Bake It ‘Til You Make It

Chapter 28

Less than twelve hours ago, I was tangled up in Alex for what could be the final time. I did my best to hide the way my heart was crumpling over what happens next for us, but I’m pretty sure he saw the tears building as he opened my car door for me to slide into the driver’s seat.

He brushed a thumb over my cheek and kissed me softly, murmuring against my lips, “I’ll see you later.”

Not goodbye, just I’ll see you later, like a promise that this isn’t the end for us.

God, I hope it isn’t the end of whatever we are.

Never in a million years would I have thought that a carefully controlled storm cloud would fit into all the hollow places inside me. But maybe that’s what people mean when they say opposites attract—all the places where you dip, they rise naturally to meet you.

Nothing explains Alex and me better than that strange, perfect balance.

A warm ocean breeze whips my hair into a frenzy as I cross the parking lot. I take a steadying breath as I step through the doors of the same mundane office building that I’ve spent far too much time in over the last five years.

Against every rational thought, I know what I need to do. If I don’t give my resignation today while I’m still riding the buzz of the finale, I’ll get trapped in the cycle of my old life before I realize it's happening.

“Morning, Sunshine!” Kara chirps, expression shifting as she takes in my squared shoulders and determined pace. “Oh shit, it’s go time.”

My steps don’t slow as I stalk down the hall to The Trunch’s office and knock on the door, sharp and loud. The timid girl who used to cower at the thought of confrontation is nowhere to be found.

I don’t wait for a response. My hand immediately finds the knob, twisting and pushing the door open to find Karen staring back at me, startled.

Karen sits at her desk, a breakfast sandwich halfway to her mouth as she takes me in. Her eyes sharpen, and she smirks at me. “If it isn’t Little Miss Hollywood. Oh wait… you didn’t win, did you? Such a sh—”

For five years, I swallowed comments like that and told myself it was normal. No more.

“I quit.”

My expression is carefully neutral as I cut her off. There’s no need to play nice if I’m quitting. She’s a terrible person who thrives on making others—namely me—miserable.

I don’t have to stand for it.

Not anymore.

Her smirk falls, and she drops the sandwich back onto the greasy wrapper on her desk.

“What? No, you can’t quit.”

“Actually, I can. You’ve done nothing but harass me from the first day I started this job. I’ve done everything you and this company have ever asked, and you still crap on me every chance you get.”

I stand a little taller, squaring my shoulders again.

“And I’m done. Find someone else to be your punching bag, because I quit. Effective immediately.”

The words feel lighter than air leaving my mouth.

My boss’s jaw hangs open, and I fight back a laugh because she looks exactly like one of those big-mouthed basses from the old fish market ads.

I spin on a heel, leaving her speechless, and snap the cheap wooden door closed behind me without another word.

I bite my lower lip to keep from smiling too hard, adrenaline tingling through my body. I shake out my hands, trying to burn off some of the pent-up energy. I feel like I could kick down a door right now.

Kara is waiting for me at the end of the hall with wide eyes. She tilts her head, raising her hands in question.

“Well...?”

“My time at Elite Connections is officially over.”

“Hell yeah, let’s go!” She pumps a fist in the air.

My best friend slings an arm over my shoulder, leading me to the main floor where our cubicles sit among the others.

“Attention, everyone! Taylor did it. She’s out of here!” Kara cups her hands around her mouth, announcing my resignation to the team.

The news is met with claps, supportive smiles, and a few whistles.

“Speech, speech, speech!” Kara starts a chant that the others eventually fall in line with. One of the older guys bangs his desk with his fists, punctuating the chant.

Well, this is awkward. What can I tell these people that they don’t already know?

My thoughts sift through the past ten weeks in rapid succession. My lips tip up, remembering every detail.

“I don’t know what I can say to you all,” I say, swallowing hard as I look at my team gathered around us.

“Ten weeks ago, I left here thinking I was just going to bake a few cakes and maybe embarrass myself on national television… turns out I only did one of those things.”

