There’s some sort of dark chocolate flourless cake and a creamy chocolate mousse garnished with a piping of whipped cream, bitter chocolate shavings, and three perfectly plump raspberries. A miniature truffle sits next to a generous square of the world’s most delicious-looking tiramisu and chocolate, ganache-filled macarons. And that’s not all, but my brain is on overload.
So much chocolate.
“We can’t possibly eat all this,” I say, still full from the banquet.
Mason tilts his head as he studies the dessert platter. I’ve noticed he does that a lot—studies things. He’s not at all what I expected, and I’m not sure what to think about that.
“Then let’s take a taste of each and see what we like the best.”
His turns to me, his expression easy yet expectant, and I finally give in. “Fine, but I have to leave in an hour or I’ll be a mess tomorrow.”
His answering grin is swift, and it’s wide enough, his dimples shadow his cheeks. It strikes me again how much older he looks than he did on Riley’s walls. No—not just older. More mature. Solid and chiseled and hardened.
“An hour it is,” he says as he hands me a fork.
I yawninto the back of my hand, but I try to hide it from the camera crew. They’re wandering about, followed by people with lights and extra speakers, filming us as we wait to enter the kitchen for our first competition.
The room is intense, and we’re all dealing with our nerves in different ways. There are the quiet, focused types like Quinn and her mother, Sarah. Then there are the loud people like Chicago Scott and Charlie from Washington DC, who have been heckling each other all day. Charlie’s wife shakes her head, half-embarrassed by her husband’s behavior.
Like Charlie, Lindsay’s in her thirties, but she’s as soft-spoken as Charlie is loud. She wears her black hair in an elaborate braid that falls down her back. Her red holiday apron coordinates with her white, sleeveless blouse, making her look festive, which the producers love.
Earlier, we spent a few hours in the kitchen, getting to know our work area and the ingredient carts. There are swags of greenery and twinkle lights at every station, and various-sized Christmas trees are scattered around the perimeter.
We have three home economists—people whose job is to stock ingredients and show us where everything is. A woman by the name of Sandra walked Sadie and me through everything, showing us where all our tools are and demonstrating how to work things like stove tops and ovens. (Not that we couldn’t work an oven, of course. But she still went over it.)
Before arriving, we filled out request forms, stating what kinds of ingredients we prefer to use so they were sure to have them on hand. There’s so much more that goes into this than it looks like on television.
I yawn again, and this time Sadie catches me. “What time did you get back to your room?”
Rolling my head, trying to stretch my neck and wake up, I grimace. “Two-thirty.”
“In the morning?” she hisses, taken aback.
“Obviously.”
Her eyes narrow with speculation. “What were you doing all that time?”
My stomach rolls at the thought. Both Mason and I ended up eating far more than we should have, and I’m suffering today. We had way too much sugar, way too late at night, and I’ve been battling a headache all day.
I don’t envy Mason. The last thing I would want to do this afternoon is taste twelve different types of cookies.
“Scott!” Tammy calls across the room before I can answer Sadie. She’s wearing a headset and mic, and she looks like a woman on a mission. “You must change your shirt—nostripes.”
It’s one of the rules. Apparently tight stripes will create what’s known as a moiré effect. On screen, it will look like thelines are moving. The dress code was clearly marked in our packets, and Tammy doesn’t look pleased.
Scott blinks at Tammy, confused, and then his wife Misty gives him a shove. “Hurry!” she says. “We go on soon!”
Tammy turns to the group, looking exasperated. “We’ve had a last-minute change. Mason has moved from judge to host, and Jonathan York flew in this morning to take his space. This doesn’t affect you in the slightest, but I wanted you to be made aware of it before we go on camera.”
One by one, people look my way, shooting me suspicious glances. Christy…Chrissy—one of the plastic blonds—raises her hand.
Tammy gives her a look that would send Sadie scurrying for cover and bites out, “Yes, Chrissy?”
Ah, it’s Chrissy.
“What happened to Frank?” the woman asks, referring to the previous host.
“It doesn’t concern you. All you need to know is that we have a different host and new judge.”
