Chapter 23
Taylor’s mascara runs in thin black streaks down her cheeks as she hugs her best friend in the house goodbye.
Pastry week was rough on all of us. While we’ve tackled pastry techniques earlier in the season, the Southern California heat made this week’s challenges damn near impossible.
“Take care of our girl,” RaeAnn whispers through tears when she pulls me into a hug next.
I wrap my arms around her shoulders and give her a quick squeeze. “Always.”
Her laugh is wet and she swipes under her eyes before grabbing her bag. Taylor pulls RaeAnn into another hug, holding onto her for a second longer before letting go. Her shoulders slump like something inside her just gave way.
Watching RaeAnn walk out of the tent feels strange. Every week someone leaves, but this one hurts so much worse than the others. The house will feel emptier without her.
Taylor wipes at her cheeks again as she turns back toward the workstations. Her best attempt at composing herself.
Without thinking, I reach for her hand.
Her fingers slip into mine automatically, like they’ve been doing it for years instead of a handful of weeks. I squeeze once, grounding us both.
Swirling gold and green eyes crash into mine, and I offer a small smile, a soft place for my girl to land.
All I feel is relief.
I’m not happy RaeAnn had to go, but Taylor is still here. And that’s what matters most to me right now. I don’t want to imagine being here without her.
One more week and we’re in the finale.
I’ll spend that entire week fighting the urge to throw it and hand Taylor the win. She needs this more than anyone here. And every part of me would give it to her without hesitation.
The thought settles heavy in my chest as the crew resets the tent. Our hosts chatter quietly near the judges’ table. Cameras move. Producers whisper. The familiar chaos of filming resumes as they pull Diane and Brandon for interviews.
Taylor sniffles quietly, eyes still red but she’s breathing steadier now. Her thumb brushes over the back of my hand where our fingers are still laced together.
“It’s just weird,” she says. “Every week, the tent gets smaller. And I know I need to just be grateful that I’m still here, but I hate seeing everyone go.”
I follow her gaze to the empty station RaeAnn stood behind just minutes ago. She’s right. There are only four benches left now. Four bakers and one more elimination before the finale.
The semifinal is waiting for us and my only thoughts are about surviving the next two weeks without doing something reckless for the girl standing next to me.
Because if I’m not careful, I will break.
And the closer we get to the finale, the harder it’s going to be to ignore my instincts and hand Taylor the win, even though she wants to earn it for herself.
The drive back to Cambria is quiet.
I know Taylor is still upset. She just needs time to unwind.
Somewhere near Santa Barbara, Taylor kicks off her shoes and folds one leg under herself in the passenger seat. The sun is already starting to dip, painting the sky in streaks of orange and soft pink as traffic thins the farther we get from the city.
Her hand drifts over the center console until her fingers bump mine.
They lace together without either of us looking and we drive the rest of the way like that.
The closer we get to her apartment, the more the static of the week fades. There’s none of production’s chaos here. Just the quiet hum of the road and the warmth of a beautiful girl’s hand in mine.
By the time we pull into her parking lot, the tension that usually lives in my shoulders has disappeared entirely.
Taylor glances over at me as I cut the engine. “You realize you’re stuck here for five days, right?”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re going to get bored. I have to work.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “I’ve seen how messy your kitchen is, Taylor. There’s plenty there to keep me busy.”
She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth lifts.
Inside, her apartment welcomes us home. And it does feel like home, though I suspect that has more to do with the way we keep drifting toward each other every chance we get.
The week settles into a rhythm faster than I expect.
Mornings start with coffee strong enough to wake the dead and Taylor leaning against the counter in one of my borrowed T-shirts while she scrolls through recipe notes on her phone.
Afternoons disappear in a haze of flour and butter.
Her kitchen isn’t built for two bakers, but we make it work. If I’m honest, I don’t mind the tight space.
It gives me the perfect excuse to brush against her. A light graze of her hip. A gentle kiss pressed to the delicate spot where her neck meets her shoulder.
Her kitchen might actually be my favorite place to work.
Bowls crowd the counter while the mixer groans through batch after batch of practice recipes. At one point we manage to coat the floor in powdered sugar after a poorly timed bump of my elbow.
Taylor laughs so hard she has to brace herself against the fridge.
