Apparently,FluxTVhas been releasing teasers and curated scenes leading up to next week’s official release on the streaming service.
They included all of our social media tags, encouraging viewers to follow along and get to know us before they start watching.
My follower count has jumped from 1,206 to nearlytwenty-four thousand.
Absolutely insane.
I don’t evenknowtwenty-four thousand people.
Thanks to the follower boost, my DMs exploded—most people ask about custom cakes and catering, but there are a select few that are a bit more intrusive.
One woman sends a four-paragraph message demanding the exact recipe for the lavender-honey cake I made mid-season.
Another asks if Alex and I are secretly engaged.
Even Lila sent me a message asking if I’d consider collaborating on a series with her. She called it an olive branch to leave the past in the past.
It feels more like she’s trying to capitalize on a moment, but hey, I guess I can’t blame her. Maybe I’ll take her up on it.
No publicity is bad publicity, right?
As luck would have it, a new bakery just opened on the far side of town. A cute little place calledDolce, focused on artisanal breads and pastries made with locally sourced ingredients.
The owner’s daughter recognized me from the ANGB promos online. When I inquired if they were looking to hire any bakers, she enthusiastically vouched for me to her mom, saying shejust knowsthat I made it to the end.
Per my NDA, I couldn’t confirm or deny, but I offered a wink and told her I think she will be pleasantly surprised with how the season ends.
She clapped excitedly, and her mom hired me on the spot.
The first few shifts at the bakery are a reminder that this is what I want to do for the rest of my life.
The place smells incredible—warm yeast, caramelized sugar, and coffee strong enough to wake the dead. By the end of my first week, my hands feel permanently dusted in flour, and my forearms are dotted with tiny burns from the ovens.
And I’ve never been happier.
It’s not glamorous work. Most mornings start before the sun even considers rising, and by the time the front doors open, the display case is already lined with rows of glossy croissants, rustic loaves, and delicate pastries that look almost too pretty to eat.
Almost.
Customers filter in throughout the day, and every once in a while, someone does a double-take when I’m cashing them out.
“You look familiar,” they’ll say, squinting at me across the counter.
I just smile and ring up their sourdough.
My NDA is still very much intact.
When the shop is quiet, I pull out my phone and scroll through messages.
Alex’s name is always near the top.
We text whenever we can, squeezing conversations between his shifts at the restaurant and my early mornings at the bakery.
Sometimes it’s a quick little update about our day.
Other times, it’s photos—him sending pictures of plated dishes that look like tiny works of art, me sending back shots of whatever intricate pastry I’m currently elbow-deep in.
The time difference between our shifts doesn’t help.
