“Alex.” I correct him immediately, glancing over my shoulder to see if any of the others heard my last name, but they’re too focused on their phones and coffee to care.
The older gentleman winces as he remembers the confidentiality issue.
“Apologies, Alex. We’re waiting on Ms. Taylor to come down, but I assure you we aren’t behind schedule. Most of you happened to be very, very early. And even if she is running a little behind, like yesterday, I’ll get us there on time. You have my word.”
“Good man,” I say, patting him on the shoulder gently before sitting back against my seat. I crack my knuckles one by one, then jerk my head side to side, popping the tension in my neck. Waiting on people is high on my long list of grievances in this life.
With minutes to spare, Taylor comes barreling into the van and plops onto the only open seat. The one directly next to me.
“Hi, good morning!” she breathes out, smiling warmly. “Almost didn’t make it, but I’m right on time today. Score!”
She buckles her seatbelt and lifts her arms to battle her chaotic halo of curls. Strands poke out every which way, sunlight catching the copper undertones like glowing fire.
She’s so close I can smell the scent of her shampoo still lingering. Something floral but also bright. I scowl, telling myself it shouldn’t bother me how that little detail hits me.
It shouldn’t; itdoesn’t.
“Early is on time, on time is late, and late is fired,” I mutter, frustrated by her tardiness—and, begrudgingly, by the way her positivity slams into me.
She tilts her head, smile widening. “It’s a good thing you aren’t my boss, then, right?” She nestles a Tupperware container on her lap, full to the top with cookies.
“Are you bringing baked goods to a baking show? I don’t know if you got the memo, but we’re supposed to do thatlivefor the cameras,” I quip, flicking my eyes from her face to her lap in irritation.
I need to keep my mouth shut, but she grates against my nerves in ways I can’t explain. She’s so bright and bubbly, and damn it, it drives me crazy.
Her head tosses back in a loud, melodic laugh.
Ridiculous.
“Oh, Alex,” she murmurs through the giggle, placing a hand gently on one of my crossed arms. “You are so tirelessly cranky. Obviously, I’m going to bake live today. These are a peace offering to Joe for his near-death experience yesterday. I’m making my amends and starting this new day off on the right foot.”
The muscle in my jaw ticks as I clench my teeth against a response. She nudges me in the shoulder before adding, “Not too late for you to try it, too.”
I scoff, pulling my body away so she can’t make such easy contact, forcing myself to focus on the world beyond the window whizzing by.
It’s way too early for this much of her.
?????????
The van winds up the long driveway, flanked by tall palms and manicured hedges. Early-morning sun glints off the terracotta roof tiles of the manor ahead. The stucco walls glow warmly while arched windows, wrought-iron balconies, and carved stone trim give the house a sense of grandeur.
This place clearly wasn’t built for subtlety.
I lean back in my seat, trying to work the stiffness out of my muscles from the ride. Taylor’s shoulder brushes mine as she settles in beside me, humming softly under her breath like she’s completely oblivious to where we are.
The driver eases the van to a stop at the front entrance, where a small cluster of crew members and assistants move with practiced efficiency, clipboards and walkie-talkies in hand. The polished stone steps and towering double doors feel almost ceremonial, and the warm air carries faint scents of blooming citrus and fresh-cut grass from the gardens beyond.
Inside, the great room stretches ahead. High ceilings and tall windows let in a soft golden sunlight. Folding chairs are arranged in small clusters while tables hold coffee, bottled water, and light snacks. Makeup and wardrobe stations line one wall. A check-in desk sits near the entrance, where producers greet each of us with quick smiles and last-minute instructions.
Taylor nudges me as we step inside. “This is fancy,” she whispers, eyes darting around in delight.
I glance at her, trying not to let the corners of my mouth twitch. “Too bad we’re not here for the architecture.”
Our group moves to a corner of the room where the pre-show prep is happening. Producers hand out schedules and explain the morning’s flow, and Taylor leans in just enough for me to catch a whiff of her shampoo again. My jaw ticks. I grit my teeth, forcing my attention back where it belongs—not on her.
Even in this vast, echoing room, buzzing with full-scale network production, Taylor’s energy is impossible to ignore. I can’t decide if I want to snap at her to tone it down or let it run wild.
Screw her and her infectious positivity, and the way I’m unwillingly, irrationally drawn to it.
