Sadie just about jumps out of her skin. She grabs hold of my arm. “Where’s Brandon? I was hoping he’d get back before we went in.”
He answered a call from his coach about fifteen minutes ago, and we haven’t seen him since. Standing on her toes, Sadie scans the room as she bites her bottom lip.
“Go!” Riley shoves us both toward the door, where the other four teams are already heading.
I shoot Riley a look and turn to Sadie. “Come on, my obnoxious sister is right. If we don’t hurry, they’ll disqualify us before we even start.”
Sadie nods, obviously disappointed. Riley gives me a quick hug for luck, and then we’re walking toward the tall, dark-haired woman with the clipboard.
“Sadie,” Brandon says from behind us as he miraculously appears. Quickly, he pulls her into his arms and gives her a tight hug that’s so sweet, I’d melt right here if I weren’t instantly nauseous. “Good luck, sweetheart.”
She grins and pulls out of his arms. He glances at me as she scurries away. Hesitant, he says, “Good luck, Harper.”
“Thanks.”
He looks like he wants to say something else, but he ends up giving me a pained smile and turns back to the crowd.
I hurry after Sadie. We are the last ones through the door.
The woman with the clipboard leads us through several short halls, and then we’re in the kitchen. Though we had a chance to walk through it earlier today, the size of the room and the sheer amount of stainless steel is daunting. Sadie and I have been assigned to station two, and we quickly take our places.
There are even more cameras in here, and bright lights right along with them. I’m not a nervous person by nature, but it’s enough to give even me a little stage fright.
Of course, the chances of making it on television at this level are slim to none. There are so many of us competing for a spot. Most of the footage from today will probably be scrapped. In fact, I know from watching the show every year that the people who they’ll show on today’s audition episode are the ones who make fools of themselves—the ones who get too zealous with the knives and cut themselves, slip on the floor, or can’t work the mixer. It’s my goal to be as inconspicuous as possible.
The room goes silent as Tammy, the producer from the network who oversees the whole show, steps to the front. She’s a chef herself, and I’ve seen her so many times on television it’s a little surreal.
She resembles a ballet instructor more than a pastry chef. Her black hair is pulled back in a tight, sleek chignon, making her seem very intimidating. She looks like the type who carries a ruler about the kitchen, smacking knuckles whenever someone incorrectly whips their egg whites or fails to properly cream their butter.
“Again, welcome,” she begins. “We are very pleased to have you here. The ingredients you’ve requested are at your workstations. If you should find yourself missing something, please find one of us right away. You have ninety minutes to complete and decorate one dozen cookies, but you should be able to complete the task in half the time. If you cannot, Iguarantee you won’t make it far on the show. We have a lot of auditions to get through today and tomorrow, so let’s keep things moving.”
Sadie nods sagely as Tammy speaks, and a quick glance around the kitchen shows me that most of the contestants are wound as tightly as my partner. A few teams wear professional-looking chef attire under their aprons, and I recognize the woman who owns a local pastry shop.
“You may begin,” Tammy finally says, and the portable, digital clock they’ve brought with them begins to count down our ninety minutes.
Because Riley is some freakish taskmaster, Sadie and I have practiced our recipe no less than twelve times. It took nine to get the recipe just right, and then another three to perfect our decorating technique. Without a word, we jump into our tasks. Sadie begins measuring the wet ingredients for the dough while I sift the dry. I’d never used a flour sifter in my life, but on batch number six, we learned that it did a better job of incorporating the cocoa powder. Plus, according to Riley and Lauren, it makes us look extra “culinary.” I roll my eyes just thinking about it.
“Nice technique,” a man says from my side.
Startled because I didn’t hear him walk up, I glance over to tell him to mind his own business and get back to his station. Then I drop the entire flour sifter on the counter. Like a horrid flashback to the other day at Brandon’s house, the mixture of flour and cocoa powder goes everywhere—on me, on our workstation, and on Mason Knight…Mr. Forever Now himself.
And of course, because they were probably trained on him from the second he walked into the room, the cameras catch the whole thing.
“Oh my word,” I breathe. And I really hope everyone in the kitchen thinks it’s because of the mess I made and not because my brain just short-circuited.
I’ll tell you a little something. Mason Knight is attractive on his album covers and on the talk shows, but nothing can prepare you for the man himself. For one, he looks older. Instead of the teenager on the posters in Riley’s room that I associate him with, he’s all grown up. And he’s not “cute” or “hot.” Oh no. He’s full-out, make-your-knees-weak, start-naming-your-future-childrenhandsome.
And I’ve been reduced to Riley. I blink at him, at a complete loss for words.
He watches me with a polite smile on his face, apparently used to girls making fools of themselves in his presence. His eyes though…they’re amused. They crinkle at the edges, just like they did in his clothing store ad. And though his dimples aren’t showing yet, I can see them lurking, making me think he’s trying hard to suppress a grin.
And what do I do? Absolutely nothing but stand here and gawk at him.
Finally, as if he can’t take it anymore, he leans in close like he wants to say something he doesn’t want the cameras to pick up. Maybe propose marriage. That would be all right.
“You know,” he whispers in a voice that is sure to melt all the chocolate in the room, “I’ve had fans throw some strange things at me, but I think this is the first time I’ve been pelted with flour.”
“I’m not a fan.” My mouth forms the words, but not with my brain’s permission. “I’m sorry.”
