CHAPTER 1: TAYLOR
Subject:Congratulations! You’ve been selected for America’s Next Great Baker!
The words glare back at me from my laptop screen, bold and impossible. For a full three seconds, I forget how to breathe.
Then my coffee mug slips from my hand, splashing lukewarm hazelnut roast across the stack of unpaid bills spread over my tiny kitchen table. Brown swirls bleed into the redPAST DUEstamp on my power bill, turning it into a watercolor of my questionable life choices. My heart is racing too fast, my hands too shaky.
My mind too blown.
I should reach for the roll of paper towels on the counter and try to save the electric bill from its soggy fate. I should, at the very least, stop staring at the email like it might sprout wings and fly out the window if I look away from it for too long.
But I don’t.
Because—no way, this can’t be real!
I blink once. Then twice. Then lean closer until my nose almost touches the screen, but the words don’t vanish; they stay exactly where they are. Crisp, proud, glorious black text on a stark white background breathing hope into my life.
Congratulations, TAYLOR ROSE MADDEN. You’ve been selected to compete on the PREMIER season ofAmerica’s Next Great Baker!Filming begins in Los Angeles on May 3rd. Please confirm your availability at your earliest convenience.
Holy. Freaking. Cupcakes!
I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle the sound that bursts out of me. Something between a gasp, a laugh, and a full-on scream. It doesn’t work. A shrieking giggle escapes around my fingers anyway, echoing off the chipped tile backsplash and bouncing around my tiny, first-floor apartment like a runaway balloon.
“I did it,” I whisper. Then louder, “Oh my god, Idid it!”
The smile stretching across my face is unstoppable, wide enough to hurt. I press both palms to my cheeks, feeling them warm under my fingers. I can already smell the cinnamon rolls, the sugar and butter, the vanilla that never seems to leave my hair when I go on a baking binge, no matter how many showers I take.
In my mind, I see the bakery I’ve always dreamed of come to life.
The tiny bell that sings a sweet, silvery melody when customers walk in. Bright pink awnings propped on the outside of the building that make the whole street look happier just by existing. Glass cases lined with pastel macarons, glittering cupcakes, and flaky croissants stacked like towering pieces of art.
Taylor’s Treats.
A place where people smile and remember that life can still be sweet, no matter how ugly the world around us gets. A bright oasis in a life full of gray.
I close my eyes, just for a second, and I can almost hear my grandma humming along to Dolly Parton as she kneads dough beside me, telling me that “baking is just another way to say I love you.” She used to say flour was magic and that if you used it exactly right, it could turn the hardest of hearts into marshmallow.
A lump forms in my throat. I miss Gran so much, but I smile thinking of her, knowing she pulled some strings as my guardian angel to get me this chance. Proof that magic and love don’t abide by time and space.
They’re endless.
Then, faster than I ever thought possible, reality crashes through the sugar haze like a wrecking ball.
Rent. Bills. Work coverage.
Coffee destroying everything on my kitchen table.
“Oh, crap!”
The words burst out of me as I grab a dish towel to dab at the mess, but I’m too late. The coffee’s curling the edges of my overdue notices like burnt pie crust. Figures. The first thing I’ve managed to soak thoroughly in this kitchen isn’t a tres leches cake.
I flop back onto the wobbly chair, rubbing my temples as the excitement begins to war with the dread gathering in my gut.
How am I supposed to disappear forweeksto film a TV show when I can barely afford to take one unpaid day off? When my checking account balance is already sailing somewhere south of pathetic?
I glance around my apartment—the cramped galley kitchen that doubles as a dining room, the couch that’s seen better centuries, the stack of empty shipping boxes I keep telling myself I’ll turn into artsy storage bins someday. It’s small, messy, and perpetually smells like sugar and coffee, but it’s mine.
A dreamer’s headquarters, even if the rent check bounces more often than I’d ever admit aloud.