A few laughs ripple through the group.

“But somewhere along the way, I realized I’ve been living my life on autopilot. And life’s way too short to stay somewhere that makes you miserable.” I shrug.

Everyone’s listening now.

“Somehow, baking under a giant tent with cameras everywhere is a lot less scary than staying stuck somewhere you’re unhappy.”

My eyes flick to Kara’s, and I give her a small smile.

“I think it’s finally time I find out what else I’m capable of. And my hope is that the rest of you find a way to do that, too. If you can make it here, you can do anything.”

I fold my hands in front of me, dipping my chin.

“I’m really going to miss all the free desserts!” Someone calls out from the back, drawing a shaky laugh out of me.

Each of my teammates takes turns saying goodbye and wishing me well. It’s a mix of hugs, handshakes, and some tears, while I pack the knick-knacks I used to make my boring twelve square feet feel a little more alive.

A little more me.

The second I’m settled in the driver’s seat of my car, I pull down the visor and fix the smudges of mascara under my eyes. I tousle my hair and reapply my lip gloss, wiping my lip line to clean up the peachy-pink that gathered along the edge.

With my phone tilted at the most flattering angle, I beam a smile directly into the camera, snap a selfie, and send it off to Alex.

ME:

the face of a girl who just quit

her awful job…

I pause for a second, thumbs hovering over the screen before immediately typing another message. We’re way past a double text being a cardinal sin, right?

ME:

and if you don’t look too close, you

can’t tell how terrifying that was

Opening Spotify, I put on the playlist I playfully named Bake It ‘Til You Make It. God, I love a good pun!

Lavender Haze by Taylor Swift floods the car. I put the windows down, letting the warm breeze dance alongside me while my shoulders shimmy to the beat.

GRUMP BUCKET:

That’s my girl!

Scared or not, all I see is how

fucking beautiful you are.

Even though I know he can’t see me, I cover my cheeks with my hands as the blush creeps in at the compliment.

I start to type, but backspace the message away only to start again. There’s so much I want to say, and yet, the right words just won’t come.

Get it together, it’s just Alex.

I laugh, imagining him with a scowl on his face, sitting there with our message thread open, watching three little dots appear and disappear over and over again.

How embarrassing.

Before I can decide what to send, his next one comes in. He doesn’t know it, but he puts me out of my misery with three simple words.

GRUMP BUCKET:

I miss you.

Pressure builds behind my eyes again, blurring the screen for a second. And I type out a quick reply. It’s simple, but it says it all.

ME:

I miss you too

?????????

I spend my time baking every chance I get, texting Alex whenever we’re both free, and trying to figure out what to do next.

On my way home after quitting my job, I opened Instagram for the first time in months to find my account had exploded during my social media sabbatical.

Apparently, FluxTV has been releasing teasers and curated scenes leading up to next week’s official release on the streaming service.

They included all of our social media tags, encouraging viewers to follow along and get to know us before they start watching.

My follower count has jumped from 1,206 to nearly twenty-four thousand.

Absolutely insane.

I don’t even know twenty-four thousand people.

Thanks to the follower boost, my DMs exploded—most people ask about custom cakes and catering, but there are a select few that are a bit more intrusive.

One woman sends a four-paragraph message demanding the exact recipe for the lavender-honey cake I made mid-season.

Another asks if Alex and I are secretly engaged.

Even Lila sent me a message asking if I’d consider collaborating on a series with her. She called it an olive branch to leave the past in the past.

It feels more like she’s trying to capitalize on a moment, but hey, I guess I can’t blame her. Maybe I’ll take her up on it.

No publicity is bad publicity, right?

As luck would have it, a new bakery just opened on the far side of town. A cute little place called Dolce, focused on artisanal breads and pastries made with locally sourced ingredients.

The owner’s daughter recognized me from the ANGB promos online. When I inquired if they were looking to hire any bakers, she enthusiastically vouched for me to her mom, saying she just knows that I made it to the end.

