”
He jerks his head quickly over his shoulder, and that’s when I see movement. Joe stands halfway down the sidewalk, camera trained on us.
My stomach drops. Of course.
I look back at Alex, rolling my eyes and crossing my arms defensively. “So this is for the cameras then?”
Alex winces at my words. A shadow of embarrassment crosses his face before he speaks. “I told him we were about to get the shot of the season,” he says with a guilty smirk.
I huff out a sound—half scoff, half laugh—because he doesn’t deny it.
“You used him.”
“I used his ambition,” he corrects, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. He still looks a little guilty. “There’s a difference.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I needed a ride.” His jaw tightens on the confession. “I needed a way to get you since your phone has gone completely out of commission.”
It’s my turn to cringe. That lands somewhere I don’t want it to. I have absolutely been avoiding him, hoping to put this conversation off for as long as possible. Or at least until the weekend when I’d inevitably have to face him in the house.
Joe shifts again down the sidewalk, a little closer now. I can practically feel him waiting for something dramatic.
Alex follows my gaze.
“He’s not coming inside,” he says immediately. “If you let me in, that is.”
The choice sits there between us.
My apartment is my space. Mine. The one place in this entire experience that isn’t under lights or surrounded by producers or mic packs.
He’s never been here.
Whether or not he comes inside is totally up to me.
He stands there holding those battered sunflowers, not sure I’m going to accept them or him, and I feel myself start to soften.
I look down at the bouquet. They’re slightly crooked. One stem leans too far to the left. A few petals are bent at the tips.
But they’re perfect.
“You didn’t get roses,” I say before I can stop myself, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips.
His mouth lifts in response. “Didn’t feel like the right choice for you. Too basic, not enough razzle dazzle.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Did you just say ‘razzle dazzle’?” I tease, deflecting.
“You’re rubbing off on me,” he says with a casual shrug that doesn’t feel as casual at all. I glance back at Joe, then at Alex again.
“If I let you in, the door closes,” I say pointedly, one eyebrow cocked, daring him to push back.
“It closes.” He agrees without hesitation.
“No hero speech outside, either. I have neighbors.”
“Okay.”
I step back and open the door, clearing the path for him to come inside.
His shoulders drop on a breath as he moves forward. Before he passes me, he lifts a hand in Joe’s direction and waves.
“You got your shot. Thanks, bud.”
Joe’s face falls into something between disbelief and outrage as the door swings shut. I don’t mean to laugh. It just slips out. The sound surprises both of us as I slide the lock into place.
The apartment feels smaller with him inside. He looks taller here than he does in the open-concept house and pitched baking tent back in LA. I step forward, taking the flowers from him, and leading the way further into my space.
He lingers near the entryway, unsure whether to follow me into the kitchen or move to the living room. Not that it matters, the half-wall counter is the only thing separating the rooms.
I watch him as he takes in the stack of baking books on my side table, the dish towel hanging crooked off the oven handle, the framed photo of Kara and me at the beach last summer, while I fill the only vase I own with water for the flowers.
“Do you want something to drink?”
He looks at me then, really looks at me, the full weight of his piercing blue gaze searching my expression. Being around Alex always gets my pulse racing, but the way my heart hammers as he occupies my space is on a whole other level.
I pretend to straighten that crooked dish towel, but in reality, I’m swiping my clammy palms down the fabric.
“I have almond milk,” I say, peering inside the fridge, knowing it’s basically empty. I grab only the essentials since I’m gone half the week between work and the show.
“And half a Gatorade.”
The corner of his mouth lifts again and he laughs. Which is fair, because who offers a guest almond milk?
“I’m good.”
We stand there facing each other in the quiet of my living room. Alex waits for me to drop onto the corner cushion, clutching an emotional support accent pillow to my chest. He perches on the edge of the middle cushion, bent forward with his elbows on his knees.
I can’t tell if he’s trying to find the right words to start the conversation or if he’s waiting on me. After a minute of silence, I cave first.
“You scared me,” I tell him, watching his forehead wrinkle in concern before turning to face me.
“By showing up here?”
“No. By making me think I didn’t know you.”
He exhales, a little exasperated. “You do know me.”
“I thought I did.” My voice steadies. “Then I found out you have this whole other layer you never mentioned. A father who can bankroll an empire. A deal for your future in place before you even walked into the tent.”
His shoulders straighten at my accusation. I have his full attention now, and I sit up straighter in response to hold it.
“I didn’t hide my family to manipulate you.”
“Then why?”
“Like I said, it was part of the agreement with my father.” He pauses, inhaling sharply. “But also, another part of me just didn’t want to be that guy while I was here.”
“What guy?” I know the answer should be obvious, but I need to hear him say it. I don’t want any assumptions or miscommunication muddying the water between us any more than it already is.
“The one who’s treated differently because of his family.”
I let out a short laugh. “You already are that guy.”
He winces, then blows out a long breath. He looks so tired, but I force myself to push forward with the conversation. No more giving passes for things that need to be addressed immediately.
“Do you know what this competition means to people?” I ask, suddenly needing to know if he understands what some of us have hanging in the balance.
“Of course I do.” His eyes are sincere. I want to reach out, slip my fingers around the hand he has placed on the couch halfway between us. But I don’t.
“I don’t think you do.” I curl one leg under myself, repositioning.
“For some of us, this isn’t just exposure.
It isn’t networking or a way to climb whatever ladder we’re on.
It’s rent. It’s a loan we can’t get approved for because we don’t have sufficient collateral.
It’s finally being able to open something of our own without begging for investors. ”
His gaze doesn’t leave mine.
“If you lose,” I continue, “you go back to a restaurant group with your last name on the building.”
“I don’t want that,” he says quickly, afraid I’m not going to believe him. I do believe him, but what he wants is irrelevant to reality.
“You still have it, regardless.”
Silence fills the space between us. His hand slides across the cushion, pinky brushing against my thigh in a featherlight touch.
“You’re right.”
“And then there’s us. I don’t know what parts of you were real and what parts were just an act. I don’t know if I was someone you liked or someone who conveniently fit your end goal.”
“You were inconvenient,” he says abruptly, blue eyes flashing a range of emotions I don’t have enough time to decipher.
“What?”
“You were inconvenient,” he repeats. “And I still couldn’t stay away from you.
I came into this competition with a clear plan.
Keep my head down. Win. Leave. I wasn’t supposed to get distracted by someone whose laugh has taken up residence in my mind and has the nerve to challenge me in ways I haven’t been challenged in years. ”
His admission releases tiny butterflies in my belly.
“I wasn’t supposed to look for you after every bake or care if you made it or not. And I definitely wasn’t supposed to let what happened between us happen. That wasn’t part of the agreement.”
The word agreement makes me flinch. It’s so clinical.
“Chet Harrington can make me show up,” he says, leaning closer to me and closing some of the distance between us. “But he has no control over what I do while I’m here.”
I hold his gaze, emotion swelling behind my eyes.
“He can’t make me stand between you and production when they push too hard. He can’t make me stay in the practice kitchen with you, working on technique. Those things were all me.”
I think back to all of our little moments in the kitchen. No one asked him to do those things, and quite honestly, it probably would have been better for him if he hadn’t.
“You didn’t have to do any of it,” I whisper, knowingly.
“Exactly.”
“Were they watching?”
He shrugs in response. “Couldn’t tell you, I wasn’t paying attention to them at that point.”
Those dang butterflies break out into a synchronized flight pattern at the admission.