I spend the next ten minutes cleaning it up while she sits on the counter swinging her legs and offering deeply unhelpful commentary.
“You missed a spot.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“Right there by your foot.”
I glare up at her.
She grins, eyes sparkling and I snap the towel at her legs in retaliation.
Evenings slide into something easy.
Takeout containers pile up on the coffee table while we trade bites and argue about technique. Sometimes we watch old episodes of other baking shows and critique the bakers as if we aren’t going to be in that same position in a few days.
Sometimes we don’t turn the TV on at all, and I spend my time pulling my name from Taylor’s lips. She happily reciprocates, and I’m proud to say I haven’t embarrassed myself again the way I did the first time I had my mouth between her thighs.
In the middle of the week, Kara stops by after their shift.
She doesn’t announce herself so much as she appears—leaning in the doorway first, then stepping fully inside like she’s taking inventory of the place.
Her gaze moves over me in careful assessment. Arms crossed, weight settled against the counter, she tilts her head slightly as if she’s trying to decide if I fit into her understanding of Taylor’s world.
“You’re taller than I expected,” she says at last.
I blink, caught off guard. “That’s your first impression?”
Behind her, Taylor lets out a quiet, strangled laugh before burying her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.
Kara doesn’t respond to either of us right away. She just keeps looking at me, like she’s still doesn’t know what to make of me.
I don’t know what she sees, but I hold her gaze anyway.
By the time she leaves an hour later, the edges between us have softened. Her expression shifts from scrutiny to understanding as she steps toward the door, and I get the sense I’ve passed whatever test she walked in here with.
Taylor watches her go, then turns back to me, lifting a hand to pat my chest once.
“Not bad,” she murmurs.
I huff a quiet laugh, but there’s something satisfying in the way the room feels after. Like I’ve been officially accepted into Taylor’s inner circle.
The rest of the week passes faster than I want it to.
That alone surprises me because I’m not just getting through it—I’m enjoying it. Way more than I ever expected to. There’s an ease to being here with Taylor that has me daydreaming about the future like a damn teenager.
I can picture it, almost too clearly.
The same kitchen in the morning light. The same worn counter, the same soft routine of it all. Taylor standing barefoot by the stove, her focus split between whatever she’s working on and whatever she’s thinking about. Me lingering close enough to pull her attention away when I want it.
It feels so possible, and maybe that’s the problem because the truth is, once the show is over, I have to go back home to Vancouver
Friday night comes sooner than it should, and just like that, we’re packing our things back into her car. We don’t say much as we settle in.
The drive back to Los Angeles stretches out in front of us, the road thinning as the light fades. Somewhere along the coast, the air shifts to the kind of quiet that people write songs about.
Taylor leans her head against the window, watching the world blur past in streaks of shadow and light. Her fingers find mine without looking, tracing slow, absent circles over my hand.
Ahead of us, the city waits in the dark, the tent somewhere beyond its edges. One more elimination.
And then the finale.
?????????
The four of us remaining contestants stand shoulder to shoulder at the front of the tent, hands clasped in front of our aprons, while the judges shuffle their notes. The cameras hum softly around us, red lights glowing like tiny watchful eyes.
This part never gets easier.
My shoulder brushes Taylor’s. Her arm is warm against mine, but the tension in her posture is impossible to miss. I glance sideways just long enough to see her staring straight ahead at the judges’ table, lips pressed together.
Across from us, Brandon stands with the same calm confidence he’s carried all season. Like he already knows how this ends.
Maybe he does.
All three challenges this weekend were difficult, and the quiet in the house made it harder yet. Diane took the signature with a personal twist on a classic soufflé, while I came first in the technical thanks to some intricate sugar work.
Garrett clears his throat, drawing our attention back to the front. He stands and pulls out Magnolia’s chair as she rises. Theo and Judy wait off to the side, waiting to hear the verdict.
“Bakers,” Magnolia announces, folding her hands together. “This was an incredibly difficult semifinal. You were asked to create a laminated pastry showpiece featuring a baked fruit component and at least two distinct textures.”
My mouth goes dry.
Breathing feels optional right now. No matter how hard I try to focus, my attention keeps drifting back to Taylor, standing just out of the corner of my eye.