Per my NDA, I couldn’t confirm or deny, but I offered a wink and told her I think she will be pleasantly surprised with how the season ends.

She clapped excitedly, and her mom hired me on the spot.

The first few shifts at the bakery are a reminder that this is what I want to do for the rest of my life.

The place smells incredible—warm yeast, caramelized sugar, and coffee strong enough to wake the dead. By the end of my first week, my hands feel permanently dusted in flour, and my forearms are dotted with tiny burns from the ovens.

And I’ve never been happier.

It’s not glamorous work. Most mornings start before the sun even considers rising, and by the time the front doors open, the display case is already lined with rows of glossy croissants, rustic loaves, and delicate pastries that look almost too pretty to eat.

Almost.

Customers filter in throughout the day, and every once in a while, someone does a double-take when I’m cashing them out.

“You look familiar,” they’ll say, squinting at me across the counter.

I just smile and ring up their sourdough.

My NDA is still very much intact.

When the shop is quiet, I pull out my phone and scroll through messages.

Alex’s name is always near the top.

We text whenever we can, squeezing conversations between his shifts at the restaurant and my early mornings at the bakery.

Sometimes it’s a quick little update about our day.

Other times, it’s photos—him sending pictures of plated dishes that look like tiny works of art, me sending back shots of whatever intricate pastry I’m currently elbow-deep in.

The time difference between our shifts doesn’t help.

By the time I’m getting home and collapsing onto my couch, he’s usually just starting dinner service.

Still, we do what we can to make it work.

Late one night, after I shower off the scent of the bar where I got drinks with Kara after my shift at Dolce, I end up curled on my couch with my laptop balanced on the coffee table in front of me.

And every single time I settle into this position, without fail, I open the bookmarked travel site and type Vancouver into the search bar like some strange little ritual.

The prices are… not encouraging.

Round-trip tickets flash across the screen with numbers that make my stomach drop. The cheaper ones feel wildly irresponsible when I’ve only just quit my job and started something new. Custom orders have started trickling in, but I’m still working to get caught up.

And the more expensive one? Forget about it.

I stare at the options anyway: early morning departures, red-eyes, flights with two layovers that take almost an entire day—every option the travel site is willing to show me.

I hover over the “select” button more than once, but then always close the tab. The truth is, even if I could afford to go right now, I’m not entirely sure I should.

Alex hasn’t exactly invited me.

Not that he’s said anything to make me think he wouldn’t want me there. If anything, he’s the one constantly telling me how much he misses me first, while I try to play it off like I’m way cooler than I am.

I’m honestly dying to see him, but flying to another country to see someone you technically aren’t even dating feels like a bold move.

One might even call it slightly unhinged.

I rest my chin on my hand and stare at the last message he sent earlier tonight.

GRUMP BUCKET:

Just got home.

Kitchen was chaos tonight.

Tell me something good.

I send him a quick snapshot of my feet covered in fuzzy socks, propped on the table next to my open laptop. A second message follows a moment later.

GRUMP BUCKET:

Wish you were here.

My chest squeezes a little at that. I want to type something back about the flights I’ve been looking at. Instead, I flip my laptop closed and set it on the bottom shelf of the coffee table.

Because if I keep staring at flight prices and rereading Alex’s messages, I might do something reckless.

I lean back against the couch cushions, staring up at the ceiling and holding my phone to my chest.

For the first time in years, my life feels… open.

Terrifyingly, beautifully open.

I don’t have a five-year plan. But I also don’t have a miserable boss breathing down my neck anymore or a job that slowly drains every ounce of joy out of my day.

Now I have the chance to do what I love every day, twenty-four thousand strangers on the internet watching my life unfold, and a complicated, wonderful man living half a country away.

It’s messy and uncertain, and somehow, it feels exactly right. My phone buzzes in my hand again.

GRUMP BUCKET:

You still awake, pretty girl?

I smile before I can stop myself. I guess Vancouver can wait a little longer. For now, maybe this—whatever this is—can be enough.