Nine hours and fifty-six minutes, trapped in a car with Sadie telling me college stories about Brandon…and how fantastic Brandon is…and her wondering aloud if it’s too soon to start thinking of destination weddings involving—you guessed it—Brandon.
He has no idea what he’s getting himself into.
I give the musician a shrug.
Mason watches me for several more moments, his eyes sliding over my face. “I’ll let you girls get settled, but I’ll see you at dinner.”
Sadie says something—I have no idea what because I ignore her.
Whether I want it to be or not, my whole focus is directed on Mason. He takes two steps toward me, closing the distance between us. Before my brain can remind my feet to step away, his hands pass under my jacket and settle on either side of my waist. His palms are warm through the thin sweater I’m wearing, and my brain short circuits.
I suck in a surprised gasp, but before I can push him away, his mouth moves near my ear, and his jaw brushes mine. “There are certain…rules…in place between the judges and the contestants.”
A tight, hot knot forms in my stomach, making me stumble slightly. His hand finds my elbow, steadying me.
“We’ll have to be careful not to appearoverlyfriendly in public,” he whispers, his words tickling my ear.
My mouth goes dry, and I swallow before I answer. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I don’t even know you. You certainly don’t know me.”
“Oh, but I plan to.”
With that, he steps back, a crooked smile forming on his perfect lips, and walks down the hall, disappearing from view.
Sadie stares at me, mouth gaping open. She steadies herself on the wall with one hand and fans her face with the other. “Mason Knight just hit on you.”
And as much as I hate to admit it, I liked it.
A lot.
CHAPTER SIX
I dabthe last little bit of sauce off my plate with a crusty piece of French bread, eying the hovering waiter with the suspicion of a wild dog not wanting to share her bone. If the man even tries to take this plate before I’m finished, I will end him.
No joke.
“Have you ever…” Sadie sighs into a spoonful of chocolate mousse, not even bothering to finish her sentence.
Needless to say, the food here at HBN’s cabin is astounding. Word has it they coaxed Chef Louis Brenard from his diamond-encrusted, multi-million-dollar restaurant empire to create the menu. Lucky us.
“You’re doing it again,” Sadie whispers, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
I rip my gaze away from Mason.
“I wasn’t.”
But it’s a lie—Iwaslooking at him, as I’ve been doing all night. My eyes can’t seem to stay away. He’s seated at a table with the other judges—top chef Alexandra Doyl and Peter Gostinberg from HBN’s Bake It Right.
Tammy was sitting with them as well, but she abandoned their table long before the first course was served. She’s nowstanding in a corner, murmuring with a man in a suit who looks important. No wonder the woman is so skinny—she cooks, but she doesn’teat.
Purposely keeping my eyes off Mason, I let my gaze wander over the rest of the room. According to Tammy’s beloved schedule, this is our only formal dinner. From here on out, we may eat in the dining room, but only contestants receive their food for free. Family members and friends are required to pay. The only exception is the goodies left over from the bake-off challenges. Whatever doesn’t get scarfed down by the crew will be relocated to a dessert table in the corner. It’s a first-come, first-served sort of system.
Including the members of the crew and random cameramen wandering about the room, there are around seventy people in attendance. The mood is jovial, and the thrill of possibility is in the air. Any one of us could win—any one of us could take home the twenty thousand dollars.
The gossip mill is oiled and working, and we’ve already learned quite a bit about our fellow competitors. First, there’s Scott and Misty, a husband and wife team from Chicago. They own a bakery, and their croissants are supposed to be to die for. They’re both a little soft around the edges, each wears a huge smile, and Scott’s laugh is crazy loud—but in a Santa Claus kind of way, not like a drunk guy in the corner of the room.
Then there’s Chrissy and Christy—no joke—cupcake bakers from New York. I’m guessing they’re in their forties, but there’s definitely an excessive amount of cosmetic surgery that’s gone on there, so it’s hard to say. One of the two, Christy, I think, scans the room like me. She’s the taller of the two, with unnaturally full lips and a pinched expression that never seems to leave her face. The two teammates whisper, and I have a feeling they’re sizing up their competition.
Cole, the baking gladiator we met earlier, is seated with his partner and brother. Jerome’s equally as tall and muscular as his brother, and they’re already attracting attention.
