“Yeah, I know.”
Fuck.
My reaction almost betrays me.
He laughs, claps a hand on my shoulder, then drops back onto his bed. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. I’m not exactly a home baker either, but nobody else here needs to know that.”
I don’t trust him.
“Right.” My response is short. I’m not here to make friends or allies. I have no use for either, especially in this competition.
“Did you meet the ditz twins out there? They’re all noise and no talent. Probably just here to stir up drama.”
“We’ll see.”
One thing I’ve learned throughout my career is that you can’t count anybody out. People surprise you every day. I hope he underestimates Diane. That would be gold.
Somehow, my bags have already been deposited next to my bed. Small favors. Snagging my toiletry bag, I head into our ensuite to brush my teeth.
I spit, rinse, and glare at my reflection in the mirror. The minty taste barely cuts through the ghost of coffee on my breath, so I go again.
My father’s voice echoes in my head, sharp and biting. The same blade he used to slice through every misstep I ever made in the kitchen. “Precision, Alexander. You’re a Harrington. Always aim higher. Perfection isn’t optional.”
I used to genuinely love baking. I’d spend hours in the kitchen, making gruesome but mouth-watering concoctions that my grandparents raved over. Baking used to be fun. Before my father decided that passion was a weakness.
Before he drilled the whimsy and spectacle out of baking and replaced it with timing charts, perfect plating, and relentless pressure. Every dessert became a performance. Every critique, a test I couldn’t pass.
And now here I am, shoved into a house with a bunch of strangers, cameras, and reality TV personalities, expected to smile and charm my way through this asinine show. Lila and Ace are prancing around like this is some social media playground, while I’m here wondering how much patience I can muster before cracking.
I scrub my molars harder, wishing I had a little bit of that old spark still inside me. But it’s gone. Snuffed out by Daddy Dearest. Hot rage spikes in my chest that the man who killed my love of pastry is the same bastard forcing me into this confectionery contest now.
With one last swish, I shove those thoughts back down into the deepest part of me. Then spit and exit the bathroom. Brandon is already gone, probably on the main floor with the rest of the group.
And even though I’d rather be doing anything else, I pop a piece of gum in my mouth and head downstairs anyway.
For the next forty-five minutes, the front door is a constant stream of new faces and names I’m not going to remember. Still, I make an effort to match them—because, supposedly, remembering is crucial to my image.
Chloe walks in like she owns the place. Sleek bun, gold hoops, and a no-nonsense look in her eyes. She gives me a tiny nod, polite but unreadable. She’s cool and detached, and I appreciate that about her.
Jasper’s a stocky guy with a baseball cap and bad jokes for days. It’s like he can’t wait to fill the silence with a punchline that makes anyone within earshot groan. Right down to his off-white New Balances, he looks like he walked straight out of a suburban dad magazine.
RaeAnn scampers in behind him. She’s all freckles, messy bun, and oversized glasses, looking like she sprinted here straight from a PTA meeting. She has frantic eyes and keeps apologizing for making everyone repeat their names.
I’m getting secondhand anxiety just being near her.
Khalil is tall and lanky, with headphones resting against his collarbone. He’s wearing relaxed thrift-store layers with an iced coffee in hand, and has sharp, assessing eyes. He glances at the rest of us, sizing us up.
Doing a quick count, I notice there are only nine of us when there are supposed to be ten. I glance at the watch on my wrist; it’s a couple minutes past seven.
“Attention, everybody!”
I snap my gaze to the guy in the foyer holding a clipboard—probably a producer. “We’re going to start tonight by filming personal introductions. There’s an interview room upstairs where you’ll each get five minutes to give us your best elevator pitch for why you deserve to be on the sh—”
The front door swings open and cracks him right in the back. Clipboard Guy shoots forward with a yelp, papers exploding everywhere as he hits the ground.
A bright-eyed blonde barrels through the doorway, smile fading fast as she realizes she’s committed a door-induced, full-body tackle.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” She drops her bags and falls to her knees, scrambling to help collect the papers. “I didn’t know if I should knock or just come in, and I definitely didn’t expect anyone to be standing right behind the door.”
