We get to work, barely talking as we bake. Our station is wrapped in silence, but it’s madness around us. Teams are scurrying about, and cameramen are everywhere, trying to film as much as they can.
Our home economists are flitting about the room, attempting to stay out of the camera crew’s way as they assist contestants with the most basic of things—like how to lock the food processor in place or turn on the blowtorch without lighting something on fire. Personally, I don’t think you should be allowed to use the blowtorch if you can’t figure out how to turn it on. But maybe that’s just me.
I have the cherry chip cookies on a tray, ready to go, and I slide them into the oven.
“Harper!” Tammy hollers from across the room. “You need a camera on you! Take them out—do it again!”
“Right, sorry,” I mutter.
Our Australian friend rushes over, camera on his shoulder. He gives me a nod, and I slide the cookies in as if it’s the first time, pretending I didn’t just lose a precious minute because they justhaveto catch the oven scenes on film.
Mason comes over halfway through our ninety minutes with a cameraman following him like a puppy. “How’s it going over here?” he asks, sounding a touch more genuine than he did with the others.
I meet his eyes, trying to look impartial, but the truth is I’m hurt, and it’s difficult to hide that. He looks right back, his gray eyes soft with understanding.
“Fine—good,” I say, wiping my hands on a dish towel.
“What are you making?”
I give him the rundown. Sadie’s next to me, working in silence. Because he must engage with both of us, he turns to her.
“What are you working on, Sadie?”
She doesn’t look up. “I’m piping chocolate gift boxes for the cherry chocolate cheesecake cookies.”
“They’re looking good.”
“Thanks.” She’s as loud as a mouse. I have no idea how she’s going to get through the judging.
Another wave of anger sweeps through me. This time, it’s directed at the network. How dare the producers bulldoze their way into our personal lives? Especially when it comes to something so private.
The minute we’re booted off the show, I will be giving Tammy a piece of my mind. Unfortunately, we signed confidentiality contracts, so I can’t shout about the injustice to the world.
One of our timers goes off, and I excuse myself from Mason and his camera. I pull the cookies out of the oven, waiting this time to make sure they get it on film. To my great relief, they look perfect.
As I close the oven, Christy barrels past me, accidentally—or not—hitting me in the shoulder as she goes. Hard.
“Sorry,” she calls, sounding about as repentant as my brothers did the time they crawled on the counter and ate all Mom’s dark chocolate.
I stumble forward with the tray of cookies held precariously in my mitt-covered hand. Just when I think I’m going to go down, cookies and all, familiar, muscular arms wrap around me.
It takes me a moment to steady myself, and then I look over my shoulder, right into Mason’s eyes. He holds me for severalseconds. Each one seems longer than the last. Before he lets me go, he whispers, “I didn’t do it, Harper. I swear, I told no one.”
I search his eyes, looking for some sign of deceit. Call me stupid, but I think I believe him.
“Okay,” I murmur.
He gives me a small smile, one that makes those little rogue butterflies flutter.
Which is wrong on so many levels. What is my problem? Last night I kissed Brandon, and now I’m fluttering for Mason?
We stare at each other for a moment too long, and I move out of his arms, murmuring a thank you.
“Anytime.” He steps back as soon as he’s sure I have my balance. Then, finally realizing half the room is watching us, he clears his throat and nods toward the hot cookie sheet. “It would have been a shame to lose those.”
Feeling ill at the thought, I turn back to my station. As I go, I happen to glance at Chrissy and Christy. Like evil plastic-enhanced twins, they watch me with beady eyes and pinched mouths.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
