Sunshine doesn’t disappear just because a cloud passes through. And I’ve got plenty of light left to give.
CHAPTER 8: ALEX
Production calls it a two-hour lunch break, but it feels more like a punishment handed down after our first bake.
Two hours to sit under a pop-up tent with a bruised ego and feedback that still tastes wrong in my mouth.
“Too basic... Lacked risk...”
As if restraint itself isn’t a skill. As if execution isn’t the whole point. As if anyone else in that damn kitchen—barring maybe Brandon—could’ve pulled off that same feat at the same level.
What a fucking joke.
Julian sits across from me, legs stretched out, picking at a sandwich he didn’t pay for, blissfully unaware that I’m one poorly timed comment away from flipping this folding table. My cousin, not a contestant, was invited solely as a reminder that my father expects my best behavior to win over the American audience.
Diane sits beside him, her Boston accent draping over every sentence as she dissects her bake like she’s hosting her own recap show. She didn’t get high praise, but somehow, she’s happy about it. Either she’s unbreakable or she’s acting. I respect her for it either way.
Brandon lounges to my right, silent as he listens to our conversation. He clocked my name the second I walked through the door of our shared room. Before he confirmed it out loud, I saw the recognition in his eyes. He hasn’t said a word about my bake, which might be worse than the judges tearing into it.
I stab my fork into something unidentifiable and tell myself this is fine. That it’s better to get the bad feedback out of the way early. That there’s still another bake coming. Another chance.
Still, the critique from my signature echoes.
“Anybody can do something basic with vanilla and almond,” Magnolia says with a disappointed smile.
“But it’s a gorgeous creation. Absolute perfection from a technical standpoint.” Garrett, to everyone’s surprise, defends me.
“And if this were a technical, that would matter more. This was supposed to introduce us to who these bakers are. I didn’t learn anything about Alex in this bake. This was too safe.”
I chew, swallow, and decide the second bake is going to hurt someone’s feelings. Nothing about this next one is going to be “basic.”
Julian leans back in his chair, stretching his arms high above his head, and grins like he’s about to be annoying on purpose. Which, to be fair, he usually is.
“So,” he says, too casual to be sincere, “guess playing it safe doesn’t really work on reality TV, huh?”
I don’t look up as I spear another bite and pop it into my mouth. “Careful,” I say, pointing at him with my fork. “I’m not in the mood for your shit, Julian.”
Julian laughs, undeterred. “I’m just saying, man. You always do this. You come in hot, pretend you don’t care about getting a gold star, then get pissy when someone doesn’t give it to you.”
He has my attention now.
I glance up, glare sharpened. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He shrugs. “I grew up with you. I kinda do. You hate being seen trying. Wouldn’t want to accidentally let everyone know you want something.”
The table goes quieter. Even Diane pauses.
Julian meets my stare, softer now, but not backing down. “You want to win now that you’re here, Alex. That’s not a crime.”
I look back down at my plate before he can see the part of me that knows he’s right. While I don’t care about this little PR campaign my father is pushing, now that I’m here, I do care about being the best.
Brandon clears his throat. It’s subtle, but it slices through my internal monologue. “For what it’s worth,” he says, calm, measured, “the critique made sense.”
“Oh?”
He nods once. “Your bake was flawless. Textbook, even. Anyone with training could see the technique.”
Anyone with training.
